Whatever Queen Victoria may have done, whatever her country may have accomplished under her rule, it is not by these that she is most widely known and for which she will be longest and most affectionately remembered. The universal fact in regard to her is the reputation she has established for refined and dignified manners, temperate and kindly disposition, pure, womanly, noble character. Even those who call themselves her enemies, and they are few, are not really hostile to her. They may have grievances against her country, but when they come to consider the manner in which England's policy is formed, and by whom it is executed, -when, moreover, they come to realize in this period of wellnigh universal mourning, how great and how beloved among all the nations this one sovereign has been, they too will pay the tribute of honor and respect, if not of grief and mourning. There have been sovereigns whose careers have been more brilliant in personal achievements, there have been sovereigns whose lives have altered the whole course of human history, there have been

those also who have done justly and loved mercy, but Victoria has been the peer of them all in the highest attainments of human life, in those qualities which all true men admire and all true women emulate.

H. A. H., '03.

THE TUFTONIAN.

Vol. XXVI.

MARCH, 1901.

No. 6

A BURDEN BEARER.

Beyond the clump of spruce trees is the lighthouse, standing tall and white. At night, calm and stately, it flashes its light out over the town, then over the harbor and far out to sea, as silent and mysterious as a heathen god, watching the destinies of men, unmoved by curse or prayer.

At the base of the tower is a bank of tan-bark, an excellent seat for the old sailors who, on a fine summer's night, gather here to spin yarns, sociable old fellows, who are equally content either to smoke their pipes and listen to, or tell of the voyage of that "old hooker," the "Gov. Jones," or the "clipper Fearless."

Considering the sociability of these old "sea-dogs," I wondered greatly at seeing, night after night, one old man, bent and crippled, who came to the lighthouse, but who sat apart on a huge bowlder near the edge of the bluff, and who spoke to no one, but gazed out over the harbor, which, on a calm, moonlight night, shone like a shield of steel, bejewelled by the lights of the vessels and rimmed by the broad silver band of sand.

I watched him one night when the moon lighted up his wrinkled, worn face, framed in the old "so'wester,"-a strong face, though now peaceful and sad. I could imagine in the old days how it glowed fiercely at opposition. The hand which still grasped the cane firmly, was thick and deformed, proving the work and struggle that had softened his face.

I asked my neighbors about him, but I could get very little satisfaction from them, only pitying or scornful expressions, ac

companied by a tapping of the forehead. Impatient at this and urged by my curiosity, I went up and spoke to him, but received no answer; and when I spoke again, and more roughly, he looked at me, but with such a far-away look in his eyes that I gave up the attempt to converse with him and went back to my old friends, who had watched me with no little interest and who seemed to take my failure as a matter of course. They then told me in answer to my further questioning that he was a native of the town, and with his brother had always followed the sea, the greater part of the time as a fisherman, until about ten years ago when, some trouble having arisen between them, the brothers no longer spoke to each other; and one day, when they both happened to be out fishing, a storm came up and the brother never returned, and since that time this man had been as I now saw him, apparently with no other interest in life than to come here night after night and sit silently, sadly gazing out to sea.

I pitied the old man for I knew his burden must be heavy, but after one or two further attempts to get him to speak, I gave it up as hopeless and became like the other people of the town, indifferent to him.

The summer wore away and still I lingered in the peacful old town. I had become almost as one of the natives in following the old customs, and every night after the evening meal I would stroll down to the lighthouse to meet my old sailor friends. Of course when it was stormy we would generally omit our evening gathering, but sometimes, especially during or just after a heavy gale, one or two might be seen wandering down to the bluff to watch the great waves roll up and lash the rocks.

It was for this reason that I went down there one night in October. We had had a heavy storm and the wind was yet blowing fiercely, driving the scud across and obscuring from time to time the full moon which made but a poor pretence of asserting its power to make the night light. As I neared the lighthouse I could see no one, and I was just preparing to sit down on the damp tan-bark when I perceived the old man approaching, who

had so often excited my curiosity by his silence and mystery. He came straight by where I was and went toward the big bowlder, his favorite seat, walking with a quick step, for him, his head erect and his eyes shining. When he reached the bowlder he crawled upon it and stood up, facing the sea and swaying in the fierce gusts of wind so that I thought he would fall. I went toward him to urge him to step down out of danger, but when I came near I saw his lips move, and even above the howl of the wind and the waves I heard him shriek, "There, out there," and he pointed far out to the harbor mouth where the breakers foamed on the bar "I put him there. I thought he cheated me, and he hit me, and I drowned him,-my brother! O Bill! I ran into yer a purpose. I knew the boom was weak and I watched yer drift in there, and-O Bill! my brother!"

In his frenzy he slipped and fell. I caught him and pulled him to the ground where he lay smiling to himself and saying softly, "Yer threw me that time, Bill, but I'll go yer one more to see who cleans the fish tomorrer!"

I carried him to his house, and all the way he babbled to "Bill" as when they had been boys together. I did not see him again for nearly a week, and then I saw him in the same old place on the bowlder, gazing out to the mouth of the harbor. He was a little more bent, perhaps, but he carried his burden as silently as

ever.

C. D. K., '00.