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A LIBRARY

Yol. XL

6*^&S<^U t-^l*t CX-X_^^r

A LIBRARY OF

AMERICAN LITERATURE

FROM THE EARLIEST SETTLEMENT
TO THE PRESENT TIME

IN ELEVEN VOLUMES

VOL. XI

NEW-YORK

CHARLES L. WEBSTER & COMPANY
1890

PREFACE TO THE FMAL VOLUME.

TN the original Preface to this work a general design was announced, upon
-*- lines adopted at the outset, and, as the end makes clear, with a correct
prevision of its main features. But the editors could not foresee the time and
labor it would consume. Had we realized the disabilities under which such an
enterprise was undertaken by the original projector, neither our ambition
nor our sense of duty could have induced us to assume its editorial conduct.
Once pledged to this, we could not bring ourselves to slight or scamp the ma
terials, rich and abundant in certain periods, and in others where less sug
gestive demanding for that very reason our most painstaking attention.

The successive periods cover a space of nearly three centuries; that is,from
Shakespeare's time to our own. For every author quoted at least five others
have been under consideration, and probably a larger average nu mber of books
has been examined for each selection made. Until the " Library " passed into
the ownership of the present publishers, who enlarged its limits, and supplied
an office and ample means for its completion, not only the critical editing, but
the proof-reading and other routine labor, were performed by us in our own
homes, to the exclusion of original work and needful recreation. It was
thought by the business projector that the volumes could be made up with
speed and ease, after the manner of various compilations for the subscription-
trade. But we finally accepted his advances, because there seemed a chance to
do something of real service, and only upon condition that we should work in
our own way, and thus doubled the labor and postponed our remuneration.
The projector, for reasons extraneous to this enterprise, was unable to com
plete it; after three years only five volumes were stereotyped. Some delay en
sued before it was taken up by Messrs. Charles L. Webster & Co., who have
enabled us to extend and beautify the work, and who now issue it complete
within two years from the publication of Volumes I.-IIL, in May, 1888. The
compilation of the series began in 1883. During the intervening seven years
a notable increase of literary activity has been observed, new and successful
writers appearing in all portions of the country. Our original design, planned
in a week's time, has been unchanged but somewhat extended. Notwith
standing the progressive increase, in size and scope, of Volumes VI. -X.

v i PREFACE TO THE FINAL VOLUME.

(without increase of cost to the subscribers), it became necessary to compile
the present and still larger volume, devoted to new authors and to the Gene
ral Index, and with the addition of an important feature the " Short Biog
raphies " of all writers represented in the compilation.

These Biographies, added in response to many suggestions from the press
and the public, have been prepared by Mr. Arthur Stedman, who from the
beginning of our labors has given his close attention to the technical detail of
the work.

The early disadvantages mentioned,however unwelcome to the editors,may
not have resulted adversely to their undertaking. For we can fairly claim
that the outcome is a "handmade " Library ; that it is not a piece of " ma
chine-work" ; that it is the product of the individual effort of two editors,
consulting for years in harmony, and as cheerfully as possible whether the
labor was agreeable or trying. No accessory judgment has interfered to pro
duce a confusion of tastes and methods. With less than a half-dozen excep
tions, every author in the series has been read by the editors themselves, and
each selection examined by both of them. Their powers and labors have been
equal, and there has been no duty too high or too low for either of them to
perform. In considering the scope of this compilation, proud as we are of the
showing made by our country, we understood quite well that we should often
endure a conflict with our personal taste, and that our object could be gained
only by such endurance. Against this, there have been enjoyable compensa
tions. The spirit of the work was indicated by the titles given to the early
Colonial selections, and such diversions have added zest to our duties
throughout the series.

With respect to the contents of these volumes several requirements have
been kept in mind. In the first place, the " Library " must be made interest
ing, attractive to the general reader, otherwise no publisher would be rec
ompensed for the outlay involved. We believed that from the home-field of
literature a standard of worth and interest could be maintained, justifying
the announcement of the Preface that the work was " made for popular use
and enjoyment," and recompensing both the scholar and the layman for
money expended at the sacrifice, perhaps, of other things desired.

Next, we have respected our title, which is neither a " Thesaurus " nor a
" Valhalla," but " A Library " of American literature, and thus denotes a
compilation varied in subject, treatment, and merit, and above all inclus
ive, often waiving a severe adherence to perfection in style or thought. It is
not confined to masterpieces, though not a few of them can be found within
it. To prepare an eclectic and exclusive miscellany from the writings of the
greatest divines, statesmen, historians, poets, and romancers of America,
would be a pleasant office and withal alight one. Seven weeks might serve for
its editing, instead of seven years, and our eleven volumes might readily have

