The Socialist press., 1915-09-18

| beadwork, to which were attached | wax figures in high relief: at the top. | a miniature portrait of Charles II. in
 his state robes; at the bottom. one
 Of Nell herself. in court dress. Tho
 king appeared also on the right. in hunting costume, and on the left was
 another figure of his favorite in less
 ornamental garb. According to the
 legend which accompanied this in- teresting antique, it was Nell Gwynnes own handiwork.
 It possessed for me a certain fas- | cination due more to its history than
 it's beauty. for 1t was not the most
 artistic of creations, and as Cameron poked about for his Baudelaire, | stood gazing at the glass and think | ing of all l had ever read of the H.
 literate, but saucy, sprightly actress | whose sole claim to fame hung on her winning the favor of that easy-going.
 royal hypocrite. Charles II. Here's the binding!" heard Cam
 eron say, and turned from the mirror
 to the table. where he had found his sought-for treasure beneath a pile of
 heavier, grosser works.
 You know something of book
 binding" he went on, with enthusi- | asm. Now examine that carefully, and tell me if you ever saw anything
 more exquisite. had 1t done in Lon
 don, last year. It's copy of one of Le Gascon's"
 At first sight 1t seemed all glitter | ing gold, but on closer inspection l
 found that the groundwork was bright | red morocco. inlaid with buff, olive,
 and marble leather, the spaces close
 ly filled with very delicate and beau-
 tiful pointille traoeries. It was yer
 ftable gem in its way, and could not blame Cameron for his raptures. When had applauded and be-
 praised to his content, he took the lit-
 tie volume from my hand and open- ing 1t. with sort of slow reverence,
 observed with something like patron | ism:
 I'm afraid you don't quite under. stand Baudelaire."
 Does anybody" I flung back. He is not so obscure as his critica
 would have us believe" Cameron as-
 serted. "Sit down in that lounging
 chair moment, and I'll read you | something" And as obeyed, he drew up a chair for himself, speaking all the while in denunciation of Tol- | stoi and the injustice of his criticism. One poem after another he read,
 while I lay back listening. To his
 credit he read them well, though he paused often in mid-verse to explain
 what he thought I might regard as an | affectation or. as Tolstoi has put 1t,
 "an intentional obscurity." There was one verse which im- pressed me particularly as he read | 1t, and remained with me for a long | while afterward, for, in view of every thing, 1t seemed to have a special ap- positiveness. The lines to which I refer have been translated in this l way:
 From Heavens high balconies | See! in their threadbare robes the dead | years cast their eyes,
 | And from the depths below regrets wan smile appears.
 Cameron sat with his back to the | door leading to the passageway, and facing, diagonally, across the table, the Nell Gwynne mirror My own gaze was on him as he read | As he finished the verse, a portion
 of which I have quoted, he lifted his eyes, I thought to meet mine, but his look rose over my head. and clung,
 while his lids widened, and into every line of his face there came a rigid, startled expression, half amazement,
 half horror. And in that instant of tense silence the "Fleurs du Nal" | slipped from his nerveless fingers,
 struck the table edge. and dropped
 with unseemly echo to the floor. In a breath I was on my feet and staring where his vision had focused. | hardly know what I expected to see.
 am sure nothing would have sur prised me. And yet I was scarcely prepared for the inexplicable ruin | which my sight encountered. The glass of the Nell Gwynne mirror was | in atoms.
 Cameron rose, a little unsteadily l
 thought, and coming around the table. | Joined me in closer inspection of his
 wrecked hereditament. I can find no | word adequate to the description of
 what we experienced. Amusement l and all its synonyms are far too feeble for the task. We were certain | I,, r,oro than anna1led What wa aov