and subsequently at Dalhousie College, Halifax, Nova Scotia, where he now fills the chair of History and Rhetoric. His writings include: Helena's Household; A Tale of Rome in the First Century, 1867; Cord and Creese; or, The Brandon Mystery, 1869; The Dodge Club, a narrative of the humors of tourist life in Italy in 1859, 1869; The Lady of the Ice, a story of Quebec, 1870; The Cryptogram, a romance founded on the intricacies of cypher-writing, 1871; The

James De Mills

American Baron, 1872; The Comedy of Terrors, 1873; and An Open Question, 1873. He is also the author of two sets of books of adventure for boys, comprising six volumes each. The B. O. W. C. series was prepared between 1870–2, and contains B. O. Ŵ. Ở.; Boys of Grand Pré School; Fire in the Woods; Lost in the Fog; Picked up Adrift, and Treasure of the Seas. The Young Dodge Club Series is now in course of publication.

**THE SENATOR IN ROME FROM THe dodge CLUB. Still he sauntered through the remoter corners of Rome, wandering over to the other side of the Tiber, or through the Ghetto, or among the crooked streets at the end of the Corso. Few have learned so much of Rome in so short a time. On one occasion he was sitting in a café, where he had supplied his wants in the following way: "Hi! coffee! coffee!" and again, "Hi! cigar! cigar!" when his eye was attracted by a man at the next table who was reading a copy of the London Times, which he had spread out very ostentatiously. After a brief survey the Senator walked over to his table and, with a beaming smile, said

"Good-day, Sir."

The other man looked up and returned a very friendly smile.

"And how do you do, Sir?”

"Very well, I thank you," said the other, with a strong Italian accent.

"Do you keep your health?”

"Thank you, yes," said the other, evidently quite pleased at the advances of the Senator.

"Nothing gives me so much pleasure," said the Senator, "as to come across an Italian who understands English. You, Sir, are a Roman, I presume."

"Sir, I am."

The man to whom the Senator spoke was not one who would have attracted any notice from him if it had not been for his knowledge of English. He was a narrow-headed, mean-looking man, with very seedy clothes, and a servile but cunning expression.

"How do you like Rome?" he asked of the Senator.

The Senator at once poured forth all that had been in his mind since his arrival. He gave his opinion about the site, the architecture, the drains, the municipal government, the beggars, and the commerce of the place; then the soldiers, the nobles, the priests, monks, and nuas.

Then he criticised the Government, its form, its mode of administration, enlarged upon its

tyranny, condemned vehemently its police system, and indeed its whole administration of every thing, civil, political, and ecclesiastical.

Waxing warmer with the sound of his own eloquence, he found himself suddenly but naturally reminded of a country where all this is reversed. So he went on to speak about Freedom. Republicanism, the Rights of Man, and the Ballot-Box. Unable to talk with sufficient fluency while in a sitting posture he rose to his feet, and as he looked around, seeing that all present were staring at him, he made up his mind to improve the occasion. So he harangued the crowd generally, not because he thought any of them could understand him, but it was so long since he had made a speech that the present opportunity was irresistible. Besides, as he afterward remarked, he felt that it was a crisis, and who could tell but that a word spoken in season might produce some beneficial effects.

He shook hands very warmly with his new friend after it all was over, and on leaving him made him promise to come and see him at his lodgings, where he would show him statistics, etc. The Senator then returned.

Happy to hear it," said the Senator.

"His Excellency is the Chief of the Police, and I am the Interpreter."

Whereupon the Senator shook hands with both of them again.

“Proud to make your acquaintance," said he. "I am personally acquainted with the Chief of the Boston police, and also the Chief of the New York police, and my opinion is that they can stand more liquor than any men I ever met with. Will you liquor?"

The interpreter did not understand. The Senator made an expressive sign. The Interpreter mentioned the request to the Chief, who shook his head coldly.

"This is formal," said the Interpreter social."

"not

The Senator's face flushed. He frowned. "Give him my compliments then, and tell him the next time he refuses a gentleman's offer he had better do it like a gentleman. For my part, if I chose to be uncivil, I might say that I consider your Roman police very small potatoes."

The Interpreter translated this literally, and though the final expression was not very intelligible, yet it seemed to imply contempt.

So the Chief of Police made his communication as sternly as possible. Grave reports had been made about his American Excellency. The Senator looked surprised.

"What about?"

That he was haranguing the people, going about secretly, plotting, and trying to instill revolutionary sentiments into the public mind. "Pooh!" said the Senator.

The Chief of Police bade him be careful. He would not be permitted to stir up an excitable populace. This was to give him warning.

"Pooh!" said the Senator again.

And if he neglected this warning it would be the worse for him. And the Chief of Police looked unutterable things. The Senator gazed at him sternly and somewhat contemptuously for a few minutes.

"You're no great shakes anyhow," said he. Signore ?" said the Interpreter.

"Doesn't it strike you that you are talking infernal nonsense?" asked the Senator in a slightly argumentative tone of voice, throwing one leg over another, tilting back his chair, and folding his arms.

"Your language is disrespectful," was the indignant reply.

"Yours strikes me as something of the same kind, too; but more it is absurd.”

