THE DRYAD故事

　　WE are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

　　Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without

　　magic. We flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across

　　the land.

　　Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

　　We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming

　　flowers ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

　　Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony

　　door we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down

　　there; it has come to Paris, and arrived at the same time with

　　us. It has come in the shape of a glorious young chestnut

　　tree, with delicate leaves newly opened. How the tree gleams,

　　dressed in its spring garb, before all the other trees in the

　　place! One of these latter had been struck out of the list of

　　living trees. It lies on the ground with roots exposed. On the

　　place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be

　　planted, and to flourish.

　　It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which

　　has brought it this morning a distance of several miles to

　　Paris. For years it had stood there, in the protection of a

　　mighty oak tree, under which the old venerable clergyman had

　　often sat, with children listening to his stories.

　　The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories;

　　for the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered

　　the time when the tree was so little that it only projected a

　　short way above the grass and ferns around. These were as tall

　　as they would ever be; but the tree grew every year, and

　　enjoyed the air and the sunshine, and drank the dew and the

　　rain. Several times it was also, as it must be, well shaken by

　　the wind and the rain; for that is a part of education.

　　The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the

　　sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but she was most

　　rejoiced at human voices; she understood the language of men

　　as well as she understood that of animals.

　　Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that

　　could fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told

　　of the village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old

　　castle with its parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water

　　dwelt also living beings, which, in their way, could fly under

　　the water from one place to another- beings with knowledge and

　　delineation. They said nothing at all; they were so clever!

　　And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty

　　little goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the

　　old carp. The swallow could describe all that very well, but,

　　"Self is the man," she said. "One ought to see these things

　　one's self." But how was the Dryad ever to see such beings?

　　She was obliged to be satisfied with being able to look over

　　the beautiful country and see the busy industry of men.

　　It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old

　　clergyman sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of

　　the great deeds of her sons and daughters, whose names will be

　　mentioned with admiration through all time.

　　Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc,

　　and of Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and

　　Napoleon the First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the

　　hearts of the people.

　　The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad

　　no less attentively; she became a school-child with the rest.

　　In the clouds that went sailing by she saw, picture by

　　picture, everything that she heard talked about. The cloudy

　　sky was her picture-book.

　　She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land

　　of genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the

　　sting remained that the bird, that every animal that could

　　fly, was much better off than she. Even the fly could look

　　about more in the world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.

　　France was so great and so glorious, but she could only

　　look across a little piece of it. The land stretched out,

　　world-wide, with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all

　　these Paris was the most splendid and the mightiest. The birds

　　could get there; but she, never!

　　Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl,

　　but a pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or

　　singing and twining red flowers in her black hair.

　　"Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor

　　child! if you go there, it will be your ruin."

　　But she went for all that.

　　The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish,

　　and felt the same longing for the great city.

　　The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms;

　　the birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful

　　sunshine. Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way,

　　and in it sat a grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed

　　horses. On the back seat a little smart groom balanced

　　himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and the old clergyman knew

　　her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw her, and said:

　　"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor

　　Mary!"

　　"That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress

　　fit for a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic

　　changes). "Oh, if I were only there, amid all the splendor and

　　pomp! They shine up into the very clouds at night; when I look

　　up, I can tell in what direction the town lies."

　　Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She

　　saw in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in

　　the clear moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds,

　　which showed her pictures of the city and pictures from

　　history.

　　The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped

　　at the cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky

　　was for her a blank leaf; and for several days she had only

　　had such leaves before her.

　　It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through

　　the glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it

　　were torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

　　Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about

　　where the gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."

　　The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,

　　hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over

　　the whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

　　Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay

　　piled over one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from

　　them.

　　"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old

　　clergyman had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of

　　lightning, a lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could

　　burst blocks of rock asunder. The lightning struck and split

　　to the roots the old venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It

　　seemed as if the tree were stretching forth its arms to clasp

　　the messengers of the light.

　　No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a

　　royal child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old

　　oak. The rain streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing;

　　the storm had gone by, and there was quite a holiday glow on

　　all things. The old clergyman spoke a few words for honorable

　　remembrance, and a painter made a drawing, as a lasting record

　　of the tree.

　　"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away

　　like a cloud, and never comes back!"

　　The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof

　　of his school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished.

　　The children did not come; but autumn came, and winter came,

　　and then spring also. In all this change of seasons the Dryad

　　looked toward the region where, at night, Paris gleamed with

　　its bright mist far on the horizon.

　　Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train

　　after train, whistling and screaming at all hours in the day.

　　In the evening, towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day

　　through, came the trains. Out of each one, and into each one,

　　streamed people from the country of every king. A new wonder

　　of the world had summoned them to Paris.

　　In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

　　"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has

　　unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower,

　　from whose petals one can learn geography and statistics, and

　　can become as wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to

　　the level of art and poetry, and study the greatness and power

　　of the various lands."