PREFACE TO THE FINAL VOLUME. yii

been occupied with less than fifty authors, provided that great publishers were
sufficiently altruistic to yield the copyright of their best stock in trade. The
familiar eminent names have not absorbed our time, but the class whose
name is legion. Yet minor authors, singly or in groups, reflect the tendencies
of a period even more clearly than their more original compeers. "We trust
that no great writer has been neglected in the '' Library," and that few will
object to the representation of one of humble cast by a single poem or page,
when fifty times as much tribute is paid to an Emerson or a Hawthorne. We
have troubled ourselves very little concerning the obscurity of any "forgot
ten author'' from whose writings we have selected something to illustrate a
special phase, or because it merited preservation. Moreover, there is truth
in Sainte-Beuve's remark upon out-of-date works: " Their very faults become
representative, and are not without charm, as the once-admired expression of
a taste that has given place to another, which in its turn will likewise pass
away." Sometimes a non-professional writer has afforded the clearest state
ment of an important matter : such, for instance, as the law of copyright.
The multitude of those who write enlarges as their grade decreases, therefore
some authors whom we include are not chosen as superior to others who are
omitted; for every class and period we have tried simply to give fair repre
sentation within our limits of room; and occasionally some extract, that we
liked better than one previously included, has been ruled out because we could
not devote any more space to its topic. Except, however, in the cases of the
most eminent authors, it would be unjust to measure our estimate of their
relative importance by the number of pages allotted to them respectively.
Poetry, for example, is precious for its condensation ; besides, it may be diffi
cult to obtain even a couple of pages suited to this compilation from the works
of some noble scholar, while a young and promising novelist, if represented
at all, needs room for a chapter, or an episode, or a short and complete tale.

Lastly, it has been our aim to compile for professional readers a copious and
trustworthy Reference Book, suited to the needs of working American au
thors, teachers, journalists, and public men. We have striven to give correct
texts (sometimes differing from those usually accepted) of significant and his
toric sermons, speeches, public documents, and declarations. Few very nota
ble short poems have been omitted, scarcely one that has justly preserved the
name of a " single-poem " poet. The ballads of the nation, in times of public
excitement, lend to this " Library " a meaning fully as important, we believe,
as that which Macaulay derived from the rudest catches of his own people.
Various poems less known, but worth preservation in such a compendium,
have been inserted, especially in the present volume another of its features
being the section devoted to our continuation of the "Noted Sayings," many
of which are here first collected for reference and quotation. In pursuance of
our scheme, American journalism is represented by a few able leaders; but in

PREFACE TO THE FINAL VOLUME.

fact some of our strongest writers have devoted, from choice or necessity,
their abilities to newspaper-service. During the late period, frequent credit
is given to the magazines and reviews, wherein nowadays a large portion of
our noteworthy literature appears before its republication in book-form. It
should be mentioned that, owing to the preponderance of theology, history,
and politics in our early volumes, it was thought advisable to occupy the
later chiefly with an exhibition of the modern rise of "literature proper "
with essays, history, fiction, and poetry. Consequently the great concourse
of recent savants, economists, and divines, eminent in the faculties of our
colleges and institutes, among them many near and honored friends of the
editors, is for the most part unrepresented. " Juvenile " books, of which
kind there are several "little classics," are excluded, beyond a few selec
tions made for specific reasons.

The gist of the foregoing remarks has been so tersely stated by an able
critic, 1 who has reviewed our successive issues with nice discrimination, that
it is a pleasure to accept his very language as a summary of the ends which
the editors have had in view. He justly says : " It was not their intention
merely to indicate by excerpts the masterpieces of American literature, or
even to commit themselves to the assertion that at a given period the Amer
ican people possessed a literature properly so called. Their design, in other
words, was historical rather than critical. They meant to exhibit the kind of
composition which at this or that periodwas supposed by the American people,
or a section of it, to belong to literature. A searching light would thus be
thrown on the stage of taste and cultivation attained by our countrymen
at a particular time." Let us confess, for our own part, that in progressing
with the " Library " we realized, after a while, that we had builded better
than we knew ; that our National Gallery was presenting a rare conspectus of
American life, yes, of American history, in all departments of imagination,
action, and opinion. Our hope is now a belief, that in the homestead and the
school-library this compilation will make for patriotism. There is a picture
of the boy Lincoln reading by the embers of a cabin-fire. What he hungered
for in youth, A LIBRARY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE now places at the dis
posal of our young people henceforth; and the assurances that many thinkers
share our view embolden us to claim a measure of disinterestedness in the
wish that this compilation may soon be found in every school, at every army-
post, on board our ships, and frequent throughout the public and private
libraries of our Republic.

In truth, what more vivid panorama of our national procession could be
devised by artist or historian ? To Mr. Atkinson's scheme of making the Ex
position of 189- an object-lesson of New World growth in science, art, and

1 " M. W. H." of The New York Sim.

PREFACE TO THE FINAL VOLUME.
TOPICAL ANALYSIS OF SELECTIONS.

CLASS.

VOL.

VOL.
II.

VOL.
III.

VOL.
IV.

VOL.
V.

VOL
VI.

VOL.
VII

VOL.
VIII.

VOL
IX.

VOL.
X.

VOL.
XI.

TOTAL.

ANECDOTE

8
4

5
13
6
1

2
1
10

2
2

8
15
1

1
5
2
3
1

61
69
19
99

8
71
2
11
34

31
11
90
183
193
43
17
7
4
26
73
35
142
109

18
1119

75
14
51
5
127
34

4
85
7
14
1
1
1
5
2

65
19

BIOGRAPHY

8
9

7
2

CHARACTERIZATIONS
CHARACTER SKETCHES . .

CORRESPONDENCE

CRITICISM :
Art

Dramatic

13
1

4
12
1

'l3

Literary

Musical

DIARIES, JOURNALS, ETC.
DRAMA

...

