PORTFOLIO.

MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.

A softening radiance bathes the earth to-night,

'Neath whose transforming touch, stream, crag and glade
Melt in dream pictures dim. Each arbored shade
Beneath old Storm King's darkly frowning height
Becomes a goblin grot where lurks a sprite

On mischief bent, but wary and afraid
Lest, by some moonbeam's telltale glance betrayed,
All his dark elf-pranks lie unveiled in light.

On the hushed river's gently heaving breast

The silvery moonlight, pure and lovely, sleeps,
While somewhere toward the mountain's wooded crest
A night-hawk sails on poisèd wing, and keeps
His lonely vigil. Now, by night winds caressed,
A sweet, far strain of music hither creeps.

A. R. T.

Old New Haven, a contradictory name and a queer little place, was founded many generations ago. Like its American namesake, its builders were strangers in the land; but there the resemblance ceases, for these Norse fisher folk are as distinct from their neighbors in custom, dress and language as their fathers were the day they set foot on Scotch soil. Whether they were driven from their old home by oppression or want, or rather by that love of change and adventure that covered every sea with Viking sails, the time has long since passed to discover. Indeed they have themselves forgotten, or record it only in legends and ancient runes droned at the cradle side.

But, be that as it may,-to-day their single street winds for perhaps half a mile along the shore of the wide Firth of Forth, and their houses stand close crowded one against another, striving, it would seem, which can bring its red tiled roof closest to the ground in front, and carry it to the sharpest ridge pole behind. Through the open door of one of them we catch a glimpse of a single low room with strings of dried fish hanging to the great oaken rafters, and a clay floor trodden hard and smooth as stone. In one corner a ladder shows the way to the garret above, while round the walls extend narrow bunks in true fo'castle style. And through the twilight the

open doorway and tiny window are insufficient to dispel, gleams a little fire of driftwood that rises and falls fitfully in the cavernous chimney place.

Down on the shore the men of the village are at work, their boats hauled high above the reach of the tide. Some are unloading barrels of salted fish, the well earned rewards of the last cruise, others mending their nets or getting ready to sail with the next favorable breeze. Close by is the Peacock Inn, famous for fish dinners. Here, in years long gone by, perhaps, some old tar, who wandering further than his fellows, had in the distant East seen that strange and gorgeous bird, determined with his earnings to build a tavern with the "Peacock" as his sign. So close on the beach where one wave larger than the others may ripple against its wall before it slides back beneath its successor, he founded his Inn. Then of a winter's evening he would sit by his fireside with the other oracles of the village gathered round him, and each in his turn would spin his yarn, balancing his "pint of bitter" on his knee meanwhile.

To-day the fishermen have deserted the Peacock for other resorts, leaving it for those few strangers who wandering down unfrequented paths come on this quaint spot. Yet the village is unchanged.

Y. H.

-America is distinctively a non-military nation. This does not mean that we have not had great generals or that we could not have them if we needed them. History shows pretty conclusively that the descendants of the Puritans and the Cavaliers have not forgotten how to fight. But though we are proud of our new Navy and the West Point Cadets, we take a greater pride in the fact that we have no quarrels with the transatlantic kingdoms, and that we can, in the words of Mr. Woodberry, bid

"Peace to the world from ports without a gun."

It is not strange, then, that the American abroad is instantly attracted by the military side of foreign life, for wherever we go we hear the drum and catch sight of the bright coat.

Of the many regiments that have won fame for England, none are better than those of the Scottish Highlanders. They have been tried on many a hard fought field, and have inherited the courage and endurance of their marauding ancestors.

To see them at their best we must meet them on their native heath. The associations of history elevate them in our eyes. Tales of Bruce and Wallace, snatches from old ballads or from the Wizard of the North, crowd into our minds. Their kilts, then, never seem ridiculous, and even the droning bagpipe has a charm for our ears.

It has long been the custom for the English government to station one of the best of the Highland regiments at Edinboro' castle. It is a stroke of art. We know that the Feudal Baron no longer swoops down upon the passing merchant, but contents himself with capturing the American heiress, and that castles themselves can now be bought outright or rented for the summer, but as we enter the esplanade at Edinboro' and see the sentry pacing up and down with measured tread, and hear the notes of the bugle, we are brought back to the days of Scotland's glory. Whatever ideas we had formed of the Highlander when we read Rob Roy, we are not disappointed when we see these handsome, imposing men. They seem to realize their position, for they certainly wear an important, self-conscious air as the visitors stop to admire their immaculate uniforms or fine physique. Off duty, the soldiers relax a little and condescend to tell the stranger their adventures in India or the Soudan.