　　"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored

　　lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet

　　carpet over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth,

　　the summer will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds

　　will sweep it away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its

　　root shall remain."

　　In front of the Military School extends in time of peace

　　the arena of war- a field without a blade of grass, a piece of

　　sandy steppe, as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where

　　Fata Morgana displays her wondrous airy castles and hanging

　　gardens. In the Champ de Mars, however, these were to be seen

　　more splendid, more wonderful than in the East, for human art

　　had converted the airy deceptive scenes into reality.

　　"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it

　　was said. "Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its

　　wonderful splendor."

　　The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master

　　Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great

　　circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone,

　　in Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is

　　stirring in every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of

　　flowers, everything that mind and skill can create in the

　　workshop of the artisan, has been placed here for show. Even

　　the memorials of ancient days, out of old graves and

　　turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

　　The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided

　　into small portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if

　　it is to be understood and described.

　　Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars

　　carried a wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this

　　knickknacks from all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on

　　a grand scale, for every nation found some remembrance of

　　home.

　　Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the

　　caravanserai of the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his

　　sunny country, and hastened by on his camel. Here stood the

　　Russian stables, with the fiery glorious horses of the steppe.

　　Here stood the simple straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish

　　peasant, with the Dannebrog flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's

　　wooden house from Dalarne, with its wonderful carvings.

　　American huts, English cottages, French pavilions, kiosks,

　　theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the

　　fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes,

　　rare trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self

　　transported into the tropical forest; whole gardens brought

　　from Damascus, and blooming under one roof. What colors, what

　　fragrance!

　　Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt

　　water, and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the

　　visitor seemed to wander at the bottom of the sea, among

　　fishes and polypi.

　　"All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and

　　around the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings

　　moves like a busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little

　　carriages, for not all feet are equal to such a fatiguing

　　journey.

　　Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening.

　　Steamer after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the

　　Seine. The number of carriages is continually on the increase.

　　The swarm of people on foot and on horseback grows more and

　　more dense. Carriages and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and

　　embroidered with people. All these tributary streams flow in

　　one direction- towards the Exhibition. On every entrance the

　　flag of France is displayed; around the world's bazaar wave

　　the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a murmuring

　　from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of

　　the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the

　　churches mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the

　　East. It is a kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!

　　In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said,

　　and who did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is

　　told here of the new wonder in the city of cities.

　　"Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back

　　and tell me," said the Dryad.

　　The wish became an intense desire- became the one thought

　　of a life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full

　　moon was shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's

　　disc, and fall like a shooting star. And before the tree,

　　whose leaves waved to and fro as if they were stirred by a

　　tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and grand figure. In tones

　　that were at once rich and strong, like the trumpet of the

　　Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to the

　　great account, it said:

　　"Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root

　　there, and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the

　　sunshine there. But the time of thy life shall then be

　　shortened; the line of years that awaited thee here amid the

　　free nature shall shrink to but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It

　　shall be thy destruction. Thy yearning and longing will

　　increase, thy desire will grow more stormy, the tree itself

　　will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit thy cell and give

　　up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men. Then the years

　　that would have belonged to thee will be contracted to half

　　the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one

　　night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out- the leaves of

　　the tree will wither and be blown away, to become green never

　　again!"

　　Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but

　　not the longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever

　　of expectation.

　　"I shall go there!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Life is

　　beginning and swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is

　　hastening."

　　When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the

　　clouds were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words

　　of promise were fulfilled.

　　People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the

　　roots of the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon

　　was brought out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted

　　up, with its roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to

　　them; matting was placed around the roots, as though the tree

　　had its feet in a warm bag. And now the tree was lifted on the

　　wagon and secured with chains. The journey began- the journey

　　 to Paris. There the tree was to grow as an ornament to the

　　city of French glory.

　　The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in

　　the first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled

　　in the pleasurable feeling of expectation.

　　"Away! away!" it sounded in every beat of her pulse.

　　"Away! away" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The

　　Dryad forgot to bid farewell to the regions of home; she

　　thought not of the waving grass and of the innocent daisies,

　　which had looked up to her as to a great lady, a young

　　Princess playing at being a shepherdess out in the open air.

　　The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his

　　branches; whether this meant "farewell" or "forward," the

　　Dryad knew not; she dreamed only of the marvellous new things,

　　that seemed yet so familiar, and that were to unfold

　　themselves before her. No child's heart rejoicing in

　　innocence- no heart whose blood danced with passion- had set

　　out on the journey to Paris more full of expectation than she.

　　Her "farewell" sounded in the words "Away! away!"

　　The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present

　　vanished. The region was changed, even as the clouds change.

　　New vineyards, forests, villages, villas appeared- came

　　nearer- vanished!

　　The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with

　　it. Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up

　　into the air vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of

　　Paris, whence they came, and whither the Dryad was going.

