Toddings, B. A. The Colonist was established in 1866 and Mr. Toddings became connected with the paper in 1874. He is a convert to the Catholic faith, his parents being members of the Church of England. It may be interesting to note that it was while reading Lingard's "History of England" that Mr. Toddings was led to make a study of the Catholic Church.

But Bermuda has a special interest to the lover of Tom Moore. It was here that the gifted Irish bard spent some months

as Registrar of the Court of Vice Admirality. He had just gone to London, at the age of twenty, fresh from Trinity College, Dublin, to publish his translation of "Anacreon" and through the influence of the Earl of Moira received his appointment in Bermuda. He arrived in Norfolk, Virginia, in November, 1803, after a stormy voyage; thence he reached Bermuda and took up his residence at Walsingham House, which occupies a neck of land traversed by the highway from Hamilton to St. George. It stands between two mangrove-bordered lakes, its walls and roof alike being of whitewashed limestone, while the inside is of

native cedar. Here is found, in the ground adjoining, the calabash tree of which Moore so beautifully wrote to his friend, Joseph Atkinson:

"The daylight is gone-but, before we de

part,

One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,

To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear,

That I shed while I name him, how kind and how dear!

"Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash tree, With a few who could feel and remember like me,

The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw,

Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you!"

It was here that Moore met Hesther Louise Tucker, "Nea," who inspired in his warm Celtic soul so much of poetry. But Miss Tucker was soon betrothed to another, who, it is said, was very jealous of the chivalrous young Irishman. Some years afterwards, when Moore published his "Irish Melodies," he sent a copy to "Nea;" and her granddaughter, a pretty young Bermudian girl, bears the classical name which the genius of Ireland's sweetest singer has enshrined in literature.

the stores of a French cutler the weapon wherewith she wrought the destruction of the hated tyrant Marat. It was a unique and daring conception. The Corday was not portrayed as a brunette (her accustomed type), but as a warmtinted blonde of generous proportions; and my little friend told me that, in this. deviation from convention, she was simply using an artistic privilege, unconstrained by any definite tradition. After her picture was completed, she learned, to her surprise, from a visitor whose family for generations had been near neighbors of the Cordays, that all the women of Charlotte's race had been just such glowing, richly-developed blondes as her brush had delineated.

Passing by a striking head of an Italian peasant, and a charming study of his little niece, and pausing for a few moments before two luminous portraits -one of a merry-faced old farmer seated at an open window, enjoying his smoke and his after-dinner revery; the other, that of a French abbe with a sweet, serious face, who had been Mam'selle's Old World confessor-I came upon a picture in a corner, which at once arrested my fancy. It depicted two barefooted boys, plainly strolling musicians, one of whom, in an easy standing position, was playing upon a concertina, his companion being seated on a grassy bank at his side. In response to my question, Mam'selle's face brightened, as she exclaimed: "Ah! yes, that is the portrait of my poor boy, Lorenzo!"-explaining that the same boy had posed for her portrayal of both the young musicians.

and whose studio in old Lyons he delighted to visit. He played admirably upon his concertina; and among other operatic selections of his choice was one from Donizetti's "Lucia" into which Mam'selle introduced some graceful little touches of her own which gave a new and distinctive beauty to the tender melody.

The boy was very fond of playing this aria for his gentle benefactress; but, at last, he came one day to tell her that he must now depart from Lyons-that he must start forth afresh upon his wanderings and earn his bread in other and more remunerative quarters. He added, however, that he could never forget her or her kindness to him; that he would return again, even if after the lapse of years. And, when he came once more to Lyons, he assured her he would travel from street to street searching for her, playing always her arrangement of the air from "Lucia," so that she might hear and, recognizing it, come to her window, and look out upon her faithful Lorenzo.

With this they parted; and years rolled away without Mam'selle's receiving any word or token from her little troubadour.

Some ten years later, the gentle artist was seated at table in Lyons, eating dinner with her good mother, when from the street below stole up the old familiar rendition of the aria from "Lucia." Mam'selle sprang to her feet in joyful excitement. Despite her mother's suggestions that it would be. wiser to finish her dinner leisurely, she ran to the window and looked down into the street beneath. There below her lattice, to her intense surprise, stood a great, broad-shouldered Piedmontese playing her favorite melody upon his concertina. The little model of the

man of twenty-two-a bearded giant, fully six feet high. No trace remained. of the original little Lorenzo save the concertina and the old-time aria. However, the big, handsome fellow soon made good his claim upon Mam'selle, who led him in to her mother's presence and joyfully supplied him with a good dinner.

He then told the ladies that he was

about to recommence his journeyings afar; that he would wander from place to place, always playing the melody from "Lucia." Even if Mam'selle concluded to leave her native land, he declared that he would follow her wherever she might be and play for her the aria they both loved so well.

With this curious compact, parted from them the faithful Piedmontese, whose gratitude for past kindnesses was something phenomenal.

In the course of time, after many inevitable changes, Mam'selle closed her studio in Lyons, bade adieu to her beloved France and came to the United States.

She purchased the property in a suburban spot in the South where I first visited her, and the fine old mansion became her home. Here she dwelt with a saintly companion-a noble-hearted woman of her own race; and in their close and happy union of prayer and good works for God's holy Church and His blessed poor, the years sped rapidly and profitably away.

One day, as Mam'selle was sitting alone in her pleasant room, surrounded by her heirlooms and old-time treasures, her delicate hands busy with some lovely work of art, the silence of the apartment was broken by the sound of a concertina just outside her window. Her heart was thrilled by tender emotions, sweet memories of the past rushed back upon her spirit, as she heard once again, borne towards her on the breeze of a foreign land, her own

unmistakable arrangement of the aria from "Lucia."

Lorenzo must be close at hand!

She ran out upon the rustic veranda and looked about for her Old World

protege. There was no one to be seen. The spot was utterly vacant and silent, save for the rustling trees and the chirping sparrows. She returned to her ious. Again, through a window on the apartment, puzzled and singularly anxopposite side of the room, distinctly floated in Donizetti's tender and pleading melody. Again the little artist flew to the grounds outside, and sped to and fro, searching round and round the house for her devoted troubadour of the past. But all in vain. The weird music of the viewless player had died away into an ominous silence.

Nevermore on earth was she to behold her faithful Lorenzo. Never again was she to hear from his humble instrument the beloved aria from "Lucia di Lammermoor."

"Yesterday at o'clock a strolling musician named Lorenzo Pace was struck by an automobile at the corner of Blank and Dash Streets and instantly killed. The concertina he carried, and certain papers upon his person, gave the clue to his name and avocation."

Mam'selle turned quickly to the headlines of the newspaper. The date of its "yesterday," corresponded, as did its hour, with the day and hour of the mysterious music outside her window.

"Usque ad mortem!" she murmured, almost blinded by her tears. "My poor Lorenzo, thou wert indeed faithful even unto death! May thy loyal spirit rest in peace, and may the everlasting light of heaven shine upon thee!"