neither the fact of her having become another man's wife nor his own marriage seems in any way to interfere. It needs, however, but a very slight knowledge of the conditions of life in the thirteenth century to understand the position. As has been already pointed out, the notion of woman's love as a spur to noble living, 'the maiden passion for a maid,' was quite recent, and at its first growth was quite distinct from the love which finds its fulfilment in marriage. Almost every young man of a literary or intellectual turn seems to have had his Egeria; and when we can identify her she is usually the wife of some one else.

Towards the end of the century we begin to get some external information about Dante. In 1296 he is recorded as having voted in the Council, and again in the following year. There is good evidence to show that in 1299 he was sent by his fellowcitizens as their representative to the neighbouring city of San Gemignano to arrange for the assembling of a convention to choose a leader for the Tuscan Guelfs. Finally, in the summer of 1300 he served his term of office as prior.

The constitution of Florence at this time was somewhat complicated. It will be sufficient to say here that the government was carried on by a committee of six priors, who held office for two months only; and that in order to be eligible for the offices of state a man had to be enrolled in one of the twelve trading guilds known as Arti, of which seven ranked as 'greater,' five as 'less.' Dante belonged to one of the greater 'arts,' that of the speziali, 'dealers in spices,' which included the apothecaries, and, as it is believed, the booksellers. The number of priors was so large, and their tenure of office so short, that the selection of any particular citizen would hardly imply more than that he was regarded as a man of good business capacity; but in 1300 public affairs in Florence were in such a ticklish state, that one may well suppose the citizens to have been especially careful in their choice. At any rate, the year 1300 was a momentous one in Dante's history. That he himself felt it to have been such, we may gather from the fact that he assigned to it the action of his great poem.

ARTHUR J. Butler.

CHRISTOPHER.

I.

I watched the clouds that came in crowds, like flocks of evil birds, My heart sank low in bitter woe, remembering Donald's words. "O God!" I cried, and none beside knew the grief my heart within, "Oh, give me back my bonnie lad, when the flowing tide comes in !"' A SULLEN, thunderful evening-grey sea heaving like a swaying cauldron of molten lead, sky purple-black over the background of cliffs, and over the sea a light—a red metallic hue, faintly answered in the gleamless sea.

The smoke from the brown cottages rose pale and luminous and ghost-like against the dark cliffs and darker sky. Strong odours of tar and fish, and salt, damp seaweed clung about the quay, and the wind was coming.

Over the heavy water it sent its heralds-short, snarling gusts, that drew forbidding creaks from the spars of the few boats left in the harbour, and dashed a handful of spray across the pier.

From the cottages came groups of women-brown, anxious faces, and weatherworn shawls enclosing mites of waxen-faced babies. They seemed a part of the gloom; you might always see them when the wind began to blow.

'It'll no' be long now,' said one.

'Naäy,' drawled old Hobbs, with the glass; 'it won't be long. I telled 'em it weren't safe to put out-not this side o' midnight.' 'Are they comin', Jonas Hobbs?' shouted a shrill-voiced woman. 'Can yo' see 'em comin' back, I saäy?'

'Ay,' drawled old Hobbs again, after a long survey of the sea; and the cry of 'They're coming!' passed along the quay. Ten minutes, while the black sky gathered closer round the watchers, and the first of the red-sailed boats came leaping over the water before the whistling outrunners of the gale. They

crowded on the fishermen with cries and questions. The others?—had they turned back?—would they land in time?

'Ay; some of 'em. Robinson's boat was just behind him, and Colman's close alongside of Robinson--'

'Did yo' see aught o' Philip Dawson's boat, Thomas Horn?' And, in strange contrast to the scene, the question was echoed by a clear, musical voice-the voice of a lady-that trembled with impatience.

'Yes, Philip Dawson's boat; you have seen it?'

Horn turned slowly. It was a queer business, a lady wanting tidings of Dawson's boat.

'Did you not see it?'

Ay. A saw 'un.'

'Have they turned back?'

A pause. Then, 'T' squall struck 'em.'

'Oh, he doän't know naught about it, my lady. Thomas Horn, how dare yo' say sich untruths as them?' a woman behind them shrieked, with a vehemence too evidently feigned. Horn was too dense to take a hint.

'I'll teach yo' to say a lies, Jane Bowman,' he growled. gaäle struck her, and down she went, 's sure as I speak the words.'

'She went-down ?' the lady cried; and those who were in her?'

'One on 'em drownded, fur sure,' said the stoical Thomas. 'T' 'Lizer Ann picked up t'other.'

'Which? Do you not know which ?'