　　Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was

　　bound. It seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched

　　out its leaves towards her, with the prayer- "Take me with

　　you! take me with you!" for every tree enclosed a longing

　　Dryad.

　　What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be

　　rising out of the earth- more and more- thicker and thicker.

　　The chimneys rose like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in

　　rows one above the other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in

　　letters a yard long, and figures in various colors, covering

　　the walls from cornice to basement, came brightly out.

　　"Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?" asked

　　the Dryad.

　　The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle

　　increased; carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and

　　people on horseback were mingled together; all around were

　　shops on shops, music and song, crying and talking.

　　The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The

　　great heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square

　　planted with trees. The high houses around had all of them

　　balconies to the windows, from which the inhabitants looked

　　down upon the young fresh chestnut tree, which was coming to

　　be planted here as a substitute for the dead tree that lay

　　stretched on the ground.

　　The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its

　　pure vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still

　　closed, whispered with their waving branches, "Welcome!

　　welcome!" The fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in

　　the air, to let it fall again in the wide stone basin, told

　　the wind to sprinkle the new-comer with pearly drops, as if it

　　wished to give him a refreshing draught to welcome him.

　　The Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the

　　wagon to be placed in the spot where it was to stand. The

　　roots were covered with earth, and fresh turf was laid on top.

　　Blooming shrubs and flowers in pots were ranged around; and

　　thus a little garden arose in the square.

　　The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the

　　steam of kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon

　　 the wagon and driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children

　　and old men sat upon the bench, and looked at the green tree.

　　And we who are telling this story stood upon a balcony, and

　　looked down upon the green spring sight that had been brought

　　in from the fresh country air, and said, what the old

　　clergyman would have said, "Poor Dryad!"

　　"I am happy! I am happy!" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; "and

　　yet I cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything

　　is as I fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it."

　　The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight

　　shone on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over

　　with bills and placards, before which the people stood still;

　　and this made a crowd.

　　Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones

　　and heavy ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded

　　moving houses, came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them;

　　even carts and wagons asserted their rights.

　　The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which

　　stood so close around her, would not remove and take other

　　shapes, like the clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that

　　she might cast a glance into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame

　　must show itself, the Vendome Column, and the wondrous

　　building which had called and was still calling so many

　　strangers to the city.

　　But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet

　　day when the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the

　　shops, and shone even into the branches of the trees, so that

　　it was like sunlight in summer. The stars above made their

　　appearance, the same to which the Dryad had looked up in her

　　home. She thought she felt a clear pure stream of air which

　　went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up and

　　strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through

　　every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the

　　noise and the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew

　　herself watched by mild eyes.

　　From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles

　　and wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to

　　jollity and pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it

　　was, that horses, carriages, trees, and houses would have

　　danced, if they had known how. The charm of intoxicating

　　delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.

　　"How glorious, how splendid it is!" she cried,

　　rejoicingly. "Now I am in Paris!"

　　The next day that dawned, the next night that fell,

　　offered the same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life;

　　changing, indeed, yet always the same; and thus it went on

　　through the sequence of days.

　　"Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I

　　know every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow

　　cut-off corner, where I am denied the sight of this great

　　mighty city. Where are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards,

　　the wondrous building of the world? I see nothing of all this.

　　As if shut up in a cage, I stand among the high houses, which

　　I now know by heart, with their inscriptions, signs, and

　　placards; all the painted confectionery, that is no longer to

　　my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard, for which

　　I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what

　　have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt

　　before; I feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and

　　to experience. I must go out into the ranks of living men, and

　　mingle among them. I must fly about like a bird. I must see

　　and feel, and become human altogether. I must enjoy the one

　　half-day, instead of vegetating for years in every-day

　　sameness and weariness, in which I become ill, and at last

　　sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will gleam

　　like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over

　　the whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one

　　knoweth whither."

　　Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:

　　"Take from me the years that were destined for me, and

　　give me but half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me

　　from my prison! Give me human life, human happiness, only a

　　short span, only the one night, if it cannot be otherwise; and

　　then punish me for my wish to live, my longing for life!

　　Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the fresh young tree,

　　wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and scattered to

　　all the winds!"

　　A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was

　　a trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire

　　streamed through it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and

　　from the midst of that crown a female figure came forth. In

　　the same moment she was sitting beneath the

　　brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful to

　　behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, "The

　　great city will be thy destruction."

　　The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree- at her house door,

　　which she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young!

　　so fair! The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps

　　saw her, and gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she

　　was, and yet how blooming!- a child, and yet a grown maiden!

　　Her dress was fine as silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves

　　on the crown of the tree; in her nut-brown hair clung a

　　half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked like the Goddess of

　　Spring.