"What do you mean?"

"You say I stir up the people." "Yes. Do you deny it?"

"Pooh! How can a man stir up the people when he can't speak a word of their language?" The Chief of Police did not reply for a mo

ment.

"I rather think I've got you there," said the Senator, dryly. Hey? old Hoss?''

("Old Hoss" was an ephithet which he used when he was in a good humor.) He felt that he had the best of it here, and his anger was gone. He therefore tilted his chair back further, and placed his feet upon the back of a chair that was in front of him.

"There are Italians in Rome who speak English," was at length the rejoinder.

"I wish I could find some, then," said the Senator. It's worse than looking for a needle in a hay-stack, they're so precious few."

You have met one.'

"And I can't say I feel over-proud of the acquaintance," said the Senator, in his former dry tone, looking hard at the Interpreter.

"At the Café Cenàcci, I mean."
The what? Where's that?"
"Where you were this morning."
Oh ho! that's it-ah?

And was my friend there one of your friends too?" asked the Senator, as light burst in upon him.

He was sufficiently patriotic to give warning."

"Oh-patriotic?—he was, was he?" said the Senator, slowly, while his eyes showed a dangerous light.

"Yes patriotic. He has watched you for

some time."

Watched me!" and the Senator frowned wrathfully.

"Yes, all over Rome, wherever you went." "Watched me! dogged me! tracked me! Aha?" "So you are known."

"Then the man is a spy. "He is a patriot."

Why, the mean concern sat next me, attracted my attention by reading English, and encouraged me to speak as I did. Why don't you arrest him?""

Very much obliged; but tell your Government not to be alarmed. I won't hurt them." Upon this the two visitors took their leave. The Senator informed his two friends about the visit, and thought very lightly about it; but the recollection of one thing rankled in his mind.

That spy! The fellow had humbugged him. He had dogged him, tracked him, perhaps for weeks, had drawn him into conversation, asked leading questions, and then given information. If there was any thing on earth that the Senator loathed it was this.

But how could such a man be punished! That was the thought. Punishment could only come from one. The law could do nothing. But there was one who could do something, and that one was himself. Lynch law!

"My fayther was from Bosting,
My uncle was Judge Lynch,
So darn your fire and roasting,
You can not make me flincli."

The Senator hummed the above elegant words all that evening.

Ile thought he could find the man yet. IIe was sure he would know him. He would devote himself to this on the next day. The next day he went about the city, and at length in the afternoon he came to Pincian Hill. There was a great crowd there as usual. The Senator placed himself in a favorable position, in which he could only be seen from one point, and then watched with the eye of a hawk.

He watched for about an hour. At the end of that time he saw a face. It belonged to a man who had been leaning against a post with his back turned toward the Senator all this time. It was the face! The fellow happened to turn it far enough round to let the Senator see him. He was evidently watching him yet. The Senator walked rapidly toward him. The man saw him and began to move as rapidly away. The Senator increased his pace. So did the man. Senator walked still faster. So did the man. The Senator took long strides. The man took short, quick ones. It is said that the fastest pedestrians are those who take short, quick steps. The Senator did not gain on the other.

The

By this time a vast number of idlers had been attracted by the sight of these two men walking as if for a wager. At last the Senator began to run. So did the man!

The whole thing was plain. One man was chasing the other. At once all the idlers of the Pincian Hill stopped all their avocations and turned to look. The road winds down the Pincian Hill to the Piazza del Popolo, and those on the upper part can look down and see the whole extent. What a place for a race! The quickeyed Romans saw it all.

"A spy! yes, a Government spy!"
"Chased by an eccentric Englishman!"

A loud shout burst from the Roman crowd. But a number of English and Americans thought differently. They saw a little man chased by a big one. Some cried "Shame!" Others, thinking it a case of pocket-picking, cried "Stop thief!" Others cried Go it, little fellow! Two to one on the small chap!"

Every body on the Pincian Hill rushed to the edge of the winding road to look down, or to the paved walk that overlooks the Piazza. Carriages

soldiers, dragoons, guards, officers all staring.

And away went the Senator. And away ran the terrified spy. Down the long way, and at length they came to the Piazza del Popolo. A loud shout came from all the people. Above and on all sides they watched the race. The spy darted down the Corso. The Senator after him. The Romans in the street applauded vociferously. Hundreds of people stopped, and then turned and ran after the Senator. All the windows were crowded with heads. All the balconies were filled with people.

A

Down along the Corso. Past the column of Antonine. Into a street on the left. The Senator was gaining! At last they came to a square. great fountain of vast waters bursts forth there. The spy ran to the other side of the square, and just as he was darting into an alley the Senator's hand clutched his coat-tails!

The Senator took the spy in that way by which one is enabled to make any other do what is called "Walking Spanish," and propelled him rapidly toward the reservoir of the fountain.

The Senator raised the spy from the ground and pitched him into the pool.

The air was rent with acclamations and cries of delight.

As the spy emerged, half drowned, the crowd came forward and would have prolonged the delightful sensation.

Not often did they have a spy in their hands.