3
6

4
2

2
5

1
1
10
23
6
7
5
2

1
5
40
3

7
3

"4
33
6

ECONOMICS (including So
cial Science)

EDUCATION

ESSAYS AND STUDIES. . .
FICTION AND ROMANCE
HISTORY

6
2
17
2

12
6
2
9

6
18
19
5

17
18
3
1
1

16
16

10
9
1

14
22
12
6

74
1

HUMOR (and Satire). . . .

JOURNALISM

L \NO U AGE

L\w

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS.
NARRATIVES

1
5
3

5
9
2

3
15
1

6
9
4
B

11
1

7
5

6
1

2
4
9

3
2

1
110
1

186

NATURE

NOTED SAYINGS

ORATORY

2
25

7
46

C
1
2
2
23
2

1
60

21
5
5
1
9
3

1
49

'io

1
75

3
1
4

107

8
3
12

2
130

2
152

5
3
6

1
120

5
1
1

169
3

PHILOSOPHY AND META
PHYSICS

POETRY

POLITICS, GOVERNMENT,

ETC

SCIENCE (Physical)

SLAVERY. ABOLITION, ETC.
TEMPERANCE

THEOLOGY, ETC

7
1

12
5

1
6

1
1

TRAVELS

WAR :
Bacon's Rebellion. . . .

Civil, 1861

8
1

30
1

French and Indian. .

Indian Troubles
King George's

King William's

Mexican

Of 1812

Queen Anne's

Revolutionary

8
1

3
1

WITCHCRAFT AND WON
DERS

Total No. Entries and
Cross-Entries

Actual No. of Selections
Authors represented . .
Anonymous Writers . . .

194

193

293

253

215

276

341

304

261

292

387

3009

166
52
3

172
74
5

248
66
12

213
97
3

207
92
2

234
91

285
144

265
142
5

232
109

2SO
145
2

369
161 )

2671
1207

v PREFACE TO TEE FINAL VOLUME.

industry;- an-intettectual accompaniment, so far as these States are concerned,
might well be supplied by the present volumes. Do they not reveal, indeed,
the national qualities which Milton, in the Areopagitica, portrayed, when he
found the strength of the Motherland to consist in ' ' a nation not slow and
dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent, subtle
and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point the highest that
human capacity can soar to " ?

It is not our province to comment upon the writings displayed in this com
pilation. Two things, however, will be observed upon a survey of the field :
First, the literary activity manifest upon the coming to the front of a genera
tion reared since the civil war ; secondly, as respects the characteristics of
American literature, that its begetters usually have had something which they
wished to say, and therefore have said it with much spontaneity and freedom
from aff ectation. Their works have largely appertained to subjects of interest
to the public mind, in their several periods. This is illustrated by the Analysis
(on the preceding page) of the personal and topical Index that has been edi
torially prepared and placed at the end of this volume. This titulary Analy
sis is arranged in such a manner as to show not only the variety of topics
presented, but the changing character of those predominant at different
stages. As our editorial method has not been to regard a period from the
point of view of our requirements, but to construct each volume in subordi
nation to its period, the outcome displayed in this Analysis has proved as
novel and instructive to the editors as it must be to our readers. A treatise
on the progress of national thought and life might be suggested by it.

The attention of subscribers to our early editions is invited to the "Note "
and list of revised dates, etc., following the "Summary of Acknowledg
ments."

For the accuracy of the text in Vols. VI.-XI. we are greatly indebted to the
friendship and professional skill of Mr. John H. Boner, of the Century Dic
tionary staff, who has given much of his spare time to the correction of our
page-proofs, and in other ways has been of service to this Work.

Our obligations to others who have promoted our efforts are so abundant
that it becomes necessary to detail them in the pages immediately following
this Preface. But we can here extend our thanks to the authors of America,
who have assisted us so loyally, with an expressed belief in our fairness, and
with a good-natured acceptance of judgments which often must seem to them
very fallible. Nor are we unappreciative of the hearty interest taken in the
" Library, "since its publication began, by the American press, of the long
and frequent reviews and the encouraging welcome it has received, and of

PREFACE TO THE FINAL VOLUME. x {

many useful suggestions and corrections, to which we gladly have lent atten
tive consideration.

In conclusion, our renewed acknowledgments are tendered to the power
ful and widely-distributed guild of American publishers, who control the
usufruct of nearly all works issued here within the last forty-two years, and
without whose consent the reproduction of so much of the matter presented
in this " Library " would have been impossible. Every publisher whose au
thors are quoted therein has placed, without exception and with courteous
and friendly assurances, his entire " list " at the disposal of the editors, in an
swer to their personal solicitation. The large and the lesser houses alike have
given us this vantage, confiding in our promise that it should be used and
not abused. We have realized the great value of such a trust, never before ex
tended on this scale to American compilers, and have endeavored to avail
ourselves of it in such wise as to secure a reflex benefit to the liberal donors.
A full list of these firms, with their addresses, follows close upon this Preface;
and if, in the acknowledgment pages at the end of each volume, there has
been any failure to give credit for a certain book or other copyrighted matter,
the omission has been from oversight, or from inability to discover an exist
ing proprietor.

EDMUND C. STEDMAST,
ELLEN M. HUTCHIXSON.