　　For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang

　　up, and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and

　　sprang like the reflection from the mirror that, carried by

　　the sunshine, is cast, now here, now there. Could any one have

　　followed her with his eyes, he would have seen how

　　marvellously her dress and her form changed, according to the

　　nature of the house or the place whose light happened to shine

　　upon her.

　　She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed

　　forth from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the

　　cafes. Here stood in a row young and slender trees, each of

　　which concealed its Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial

　　sunlight. The whole vast pavement was one great festive hall,

　　where covered tables stood laden with refreshments of all

　　kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse down to coffee and beer.

　　Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues, books, and colored

　　stuffs.

　　From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth

　　over the terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder

　　heaved a stream of rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches,

　　omnibuses, cabs, and among them riding gentlemen and marching

　　troops. To cross to the opposite shore was an undertaking

　　fraught with danger to life and limb. Now lanterns shed their

　　radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand; suddenly a

　　rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

　　Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish

　　songs are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets;

　　but strongest of all, and predominating over the rest, the

　　street-organ tunes of the moment, the exciting "Can-Can"

　　music, which Orpheus never knew, and which was never heard by

　　the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was tempted to hop upon

　　one of its wheels.

　　The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every

　　moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with

　　the world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

　　As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is

　　bsp; carried away by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along.

　　Whenever she paused, she was another being, so that none was

　　able to follow her, to recognize her, or to look more closely

　　at her.

　　Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked

　　into a thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she

　　saw not a single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained

　　in her memory. She thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged

　　merry child, who wore the red flowers in her black hair. Mary

　　was now here, in the world-city, rich and magnificent as in

　　that day when she drove past the house of the old clergyman,

　　and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

　　Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult.

　　Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous

　　carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in

　　gold braid and footmen in silken hose, drove up. The people

　　who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They

　　went through the opened gate, and ascended the broad staircase

　　that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this

　　building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There Mary would

　　certainly be found.

　　"Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense

　　floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a

　　solemn twilight reigned.

　　It was the Church of the Madeleine.

　　Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs,

　　fashioned according to the latest mode, the rich feminine

　　world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests

　　of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the

　　velvet-bound prayer-books, and embroidered in the corners of

　　perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of

　　the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars;

　　others resorted to the confessionals.

　　Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as

　　if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here

　　was the abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was

　　said in whispers, every word was a mystery.

　　The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the

　　women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps,

　　every one of them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

　　A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some

　　confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the

　　Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed

　　incense, and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place

　　of her longing.

　　Away! away- a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly

　　knows not repose, for her existence is flight.

　　She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a

　　magnificent fountain.

　　"All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the

　　innocent blood that was spilt here."

　　Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around,

　　carrying on a lively conversation, such as no one would have

　　dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the

　　Dryad came.

　　A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not

　　understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths

　　below. The strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and

　　the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.

　　"I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to

　　her husband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for

　　the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me."

　　"Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris

　　without having seen the most wonderful thing of all- the real

　　wonder of the present period, created by the power and

　　resolution of one man!"

　　"I will not go down for all that," was the reply.

　　p; "The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The

　　Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent

　　longing had thus been reached, and here was the entrance to

　　it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of

　　such a thing; but now she heard it said, and saw the strangers

　　descending, and went after them.

　　The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy.

　　Below there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They

　　stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all

　　communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of

　　Paris were to be seen here again, as in a dim reflection. The

　　names were painted up; and every, house above had its number

　　down here also, and struck its roots under the macadamized

　　quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water flowed

　　onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on

　　arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes

　　and telegraph-wires.

　　In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the

　　world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was

　　heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the

　　entrance bridges.

　　Whither had the Dryad come?

　　You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are

　　vanishing points in that new underground world- that wonder of

　　the present day- the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and

　　not in the world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

　　She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

　　"From here go forth health and life for thousands upon

　　thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with

　　its manifold blessings."

　　Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of

　　those creatures who had been born here, and who built and

　　dwelt here- of the rats, namely, who were squeaking to one

　　another in the clefts of a crumbling wall, quite plainly, and

　　in a way the Dryad understood well.

　　A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was

　　relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave

　　their tribute of concurrence to every word he said:

　　"I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried- "with

　　these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all

　　made up of gas and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that.

　　Everything here is so fine and bright now, that one's ashamed

　　of one's self, without exactly knowing why. Ah, if we only

　　lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so

　　very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as one may say."

　　"What are you talking of there?" asked the Dryad. "I have

　　never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?"

　　"Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat- "of

　　the happy time of our great-grandfathers and

　　great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down

　　here. That was a rat's nest quite different from Paris. Mother

　　Plague used to live here then; she killed people, but never

　　rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here

　　was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages, whom

　　one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act

　　melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our

　　rat's nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken

　　in."

　　Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old

　　time, when Mother Plague was still alive.

　　A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift

　　horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard

　　de Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over

　　which the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

　　The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad