when he yielded to the lure of opium. His published works, prose and poetry, are as different as possible in content from Lamb's product. German metaphysics had a fatal fascination for him, and he was happiest when he was floundering in depths from which he alone could extricate himself. "I have heard him talk with eager, musical energy two stricken hours, his face radiant and moist, and communicate no meaning whatsoever to any individual of his hearers, certain of whom -I, for one-still kept eagerly listening in hope," says Thomas Carlyle. Lamb's famous Essays are like himself, full of quaint humor and quiet reflections upon topics that are not profound, but human. He, upon whose life there was shadow, brought sunshine in these pleasant essays, with their delicate flavor and whimsicality, into the lives of others.

a

And yet, in spite of the diversity of these two great men in character, aims, and output, their friendship remained a beautiful thing apart. Lamb never ceased to venerate Coleridge, even though, on one occasion, he gave vent to famous apostrophe, "Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee -the dark pillar not yet turned Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Logician, Metaphysician, Bard!" Though the dark pillar did turn, Lamb clung jealously to his conviction that Coleridge was a "very good man". "The more I see of him," he wrote, after the poet had been staying with him,

"the more cause I see to love him, and all those foolish impressions to the contrary fly off like morning slumbers . . .”

But the most touching tribute of Lamb to his friend is contained in his essay, "On the Death of Coleridge", which he wrote only a few months before his own death. He wrote:

"His great and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I cannot make a criticism on men or books, without an ineffectual turning and reference to him. He was the proof and touchstone of all my cogitations. . . He was my fifty-yearsold friend without a dissension. Never saw I his likeness, nor probably can the world see it again. I seem to love the house he died at more passionately than when he lived. . . What was his mansion is consecrated to me a chapel."

Lamb, indeed, never recovered the death of Coleridge; he survived him only six months. It was as if. in the words of a contemporary, he wearied of "this green earth" and cared no more for "sun and sky and breeze, and solitary walks, and summer holidays, and the greenness of fields, and the delicious juices of meats and fishes and society, and the cheerful glass, and candle-light, and fireside conversations, and innocent vanities, and jests and irony itself".

Until his own great spirit joined his friend, he thought of little else but the comrade of his youth and middle life. "Coleridge is dead" were the words that fell repeatedly from his lips; and when death at length bent its kindly benediction. upon him, it was no doubt the thought of his friend that consoled him.

T

From a late newspaper I have clipped the following:

MANNERS-KENT

A very pretty and quiet wedding was solemnized at the parsonage, Houston Street, Wednesday, November 9th, when Violet Manners, only daughter of the late Col. Manners, was united in holy matrimony with Roger Kent of Westlake. The young people were unattended, and after a light lunch served in the parsonage the happy couple boarded the evening train amid showers of confetti. Mr. and Mrs. Kent leave on a wedding tour that has South Africa for its ultimate destination, where Mr. Kent has accepted a fouryear contract as mining engineer in the interests of a large firm in that country.

I quote this clipping to make clear my position in not having divulged certain evidence during the trial of a local murderer held a few months prior to the Manners-Kent wedding. I held a strange position in the events leading up to the crime, and obtained a knowledge of the happenings that I feel are known to no other living person-unless, perhaps, it should be Badger himself.

This knowledge has been the cause

But now that she is wedded and far from the scene of these happenings, I feel justified in making public for the first time the motive that lay behind the crime committed on that morning of February 4th. In doing this I leave it with the reader as to whether I did right in keeping silence or not.

And if, in that distant South African field, Mrs. Kent should read these lines, I feel it will be with deep respect for the man whose courageous spirit saved her from a life that might have proved worse than death.

To begin with I must return to the night of February 3rd-to a reception held in the Wautaubai armories several months before Miss Manners's wedding. Scores of people were giving vent to feelings long pent-up. The tread of many feet tripped in unison to dreamy music. The whole place was bedecked and lighted for

the festive occasion. Music soared and the dancers wheeled and turned -pleasure seemed unbounded.

To the throng on the floor below it was enjoyment supreme, but to Hurley Wright, seated by my side in the balcony, suffering as he was from a malady that was fast claiming him, it must have seemed like the brief specialty that is staged in before the curtain rises on some potent drama.