NEW YORK, May, 1890.

x i v SUMMARY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Charles R. Miller, Mrs. Luigi Monti, Mr. Appleton Morgan, Mr. Edwin W. Morse, Mr.
William W. Niles, Jr., Mr. John S. Phillips, Hon. Whitelaw Reid, Mr. G. Thaddeus Ste
vens, Mr. Richard H. Stoddard, Col. David M. Stone, all of New York city ; Rev. John W.
Chadwick, Mrs. Philip Welch, of Brooklyn, X. Y. ; Mr. Henry T. Coates, Mr. Charles H.
Ltiders, of Phila. ; Mr. Arnold B. Johnson, Hon. L. Q. C. Lamar, Mr. Frank Moore, Hon.
E. L. Pierce, Mr. James C. Pilling, Dr. James Wood Davidson, of Washington ; Prof. Moses
Coit Tyler, Mr. II. J. Potter, of Ithaca, N. Y. ; Mr. Francis F. Browne, Mr. C. S. Brainard,
Mr. Slason Thompson, of Chicago; Rt. Rev. W. Ingraham Kip, Mr. John Yance Cheney,
Miss Milicent W. Shinn, San Francisco; Mr. William P. Andrews, Mr. Henry M. Brooks,
Salem, Mass. ; Mr. Chambers Baird, Ripley, 0. ; Mr. Henry L. Boltwood, Evanston, 111. ;
Dr. Henry S. Durand, Rochester, N. Y. ; Rev. II. W. Fay, Westborough, Mass. ; Rt. Rev.
George deN. Gillespie, Grand Rapids, Mich. ; Hon. William H. Hackett, Portsmouth, N.
H. ; Mr. Horatio Hale, Clinton, Ontario; Gen. Charles C. Jones, Jr., Augusta, Ga. ; Dr.
George Stewart, Jr., Quebec; Rev. J. C. Stockbridge, Providence, R. I. ; Mr. Chas. Burr
Todd, Redding, Conn. ; Hon. Arthur B. Calef, Middletown, Conn. ; Mr. Lyman W.
Case, Winsted, Conn. ; Mrs. Arthur de Windt, Fishkill, X. Y. ; Charles Caleb Gushing,
Soc. of Friends, Germantown, Penn. ; the editors of " The Argonaut, " San Francisco,
of " The Critic," New York, and to the editorial and publishing staffs of "The Century
Magazine," New York, for frequent and varied good offices.

To various private owners of copyrights acknowledgment has been made in the respective
volumes of this work. We may with propriety, however, recapitulate, in one list, the names
of the publishing firms that have generously contributed, with the consent of their authors,
the copyright matter reproduced from the works under their control. The appreciative
thanks of the editors and of the publishers of this LIBRARY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE are
again rendered to the following

CONTRIBUTING PUBLISHERS.

BALTIMORE, MD. The Baltimore Publishing Company : Messrs. Gushing & Bailey.

BOSTON, MASS. Messrs. Allen &Ticknor; The American Unitarian Association; Messrs.
Cupples & Hurd; Messrs. De Wolfe, Fiske & Co. ; The Oliver Ditson Company: Mr. George
H. Ellis ; Messrs. Estes & Lauriat ; Messrs. E. H. Hames & Co. ; Messrs. D. C. Heath & Co. ;
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.; Messrs. Lee & Shepard; Messrs. Little, Brown & Co.;
The D. Lothrop Company ; Messrs. Roberts Brothers ; Messrs. Ticknor & Co.

CHICAGO, ILL. Messrs. Belford, Clarke & Co. ; Messrs. S. Brainard's Sons; Messrs. S. C.
Griggs & Co. ; Messrs. Charles H. Kerr & Co. ; Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Co.

CINCINNATI, 0. Messrs. J. Fletcher Brennan & Co. ; Messrs. Robert Clarke & Co. ; The
Pounsford Stationery Company ; Messrs. Wilstach, Baldwin & Co.

HARTFORD, CONN. The American Publishing Company ; The Park Publishing Company.

INDIANAPOLIS, IND. Mr. Charles A. Bates; The Bowen-Merrill Company.

LOUISVILLE, KY. Messrs. John P. Morton &Co.

NEW YORK, N. Y. Mr. John B. Alden; The Amer.Home Missionary Society; Messrs. D.
Appleton & Co. ; Messrs. A. C. Armstrong & Son ; Messrs. A. S. Barnes & Co. ; Belford Com
pany: Mr. William Evarts Benjamin; Messrs. Robert Bonner's Sons; Messrs. Brentano; Mr.
Lloyd S. Bryce (" The No. Amer. Review ") ; The Cassell Publishing Company ; The Catholic
Publication Society; The Century Company ; Messrs. Clark & Maynard ; Messrs. Dick & Fitz
gerald ; Mr. G. W. Dillingham ; Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. ; Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co. : Mr.
C. P. Farrell: Messrs. Fords, Howard & Ilulbert ; The Fowler & Wells Company; Messrs.
Funk & Wagnalls; Mr. William S. Gottsberger; Messrs. Harper & Brothers; The Historical
Publication Company; Messrs. Henry Holt & Co.; The Orange Judd Company; Messrs.
Thomas R. Knox & Co. ; Messrs. Lockwood & Coombes; The John W. Lovell Company;
Mr. Townsend MacCoun ; Messrs. Macmillan & Co. ; Messrs. Charles E. Merrill & Co. ; The
Methodist Book Concern; Messrs. Mitchell & Miller; "The New York Observer," Publish
ers of; Messrs. Win. A. Pond & Co. ; Messrs. James Pott & Co. ; The Publishers' Weekly
Office; Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons; Messrs. A. D. F. Randolph & Co.; Messrs. D. & J.
Sadlier & Co.; Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons; Messrs. E. Steiger &Co. ; Messrs. F. A.