Naäy. One were drownded, but a doän't know which. T' 'Lizer Ann 'll be in directly.' And Horn turned sulkily away, to be met with Mrs. Bowman's reproachful

'Yo' great wood-headed loon! Her son's in Dawson's boat, I tell yo'-gone out wi' Philip Dawson.'

Come away,' said the lady; and they moved to the corner by the pier.

The fisherwoman was quiet enough. She was used to such watches. Her husband and her brother and her husband's brother had been drowned at sea. She was thinking less of her own son than of the other's-the other, with her great name and her pretty clothes, and her beautiful carriage waiting for her just across the quay, who cried, and held her hands tight clasped together, poor thing! and shuddered as the wind came swooping over the parapet.

Over them a grim-faced woman was mounted guard, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed sternly on the boats that one by one were hurrying into the harbour. Her name was Martha Lee. She was Philip Dawson's aunt.

With them was Christopher. It was queer that every event of Christopher's fourteen years of life had its root in storm. The first thing that had befallen him at all-his birth-had happened in that very storm in which the Mary Dawson, his father's boat, went down. Storm seemed to have left its mark on his strongly characteristic face, in his impudent eyes and short, rough hair. He was as brown as the sails of a smack, as wilfully restless and mischievous as the gale that was now tearing the grey waves into white, glittering fragments, and scattering them over the cottage roofs,

With a quaint, impertinent stare he looked at the lady, and asked abruptly—

'Have yo' more than him?'

She shook her head.

Christopher looked askance at his mother, then, in an under

tone

'Look yo' here, my mother's two on us. I'll wish it be your brat as comes in.' Christopher spoke with all the lofty superiority of one conferring a favour.

'I am afraid you can do no good,' the lady answered.

'I can, though. Don't I tell yo' I'll wish it? My wishes always comes true,' said Christopher, cheerily, and forthwith set himself to whistle, while the lady began to cry again.

Martha Lee looked at her severely.

'Weepin' and wailin' is not the way to bring boats to land, my lady,' she said. 'Them as Providence sends calamities to must bear 'em.'

'Yo' 've neither man nor lad, Martha,' said Mrs. Dawson, falteringly.

'Providence never sent me 'em, and I weren't the one to interfere with its orderments-nor won't begin now, Mary Dawson. T' lad as is drowned, is drowned.' And as she spoke the first flash blazed over the angry water and the leaning mast of the 'Liza Ann.

'-Which is it?-Philip Dawson!-Master Aldred! are you there, sir?'

'. . . Eh, Mrs. Dawson, Lord have mercy on yo', he's drownded!-Don't you take on so, my lady, he's safe this time. Here, young master, here's yo'r ma a-waïting of yo'!'

'Ay,' said Christopher, 'I telled yo' so.'

*

'Mary Dawson, come home wi' yo'. Them as is drowned is drowned, and mun be done without. If t' lad were born to be drowned, drowned he would be, and it were never use to fight against it.'

And poor Mrs. Dawson obeyed, in silence.

On the sea-wall Christopher sat, kicking the stone with his heels. The storm went on around him, but his interest in it was over. He watched the lady get into her carriage with the slim, dark-haired son-he was a nice-looking sort of chap, if he hadn't worn spectacles and had a kind of studious look, which Christopher despised-and tossed a halfpenny while he speculated whether or not they would speak to him again. Heads, they do; tails, they don't: tails-and the carriage dashed past within a dozen yards of him. The lady had never given him a glance.

'Drat 'em!' said Christopher. 'It's all along o' me he ain't at the bottom o' the sea, along with that bloomin' boat. Christopher Dawson, yo're an ass, doin' things for a lady because she were bonny, and never getten a word o' thanks.' And being wounded at the lady's very innocent want of gratitude, angry with himself on account of what he considered wasted generosity, and (though he would not have confessed it) terribly sore-hearted at his brother's loss, he picked up a tile, blown from one of the cottage-roofs, and hurled it after the departing carriage. Christopher's deepest feelings had an unfortunate habit of manifesting themselves in acts of mischief. With this small satisfaction, he turned homewards, whistling loudly to keep out thoughts of his mother.

It was a queer, uncomfortable night to Christopher, as he loafed about his mother's door, straying in from time to time, and out again to pelt a stray dog with stones, as a relief to his feelings, while inside Martha Lee paced grimly up and down.

'Yo'll send for the doctor, now, Miss Lee?' a neighbour suggested timidly. She looks to me terrible bad, along o' the shock, an' all. Jane Bowman's been sayin' it were her heart was weak-— ›

'Don't talk to me of doctors and sich-like, Sarah Ann Burbank,' said Aunt Martha.

'Here's Christopher here 'ud fetch him,' ventured Mrs. Burbank again; but Martha Lee faced round on her severely.