Varia

The Apple of Hell—A Phantasy.—“Wet streets is the first impression I have, wet streets glistening in the reflection of a solitary gaslight. And silence. I turned down a dark narrow street, the grey light of a rainy dawn just faintly showing the outline of French window, balcony, and terrace, while the silent walls echoed to the tapping cadence of my walking My shoulders occasionally brushed the wall to my left, in my efforts to keep on the narrow sidewalk; the moist smell of fog filled my nostrils. The absolute quietness was depressing, I seemed to be the only person alive, the shut windows, the tightly closed doors, the long vistas of empty streets, the dismal cold grey half-light weighed and pressed upon my spirit and sorrow, blind hopeless sorrow, seemed to worm its way into my receptive being. What the cause for any un-happiness could be I could not fathom, it only seemed that the very universe seemed to be on the verge of some big overwhelming grief. I walked on through deserted streets.

“And as I walked with my head bowed down, and the hard pavement echoing my footsteps, it seemed to me as if there were someone with me, I sensed the nearness of another personality, and turned my head. He was walking beside me—a white-faced soldier with large dark eyes, delicate features,—like a woman. As I looked into his face he smiled—a sweet, sad smile, as if he knew my trouble and understood, and came to help me. He said nothing, and neither did I, we trudged on in silence, bound together, it seemed, by a common bond of suffering. Through winding streets ever empty and deserted, alone in the city; but still mine were the only footsteps, he seemed to make no sound, sometimes it seemed as if he were not there, until I would turn by head and he would gravely smile again. And to me it did not seem unusual for him to be there.

“Turning a corner, far down the street we saw a tall white Gothic church; when we came up to it we saw the door was open. And as I gazed on the half-open d