We arrived one afternoon at the castle and heard quite a commotion in the soldiers' quarters. Presently a squad advanced. Before them came a pair of drummers, then a body of Highlanders carrying between them a long pole. On this precarious seat was perched an unfortunate comrade. The ladies in the party shuddered. Here was a deserter, caught in the act, beaten through the camp. His fellow soldiers showed no mercy; laughter and jeers at the poor man filled the air. Our sympathies were instantly aroused, though we knew him to be guilty. "O dear," said the Farmington girl, anxiously. "I hope they won't kill him!" "O, noo, ma'am," replied a soldier, touching his cap, "they woont hurt 'em. He's joost been married."

E. B. R.

-Ville Marie is a town that sleeps the year round. Whether there is some subtle narcotic in the odor of the pines, or a lullaby in the rhythmical splash of the St. Lawrence, which, by slow, imperceptible degrees, has transformed the

have not yet

town into a slumberland, the good "habitans decided-perhaps they never will. Indeed, it is only at widely sundered intervals that they think much about the matter anyway. Has not St. Denys always kept a watchful eye on his favorite village? What harm can there be in that which which probably is a gift from his own hand? Ville Marie has always been happy in its slumberous state, and like wise folk, the inhabitants do not seek to disturb the peaceful round of their lives by any vain conjectures about matters which a wise Providence has not seen fit to reveal to them.

To the traveler who chances to visit the little village in the forest, the picture seems like a bit of seventeenth century life brought down to modern times, such an air of quaint antiquity hovers over the entire place. There is no young thing there; no gay laughter or youthful voices break the settled calm of the grassy streets. On every side one only sees wrinkled faces peering from the low windows, and bent figures creeping painfully along in flapping garments in the fashion of a century ago. They hardly seem like creatures of this earth, these venerable folk,-so silent, so frail are they,-but rather like aged elfin folk from the deepest forest glades, or ghosts of ancient "habitans" come back to visit the land where they dwelt two hundred years ago.

Twice a year, however, Ville Marie really wakes up. Early in the morning of Mardi Gras and St. Denys' Day, one of the good Fathers in the Seminary up on the hill climbs slowly up to the belfry, and then with a mighty creaking of ropes and groaning of timber, the great bell booms out its sonorous summons to all good Frenchmen to assemble for the defense of Canada against the hated Briton.

The world does not forsee it, but to the mind of Ville Marie the time is not far away when the golden fleur-de-lys-the tricolor being still an untried novelty and worthy of no confidence-shall wave triumphantly over the lion, and good French rule shall again be in the land. And the clangor of the bell, like the blast of a bugle, sounds reveille in the old hearts of the villagers, who from low huts and cottages by the river bank and from deep in the heart of the forest, despite their burden of years, are hastening with eager faces to take their places, pike in hand, where Father Alexis stands in his vestments, bareheaded, before the door of the tiny church.

The women are gathered together behind him, gazing with awe-struck eyes, as the warlike group perform their ancient exercice a Pique, the torn and dingy flag waving over them. Jean Bramont holds the banner; he is over eighty years old, but he grasps the heavy staff firmly, looking straight ahead. On either side are rows of dull green uniforms of antiquated cut, with scarlet scarves over the left shoulder. A forest of stout pikes, their steel tips polished like silver, gleam in the bright sun; Jean looks at them proudly and then scowls at some fancied English grenadier whom he pretends to see behind the captain. "If they should charge! Comme ca o'rait terrible!" he murmurs. The drum beats and the green files advance, right, left, right, left; they pass before Father Alexis and the women; then march with even step down the hill and vanish beneath the pines. The pike drill is over: and Ville Marie once more betakes itself to its hearthside, there to drowse away the long evening and the days to come in tales of the old life at home, or in sage prophecies of things yet unaccomplished, the pikes laid away and the green uniforms folded up in black presses.

To those who doubt the tales of the discontent of French Canada under English rule, let us say that Ville Marie and the pike drill are realities, and the little village is not so very far away either, if you follow the right path. But a few more years will see the end; the ranks of pikemen are growing thinner all the time, and last Mardi Gras Jean Bramont dropped the flag with the golden lilies. It was a mute surrender on his part. But despite their present weakness the pikemen feel sure of having their efforts seconded soon, now. Ville Marie has waited long and patiently;- can we doubt but that it will receive its reward when its battles are over?

E. G. T.

-A philosopher who "only diverts himself with speculative problems of Deity, Destiny, Matter and Spirit, Good and Evil, and other such questions," is certainly something of a rara avis; but such an one was Omar Khayyam. A Persian by birth, and surrounded by the same influences which moulded Hafij and the other Sufi poets, he stands quite alone in his "laissez faire" view of life, and his cynical materialism. When every tradition pointed to the ascetic; the plain liver and high