NOTE.

Stokes & Brother; The Tribune Association; Messrs. Charles L. Webster & Co. ; Messrs.
White & Allen ; Messrs. John Wiley & Sons.

NORWICH, CONN. The Henry Bill Publishing Company.

PHILADELPHIA, PENN. Messrs. E. L. Carey & A. Hart; The J. B. Lippincott Company;
Mr. David McKay; Messrs. T . B. Peterson & Bros. ; Messrs. Porter & Coates.

PORTLAND, ME. Messrs. Hoyt, Fogg & Donham.

RICHMOND, VA. Whittet & Shepperson.

SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. The Argonaut Publishing Co. ; The History Company ; The Over
land Monthly Company.

SOUTH BEND, IND. The University of Notre Dame.

WASHINGTON, D. C. Mr. William H. Morrison.

For a limited number of the one hundred and sixty portraits contained in this work elec
trotypes were purchased from firms owning engravings of superior excellence. Acknowl
edgment is due to The Century Company for the portraits on wood of Curtis, Emerson,
Johnston, Miss Lazarus. Longfellow, and Whittier; to Messrs. Fords, Howard & Hulbert,
for the steel engraving of Julian Hawthorne; to Messrs. Harper & Brothers, for the wood
engravings of Gilder, Harris, and Page; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for the steel
engravings of N. Hawthorne, Lowell, and Poe; to Messrs. Little, Brown & Co. and Hon.
Robert C. Winthrop, for the steel engraving of John Winthrop;to Messrs. Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons, for the portrait on wood of R. H. Stoddard ; to Messrs. Ticknor & Co., for wood
engravings of the following colonial worthies: J. Adams, Byles, J. Cotton, Eliot, Green, J.
Mather, R. Mather, Standish, Otis, and Sewall.

NOTE.

Researches made by the editor of the SHORT BIOGRAPHIES have brought to light facts which affect a few of
the dates, places of birth, etc., given in the early editions of these volumes. The necessary plate-chances
and 1 he correction of a few errors discovered in the work, have been made in later editions. For the benefit
of the early subscribers, a list of emendations is appended :

VOL. I.
Page

246. WILLIAMS. For "Born in Wales, 1599," read, Born probably in London, England, about 1600.
276. WARD. For " Bora in Suffolk, England, 1570," read, Born in Harerhill, Svffolk, England, 1578-80.
290. DUDLEY. For " Born in Northampton, England, 1574. Died at Andovor, Mass., 1653," read, Born

in Northampton, England, 1576. Died at Roxbury, Mass., 1653.

332. ELIOT For" Born in Essex, England, 1604," read, Born probably in Widford, Herts, England, 1604.
359. WOODBRIDGK. Substitute the following data: Born in Wiltshire, England, 1622. Resident in New

England, 1640-7. Died at Inglefield, Berkshire, England, 1684.

412. MORTON. For "Born in England, 1612," read, Born probably in Leyden, Holland, 1613.
448. BACON. For " Born in England, 1630-40," read, Born in Suffolk, England, 1647.

VOL. II.

167. CALEP. For " Born about 1652," read, Born about 1648.

265. BEVERLY. Substitute the following data : Born in Virginia, about 1670. Died there, about 1735.

VOL. III.

175. DICKINSON. For "Died at Chantilly,Va., 1794," read, Died at Wilmington, Del., 1808.
252. ALLEN. For " Born in Connecticut, 1739," read. Born in Litchjield, Conn., 1737.
311. MARTIN. For the birth-date " 1744," substitute " 174S."

VOL. IV.

46. BARLOW. For " Born in Beading, Conn., 1755." read, Born in Redding, Conn., 1754.

92. TYLER. Date of first performance of " The Contrast " should be " 1787."
439. FINN. The authorities are divided, between the birth-data given and the statement Born in New

York,N. Y., 1782.
493. BOWNE. For the birth-date " 1784," substitute "1783."

NOTE.

VOL. V.
Page

53. EVERETT. For " Died in Canton, China, 1844," read. Died In Macao, China, 1847.
379. THOMPSON.- For the birth-date " 1795," substitute " 1793."
434. HALE.-For the birth-date " 1795," substitute " 1788."

VOL. VI.

237. FLAGG. For " North Cambridge," read Cambridge.

51l! McCoBD.-For "Charleston, S. C.," read Columbia, S. C.

VOL. vi r.

19-7. CLAPP. For the birth-date " 1810," substitute " 1814."
36o! WARNER. For tbe birth-date " 1H18," substitute " 1819."
563! WELBY. Forthe birth-date "1821," substitute '-1819."

VOL. VIII.

3 WHITE - For the birth date " 1823," substitute " 1821."

367^ For the poem "The Soldier- Boy," a ballad entitled Rebel* has been substituted in later editions.
370 SAWYER. For the birth date "1833." substitute "1839."
471. CooKE.-For the date of death (a typographical error), substitute " 1886."