** LOUISA MAY ALCOTT,

THE daughter of Amos Bronson Alcott, is descended on her mother's side from the Mays, Sewalls, and Quincys, of Boston. She was carefully educated by her father, and her Little Women is said to give a natural picture of the family life in which she was reared. A friend states that she is, "by birth and training, a Protestant of Protestants, an enthusiast for freedom, nature, and the ideal life. Her humor, her tastes, her aspirations, her piety, are all American, as well as her style and opinions, which her books sufficiently exhibit. She is of stately presence, with a fine head, large blue eyes, brown hair, a cheerful and earnest manner, and a lively wit. She is nearer forty than thirty, tall and strong, a vigorous walker, and fond of out-door life; never a student, though a great reader; domestic in her habits, but with a talent for the stage, which she has often indulged in at private theatres."*

Miss Alcott composed fairy stories in her teens, and published a little volume called Flower Fables, about 1857, dedicating it to Miss Emerson, the daughter of her father's friend. She continued to write many tales for journals in Boston, several sets of which have since been collected into volumes, though against her express wishes: Morning Glories, and Other Stories, 1867; Three Proverb Stories, 1868.

During the winter of 1862-3, Miss Alcott was one of the army of volunteer nurses who served in the government hospitals, and her experiences at Washington were embodied in a series of womanly letters to her mother and sisters. At this time she was prostrated by a fever which enervated her health for years; yet during her convalescence she revised these articles, and printed them in the Boston Commonwealth in

* Hearth and Home, art., The Author of Little Women, 1872.

Switzerland, and Italy. After her return in 1867, she wrote many stories, and began her fascinating depictions of child and home life in Little Women. Before the first volume was completed, her tasks proved greater than her strength, and she was compelled to recruit her health by a second tour on the Continent. The natural pictures of child-life in Little Women, or Meg, Joe, Beth, and Amy, made it an instant favorite. It has been followed by a delightful series of hopeful and unaffected companion volumes: An Old-Fashioned Girl, 1870; Little Men: Life at Plumfield with Joe's Boys, 1871; and Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, a series of stories, 1872. Shawl Straps, which sketches some travelling experiences, appeared in 1872; and Work ; or, Christie's Experiment, an illustration of the difficulties besetting a penniless woman who seeks to earn an honest livelihood with her hands, in 1873.

BEING NEIGHBORLY FROM LITTLE WOMEN.

"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came clumping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

66

Going out for exercise," answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"I should think two long walks, this morning, would have been enough. It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay, warm and dry, by the fire, as I do," said Meg, with a shiver.

"Never take advice; can't keep still all day, and not being a pussy-cat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some."

Meg went back to toast her feet, and read

"Ivanhoe," and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light; and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out, and the invalid dolls needed air. Now the garden separated the Marches house from that of Mr. Laurence; both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls, and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach-house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory, and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house; for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo's lively fancy this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the "Laurence boy," who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not been lately seen, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow - balling one another.

That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. His grandpa don't know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so."

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of "going over was not forgotten; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused, and took a survey. All quiet; curtains down at the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, at the upper window.

"There he is," thought Jo; "poor boy! all alone, and sick, this dismal day! It's a shame! I'll toss up a snow-ball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him."

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, and flourished her broom, as she called out,

"How do you do? Are you sick?"

Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,

"Better, thank you. I've had a horrid cold, and been shut up a week."

"I'm sorry.

with?"

66

What do you amuse yourself

'Nothing; it's as dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?

"I'm not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come."

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a little flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready; for, as Mrs. March said, he was a

little gentleman," and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently, there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for "Mr. Laurie, and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.

"All right, show her up; it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind, and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand, and Beth's three kittens in the other.

"Here I am, bag and baggage,' she said, briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nice, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd shout at them, but I could n't refuse, she was so anxious to do something."

It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing; for, in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.

That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.

"It is n't anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea; it's so simple, you can eat it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cosy room this is."

It might be, if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me, though."

"I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so, and the things stood straight on the mantel-piece, so, and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now, then, you're fixed."

And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and, when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully,

"How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair, and let me do something to amuse my company.'

"No; I came to amuse you.

Shall I read

aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you 'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest.

"Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too.'

"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"

"How did you find that out?

Laurie colored up, but answered, frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are; and, when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all round the table with your mother; her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know;" and Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank

as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. brown face was very friendly, and her sharp voice unusually gentle, as she said,

Her

We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance; Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Would n't your grandpa let you?"

"I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he don't look it; and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more.

"We ain't strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We have n't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you.'

"You see grandpa lives among his books, and don't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, don't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go round with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can."

That's bad; you ought to make a dive, and go visiting everywhere you are asked; then you'll have lots of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful, it won't last long if you keep going.

Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness; for there was so much good-will in Jo, it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were

meant.

"Do you like your school?" asked the boy,

changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked about her well pleased.

"Don't go to school; I'm a business man girl, I mean. I go to wait on my aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering just in time that it was n't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and did n't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of a fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely; and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and, in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.

"Oh! that does me lots of good; tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofacushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did tell on," all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo's delight she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

"If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you need n't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.

"I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

"I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy-Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.

"What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added, impressively.

"A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa! "

Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicked.

"I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.

"I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired