summons; and now I vowed to devote my life to the cause of which Vera was such an ardent champion.

In one of those sweet, calm, but very dark late summer evenings, while sitting close to the water and listening to the rippling of the waves that washed the sand at our feet, Vera initiated me into the secrets of her activities and outlined the plans of our work. I learned of the existence of a secret revolutionary organization, "La Nouvelle Pologne," which started in Geneva and was rapidly spreading to the other Swiss universities. I was to give up my work at the university and follow Vera on a propaganda tour to Russia. Was I too rash in sacrificing my own future for a phantom? Was I a fool to undertake such a dangerous mission? I knew all too well what awaited me in Russia if I were caught in my propaganda for a free Poland. But here I was given an opportunity to remain in her company, and Vera was dearer to me than my own life. For by that time I loved Vera passionately. I loved her with the love that knows no bounds. And could I help it? I was twenty; and she was so beautiful, so charming, and so good. Of course I could not talk to her of love. She would not listen to me. She had no time and no patience for such follies, she would say. Her people needed her full, unreserved, undivided love, sympathy and help. She must be free to carry on her work of salvation for her down-trodden people. But I did not give up the fight for her love, for I was twenty and sanguine. I hoped that sooner or later she would be able and willing to spare a little affection for me from her boundless love for her people. And why worry about to-morrow if to-day is so beautiful? Was I not constantly in her company? Had we not become almost inseparable? For from the moment I placed myself at the service of her cause, she took upon herself to infuse her love for her people into me. But if she had not been so engrossed in her ideal she would have noticed that the fire burning in my eyes was due to my love for her and not for her people. My passion for her, through constant intercourse, became like a consuming fire threatening to devour me should I give it no vent. Finally, in spite of all promises to the contrary, I did give it vent in such words of passion as only first love is capable of. But again she refused to hear of love. When our work has been crowned with success, and Poland has been resuscitated from the ashes, she said, there would be time enough to think of our individual happiness. And again she made me promise never more to mention or in any way show my love for her until our task had been completed. Then she alone would unseal my lips.

Family affairs did not permit me to leave the country as soon as I had expected, and Vera, who was burning with the desire of entering upon her work in Russia, decided to go ahead and not wait for me. I was to join her in Warsaw as soon as my personal affairs would permit me. Needless to say that I suffered bitterly from our separation; and it also goes without saying that I hurried on my personal affairs with all speed. But it seemed that Heaven decreed against me. I was never to look again upon the face of my adored Vera. My aged father suddenly took ill, and as his only son I could not leave his bedside. He feared that the end of his days had come, and wanted his only son, who was born to him in the evening of his life and on whom he had transferred all his love after the tragic death of his young wife, to close his eyes. Then, one fatal morning, when my father was on the road to recovery, and I had already made all preparations for the journey, I learned that Vera was dead. Her mother, who sent me this sad news, also wrote me that her daughter had often spoken to her of me; and what Vera would never tell me, she confided to her mother-that my love for her was not unreturned. She died bravely, the message ran, for she died a heroic death for her people. While she was alone in the land of the Czar, the revolution of 1905 suddenly broke out; and Vera, filled with the heroic spirit of her ancestors, inspired with the militant spirit of her national heroes and heroines, placed herself at the head of a small band of young men, who believed that the longed-for opportunity to throw off the yoke of their oppressor had finally come, took up arms and fought and fell. Vera fell in the battle for national liberty, and thus sealed her love for her people with her own life's blood.

Dear Reader! pardon me if I do not tell you what happened to me when this news reached me. I hardly know myself. All I can remember is that a terrible fever almost put an end to my life. I was ill for months, and fought a desperate fight for my life; and when against all expectations of father and physician I rose from my sick-bed, I was no longer the same man. I was only the shadow of my former self. Broken in body and spirit I wandered from place to place, and visited all those spots made dear to me through Vera's company. I went to Warsaw, and visited her grave. Here is another blank in my memory. I cannot remember what I did there, and how I got away from Vera's eternal resting-place.

Years have passed since. I have traversed lands and continents, but Vera has always been my phantom companion. She has followed me everywhere. In my thoughts by day, my dreams by night, she

always pursued me. I finally came to America. I hoped to find distraction and forgetfulness here. I expected that the hurried and restless life in the New World would down all thoughts of Vera in my mind. For a short time I thought I had succeeded in banishing her ghost from my memory, but last night, after I had spent a day in hard work and study, she again appeared in my dreams. Again those appealing eyes, that reproachful look, pierced my soul.

O Vera, beloved Vera, wilt thou never give me rest? Wouldst thou have me, on whom thy mantle fell, carry on thy life's mission? Dost thou not see that I am not the same man that sat by thy side, and drank in every inspiring word that passed thy dear lips? How can a man have confidence in the future of a people if he has no more confidence in his own future? How can a man ruined in body and spirit build upon the ruins of a country?

I am no more the man who pledged his life for thy people. That man has gone with thee to the grave. All that has remained of him is a mere shadow, a mere reflection of his former being. Oh, spare me, dear Vera, absolve me from my promise. Only men wishing to live, to live a free life, and not those satisfied to die for the cause, should take up arms to defend their national honor, thou wouldst often say. But I do not wish to live; I cannot live. Death would be to me the greatest blessing. I would then join thee: and together we would fall before the throne of the Almighty and pray for the restoration of thy people.

Oh, forgive me, Vera; say Absolvo te.

MISCELLANEOUS.

OUR ILLUSTRATIONS.

We are indebted for the illustrations of Polish art and architecture accompanying the editorial article on "The Poles and their Gothic Descent" to the Rev. P. L. Swiatkowski, C.R., of Chicago. The examples of architectural style are reproduced from K. Moklowski's Sztuka Lodowa w Polsce, and the altar pieces are taken from the periodical Free Poland and from Dr. Stanislaw E. Radzekowski's work on the Zakopianian style of Polish art entitled Styl Zakopianski. Zakopane is a large village of about 4500 inhabitants in Galicia and is famous as a health resort for consumptives. It is remarkable that these simple mountain folk should possess a native artistic taste. Everything that they use, says Stanislaw Witkiewicz, one of the prominent members of this school, "is characterized by delicacy of form and ornamentation" (Styl Zakopianski, 1904, No. 1). "The characteristic feature of the Zakopianian style," the same artist continues, "is its peculiar method of construction-the distinct evidence of synthesis and the attempt to emphasize it by corresponding orna

mentation. He who does not possess a sense of construction, who does not feel the spirit of this conflict with the rigidity of matter, with gravity, with weight (and it is this conflict which is the essence of every construction) such a person is incapable of creating forms out of the material with which the art of the people has presented us. This style is also characterized by straight lines and right angles, and to this peculiarly characteristic form it is very rarely unfaithful. Not only the form but color also forms a constructive element of beauty." In fact, this style is distinguished by a luxuriant variety of color. Its ornamentation is fundamentally geometrical and rich in plant motives. Six-pointed stars are usually found as decorative motives on important parts of each work of art.

The artistic taste of Polish architecture is evidenced not only in residences and churches but even in barns and grain elevators. It is remarkable that Mohammedan mosques are not wanting, for Islam spread as far north as Poland in the later Middle Ages, though it has almost disappeared there in recent times.

The large majority of the Polish people are adherents of the Roman Catholic faith. Protestantism is not absent and predominates mainly among the Mazurs. The Poles seem to have a natural aversion to the Greek church which in Russian Poland has often been forced upon them. The artistic style of their Roman Catholic altars indicates the intensity of their Roman faith, and in spirit is not unlike the better known types of Italian religious art.

Our frontispiece represents Maryan Langiewicz, the Polish revolutionist, born August 5, 1827, at Krotoshin. He joined the revolution of 1863 as the leader of a band of 4000 volunteers, most of them peasants armed with scythe blades fastened to poles to serve as lances. In spite of the bravery of the Poles the Russian army proved too strong and overcame them in two engagements, on March 17 at Chrobrze and the next day at Busk and finally forced them across the Galician border where Langiewicz was interned by the Austrian government until February 1865, when he removed to Switzerland. Later he was employed by the government in the artillery service. He lived in Paris for some time under the name Langlé but returned to Constantinople, where he died in 1887. Our picture shows him in company with a Polish girl who had followed him into the dangers of the revolution and served him as aide de camp.