VOL. IX.

48 O'CONNOR. For the birth-date " 1833," substitute " l>-32."
3:i2. HARRIS. Fi>r " South Killingly, Conn," read North Kdtinrjly, Conn.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI.

Utterature of tfje ^Republic. $att &

MARY NOAILLES MUKFREE. FAOB

The " Harnt " that Walks Chilhowee .......... 3

ISAAC HENDERSON.

Woman and Priest ....... . ...... 15

DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD.

The Convention Scene in " For Congress " ......... 21

JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER.

A Syrian Adventure . ............ 27

The Firing of the Shot ............. 30

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

From " Keenan's Charge" . ........

Night in New York ........... . . 35

A Wife's Forgiveness . . . . . ....... 35

The Phoebe-Bird ..... . . . . ' . . . . . 40

The Sunshine of Thine Eyes ...... ...... 40

The Flown Soul ...... ........ 41

ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP.

A Song before Grief ........ ......

Twenty Bold Mariners ............. 42

The Lost Battle ......... ..... 42

Dorothy ......... ....... 43

WILLIAM CRARY BROWNELL.

The Frenchwoman ...... ... . . * 43

HENRY WOODFEN GRADY.

The Softer Aspects of Slavery ..... ...... 49

JOHN ALFRED MACON.

Terpsichore in the Flat Creek Quarters ......... 52

Politics at the Log-Rolling .... ..... . . 53

The Old Ship of Zion . . ........ .53

The Wedding on the Creek ............ 53

CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON.

Nathaniel Hawthorne ......... ... 54

Xviii CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI

MARIANA GRISWOLD VAN RENSSELAER.

IrA'j tj

Corot , . bO

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.

Theocritus 63

Maurice de Guerin 63

Between the Lights 64

EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL.

The Ablest Man in the World 65

JOHN BACH MCMASTER.

In the America of 1784 72

The American Workman in 1784

WILLIS BROOKS HAWKINS.

Language that Needs a Rest 78

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

Playing a Part 80

The Novel and the Drama 87

ROBERT GRANT.

One Girl of the Period 90

ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER.

Evening Meeting at Uncle 'Sias's 95

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN.

The Building of Arachne . 100

IRWIN RUSSELL.

The Banjo 104

Nebuchadnezzar . 105

Nelly 106

THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

From "MarseChau" 106

KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY.

Saturninus . 113

" Star of my Dying-Time " 113

WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON.

The Delphic Oracle 114

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.

Noblesse Oblige ., . H6

In the Dark 117

On a Great Poet's Obscurity . 117

A September Violet 118

WILLIAM HENRY RIDEING.

A Person of " Literary Tastes " . . . 118

CHARLES HENRY PHELPS.

The Maid of St. Helena 123

Rare Moments , 124

Hearing the News in Idaho . 124

MAYBURY FLEMING.

To Sleep 125

Upon a Winter Morning 125

The New Tear 126

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XL x j x

HOWARD PTLE. PAOE

How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge 126

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

When the Frost is on the Punkin 130

The Elf Child 130

Griggsby's Station 131

Knee-Deep in June 132

A Liz-Town Humorist 134

The Old Man and Jitn 134

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS.

"Mine" A Plot 136

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

Bessie Brown, M. D. 141

My Little Girl 142

The Captain's Feather 142

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.

The Tragedy of Greifenstein 143

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

Syrinx 153

Snow 154

A Flute . 156

A Quiet Pilgrim 156

Music 157

EDGAR WATSON HOWE.

A Prairie Town 157

ELISABETH CAVAZZA.

Alicia's Bonnet jgg

The Return of Ulysses 164

Derelict 166

Slumber Song . ' 167

FREDERIC JESUP STIMSON".

Mrs. Knollys , 167

HENRY GUY CARLETON.

The Death of Memnon ' ." , 175

FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD.

The Fortunes of War , .. . 179

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER.

The Way to Arcady ........ 187

She was a Beauty . . , ' ; , , 188

A Pitcher of Mignonette . . . 188

Love in Old Cloathes . . , , . 189

Les Morts Vont Vite 196

For an Old Poet 196

POULTNEY BlGELOW.

Education of a Young Prince 197

ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON.

Ebo 200

Virginia Creepers 201

xx CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI.

MAUD HOWE ELLIOTT. PAGE

Out of the Sea . .201

ELWYN ALFRED BARRON.

Closing Scene of " The Viking " 204

BAYARD TUCKERMAN.

Lafayette 208

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

From " The North Shore Watch " 211

Holbein's Dance of Death 212

At Gibraltar 215

Our First Century 216

On the Hundredth Anniversary of the French Revolution ....... 217

Song of Eros, in " Agathon " 217

BARRETT WENDELL.

A Revelation of Preexistence 217

JAMES BERRY BENSEL.

In Arabia 222

GEORGE EDGAR MONTGOMERY.

A Stolen Soul 223

ANNE SHELDON COOMBS.

The Harrises 224

HARRY THURSTON PECK.

Heliotrope 229

HAROLD FREDERIC.

" You Thought I did it I " 230

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRKTH.

The King 234

Implora Pace 235

Evening 235

HARRIET LEONORA VOSE BATES.

An Old Salem Shop 236

Cousin Susan's Cupboard 238

HARRISON SMITH MORRIS.

To a Comrade 240

MARGARET DELAND.

A Conflict of Opinions 243

RAMSAY MORRIS.

Cleopatra ,249

THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Hunting "Old Ephraim" 250

Civil Service Examinations 254

JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.

Song of the North Wind 256

Quatrain 257

Requiescat 257

EDGAR EVERTSON SALTUS.

A Maid of Modem Athens 257

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XL xx j

CHARLES HENRY LUDERS. PAOE

Farm Fruits 265

An Old Thought 266

The Tryst 266

The Mountebanks 266

The River-God 266

The Draught 267

Star Dust 267

Memory 267

MARY GREENWAY MCCLELLAND.

The Flood ...... 267

MILICENT WASHBURN SHINN.

Summer Night 271

A Dream 271

To-Day 272

Life's Answer 272

A Mariposa Lily 273

WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE.

Bjornson's National Trilogy 273

Tourguenieff 275

DANSKE DANDRIDGE.

The Dead Moon 275

SARAH PRATT MCLEAN GREENE.

Getting Ready for Meetin' 277

De Sheepfol' 281

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER.

Mankind's Highest 281

The Hymn of Force 282

HELEN GRAY CONE.

A Nocturne of Rubinstein . . . . . .. . . . . . 282

Elsinore . . . . '. . . . . . . . . . . .284

A Rose . . . ...... . . 285

" As the Crow Flies " . 285

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

As I Came Down from Lebanon 285

Wild Coreopsis . . . . . . .286

The Bookstall . ; . . ' . . . .286

The Actor 287

Sidney Godolphin > , . . . - V . 287

Perpetuity . . ' '. . . . . <. . i . . . . .287

MARY ELEANOR WILKINS.

Old Lady Pingree . . . : . ..*'.. . . . . 288

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

Bacchus * t 296

For Saynte Valentyne, his Daye 296

Winter Starlight . . . . < 297

Pepita 297

Omar Khayyam 298

The Library 298

HENRY HARLAND.

Mr. Sonnenschein's Inheritance 299

xx jj CONTENTS OF VOLUME XL

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. PAGE

Knight Falstaff 307

Tarpeia 308

Moustache 309

The Wild Ride 310

Paula's Epitaph 310

ERNEST MCGAFFEY.

Dreams 311

Geronimo 311

Dixie 312

GRACE ELIZABETH KING.

The Devotion of Marcelite 312

LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL.

Upon Seeing a Funeral in the Street 322

AMELIE RIVES CIIANLER.

For Bonnibel 323

ELAINE GOODALE.

Ashes of Roses 327

Indian Pipe 327

A Countrywoman of Mine 328

When Did We Meet ? 328

LlZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

Anne 329

In Sorrow's Hour 329

The Garden at Bemertou 330

MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN.

Disenchantment of Death 330

DORA READ GOODALE.

The Snowbird 332

Cinderella 332

Mariette 333

Eventide 333

VARIOUS POEMS.

Farragut W. T. Meredith, 334

Reveille . M. O'Connor, 334

At Gettysburg I.E. Pennypacker, 335

Inscription on a Soldiers' Monument '. . J. Anderson, 336

Cavalry Song . ... R. W. Raymond* 336

The Land of Dreams S. E. Mann, 337

The Memory of the Heart D. Webster, 337

Liberty for All W. L. Garrison, 338

Samuel Hoar F. B. Sanborn, 338

Rest J. S. Dwight, 338

The Cenotaph J. T. McKay, 339

If I should Die To-Night Belle E. Smith, 339

? Tis But a Little Faded Flower E. C. Howarth, 340

What my Lover Said H. Greene, 340

Daisy . . % Warren, 342

Song M. C. Bishop, 342

Counsel M. E. M. Davis, 342

" Many Things Thou hast Given me, Dear Heart " .... A. W. Rollins, 343

Despondency A. Bates, 343

The Two Mothers E. Wilson, 344

Dan's Wife K. T. Woods, 344

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XL xx iij

PAGE

The First Step ., . . . . . A. R Saxton, 345

My Other Me 0. D. Litchfield, 345

What have I Done? L. R Fearing, 345

Transition -...,& JD. Smith, Jr., 346

Charlie's Story . , . , ' . K. U. Clark, 346

'Spiicially Jim R Morgan, 347

AfeardofaGal Anonymous, 347

A Ditty G. P. Enapp, 348

A Little Brother of the Rich E. S. Martin, 348

Lament of a Mockiug-Bird F.A.Kenibk, 349

When the Cows Come Home . . A. E. Mitchell, 350

The O'Lincoln Family .'..'.. . W. Plagg, 350

The Little Knight in Green K. L. Bates, 351

What Sees the Owl ? E. S. Hates, 352

A Country Road R. K. Munkittrick, 353

The Wood-Sprite ,".'.. . R. Giordan, 353

Winter Woods & Cooper, 354

The Skater 0. H. Stein, 354

Waikiki '. . . It. M. Daggutt, 354

Under the Palms F. K. Cro*by, 355

A King in Egypt H. T. Hutchexon, 356

Rivals V. P. Faunlleroy, 356

England & E. Day, 358

Private Devotion P. H. Brown, 358

For Divine Strength S. Johnson, 358

The Hour of Peaceful Rost W. B. Tappan, 359

Song of the Seeds Florence Smith, 359

A Prayer .* . G.M. Upton, 360

Waiting . C. H. Cmndall, 360

Old and Young C. P. Cranch, 361

The Unfinished Prayer Anonymous, 361

To a Doubter A. W. H. Eaton, 361

There is a Land Immortal ., . T. MacKellar, 362

atrtiitumal Selections. \ 834-1 88 9.