Such were my thoughts then, though at the time I never dreamed that this was to be the setting for the tragic act so soon to follow.

With a certain feeling of awe I gazed at the man whose appearance so patently bespoke the progress of that dread disease. His clothing hung loosely on his shrunken form. His features were pinched; a hectic flush suffused his cheeks, and his large brown eyes seemed to stare with an uncanny light as he gazed out over the assemblage below. A feeling of genuine pity for the man passed over

me.

He was a stranger to Wautaubai. He was believed to have been a physician of repute who had carried on his profession somewhere inland until he himself had fallen a prey to tuberculosis. That he had fought the dread disease as long as possible was apparent from his condition when he came to the Wautaubai sanitarium. He appeared to have plenty of money; had created a trust fund and made arrangements for his burial in case of death. Everything was planned out ahead for a private funeral by Wautaubai people, which seemed to point to the fact that he had neither friends nor relatives.

That was all that Wautaubai learned of him, unless that the remaining fragment of half a lung was all that lay between life and death for him. He made few acquaintances. Of the few he did make, perhaps Violet Manners and myself were the foremost. She and Wright had met during a visit she paid to the sanitarium shortly after his arrival in the early winter; and perhaps pity for the man's condition later prompted her to pay him the many little attentions which Wright seemed to value highly. She lent him her books and was often found in conversation with him, or accompanied him in short walks about the grounds.

I feel that these little attentions had a great influence over the lonely man, and helped brighten his last few days.

That Wright, in his weakened condition, had attended the reception I later ascribed to some unaccountable working of fate.

Sitting there in the wide balcony he seemed dreamily watching the whirling dancers. A far-away look shone in his eyes, and coupled with that other indescribable something it had an oppressive influence over me. I shuddered. From the vacant expression of his face I judged his thoughts were far removed from the gayety before us. Perhaps he was thinking of his condition, or was he reviewing in memory scenes in his former life?

I turned from the man and let my eyes roam over the crowd below. I had thus been engaged for five or ten minutes when Wright clutched my arm in a grip like steel-his talonlike fingers sinking into my muscle. He pointed to the floor and inquired

in a voice that was tense and chill: "Who's that?"

"Who's who?" I asked.

"The man who just entered with Violet Manners."

"Why, don't you know? That's Badger-Laurence Badger, and reputed to be a moneyed man."

Wright stiffened and his fingers his fingers sank deeper into my arm.

"But of course you don't know," I continued. "I forgot that you are new to Wautaubai. Miss Manners and Badger met at the Beach last summer, and he has been calling periodically ever since. I believe they are to be married, but―

"What!" exclaimed Wright. "Miss Manners going to marry that man!"

I couldn't help noticing the rising inflection in his voice, and turned to him.

"Yes," I hastened to state. "It's rumored they are to be married, though it's rather hard on Roger Kent who has been her accepted company for ages."

"God!" burst from Wright. "He can't do it!"

His chin was thrust forward as he

The music died down, Badger re linquished Miss Manners to her partner for the next dance, and crossing the floor to a secluded corner he lighted a cigarette.

Wright advanced to where Badger stood with his back turned, and I followed. Curiosity impelled. I reached a position within earshot as Wright, now at Badger's shoulder, leaned forward, and in a voice harsh and level inquired:

"Well, Badger, where's Mina?" Badger wheeled, his face blanching. There was a hidden menace in that

was not good to see. He shuddered and mechanically released my arm. "He can't do it!" he again emphatically asserted, and rose from his seat. I gazed at him as he made his way to the stairs. Then I stood up and followed.

He descended to the ground floor and stood watching Badger, his face the picture of the utmost hate, and his eyes seemed burning like twin lamps of fire.

Badger was dancing with Miss Manners, and I stood watching the pair

pression lined his counteance that bespoke fear, distress, uncertainty. He groped at his collar, then murmured: "I-I don't know."

The two men stood face to face, the one the picture of hate, the other of abject fear.

"You lie!" hissed Wright.

A slight tinge of color crept into Badger's face, then subsided.

"I tell you I don't know," he declared. "She left me for the night life and cabaret crowds in Oil City." swing down the hall. I had never