them a mellower tone, and they possessed, at least for
me, that element of mystery which seems to attach to whatever is
venerable. It was as if the place, the people, and the scenes had taken
the shape of a huge picture, with just such a lack of harmony and unity
as we find in real life.

Let those who can do so continue to import harmony and unity into their
fabrications and call it art. Whether it be art or artificiality, the
trick is beyond my powers. I can only deal with things as they were; on
many occasions they were far from what I would have had them to be; but
as I was powerless to change them, so am I powerless to twist
individuals and events to suit the demands or necessities of what is
called art.

Such a feat might be possible if I were to tell the simple story of Nan
and Gabriel and Tasma Tid during the days when they roamed over the old
Bermuda hills, and gazed, as it were, into the worlds that existed only
in their dreams: for then the story would be both fine and beautiful. It
would be a wonderful romance indeed, with just a touch of tragic
mystery, gathered from the fragmentary history of Tasma Tid, a
child-woman from the heart of Africa, who had formed a part of the cargo
of the yacht _Wanderer_, which landed three hundred slaves on the coast
of Georgia in the last months of 1858. You may find the particulars of
the case of the _Wanderer_ in the files of the Savannah newspapers, and
in the records of the United States Court for that district; but the
tragic history of Tasma Tid can be found neither in the newspapers nor
in the court records.

But for this one touch of mystery and tragedy, this chronicle, supposing
it to deal only with the childhood and early youth of Nan and Gabriel,
would resolve itself into a marvellous fairy tale, made up of the
innocent dreams and hopes and beliefs, and all the extraordinary
inventions and imaginings of childhood. And even mystery and tragedy
have their own particular forms of simplicity, so that, with Tasma Tid
in the background the tale would be artless enough to satisfy the most
artful. For, even if the reader, seated on the magic cloak of some
competent story-teller, were transported to the heart of Africa, where
the mountains, with their feet in the jungle, reach up and touch the
moon, or to China, or the Islands of the Sea, the hero of the tale would
be the same. His name is Dilly Bal, and he carries on his operations
wherever there are stars in the sky.