DAVID CROCKETT.

A Native American

RICHARD ADAMS LOCKE.

From " The Moon Hoax " ... 371

THEODORE DWIGHT WOOLSEY.

Plato . . . . . . . . . .' ...... 374

The Eclipse of Faith . . . . . . . 375

THEODORE PARKER.

" To me Thou Cam'st " 376

" Thee, loved one, do the Rocks and Woodlands Sing " 376

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.

Glimpses of Noted People 377

EGBERT TRAILL SPENCE LOWELL.

The Search for Father De Brie 381

OEORGE COPWAY.

The Education of a Young Chief 386

xx j v CONTENTS OF VOLUME XL

RICHARD SALTER STORRS. PAGE

On the Study of History 391

ROSWELL SABINE RIPLEY.

The Storming of Chapultepec 394

JOSEPH JEFFERSON.

How Jefferson came to play Rip Van Winkle 398

Dramatic Action 401

JOHN GEORGE NICOLAY AND JOHN HAY.

The Death of Lincoln . . 403

THEODORE BACON.

Miss Bacon's Theory of the Shakespearian Plays 410

LYMAN ABBOTT.

The Liberal Orthodoxy of To-Day 414

HENRY ADAMS.

Jefferson 418

The American of 1800 420

JAMES SCHOULER.

Andrew Jackson 424

ANNIE TRTTMBULL SLOSSON.

He Forsook his Nets, and Followed Him 429

PATRICK FRANCIS MULLANY.

Emerson and Newman 433

MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD.

Sieur cle la Salle and Sainte Jeanne 436

NICHOLAS PAINE GILMAN.

The Wages System 440

Profit-Sharing 443

CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM.

The Last Furrow . 445

Poetry .446

The Valley 446

NOTED SAYINGS.

Upon leaving England, in 1629. A Plantation of Religion, Not of Trade." United
We Stand, Divided We Fall." To Gov. Hutchinson, Demanding the With
drawal of the British Troops from Boston, after the Massacre of 5 March,
1770. In the Continental Congress, 5 September, 1774. At the Signing of the
Declaration of Independence, 4 July, 1776. His Last Words, New York, 22 Sep-
tember,1776. "Brother Jonathan." Si Vis Pacem,Para Bellum. Noted Appli
cation of Mathew Henry's Phrase, 1788. Of Candidature for Office. " Few
Die, and None Resign. 1 '" Declaration of Principles." From the Same Inau
gural Address. A Word to the New Englanders. The Discourses of Christ.
When Asked to Sit near his " Father." A Hero's Last Order. Of Monroe's
Administration, 1817-25. The "Monroe Doctrine." An Advocate's Opinion.
The American Chesterfield. A Border Knitrht's Motto War of 1812.
From the Bunker Hill Oration 17 June, 1825. Bunker Hill. In Denuncia
tion of the Administration of Adams and Clay. 1826." A Good Enough Mor
gan until after the Election." " Free Trade and Seaman's Rights." Remark
to Senator W. C. Preston of South Carolina. 1839." No South, no North,
no East, no West." Man to Man." The Footsteps of my Illustrious Prede-

CONTENTS OF VOLUME XI. xxv

PAGE

cessor." "The Cohesive Power of Public Plunder." "Contemporaneous Pos
terity." "This New Departure." On the Old Constitution of the United
States. The Ballot. Oregon Boundary Question. U. S. Senate, 1844. At Buena
Vista, 23 February, 1847. A Watchword in the Presidential Campaign of
1848. Party Cry, from the Platform of the Free-Soil National Convention. 1848.
The Sturdy Godfather of the C. S. A." The Cradle of American Liberty."
We Sell "Our Goods, and not our Principles." Republican War-Cry in the
Presidential Campaign of 1856. The First Republican Legend. From the
Opinion in the Dred Scott Case, U. S. Supreme Court, 1857. An Old Proverb,
Memorably Used." The Twin Relics of Barbarism." When Asked for Guid
ance to the Charleston, S. C., Insane Asylum, 1860. "Let Us Alone." From a
Letter to the Hon. Wm. H. Seward, '6 March, 1861. A Notable Head-Line in
the "New- York Tribune," June-July, 1861. " Treason Against Mankind." A
Remark to Gen. Averell, November, 1862. An Effectual Reminder. Signalled
to Gen. Corse in Altooua, from the Top of Kenesaw, 5 October, 1864. Title of
an Essay in the "Atlantic Monthly," September, 1864. A National Debt a
National Blessing. " Our National Debt a National Blessing." Of the Presi
dential " Reconstruction " Tour, August, 1866. Telegram to Secretary Stan-
ton, then Holding the War Department in Defiance of his Illegal Suspension by
President Johnson Senate Chamber, 21 February, 1868. In the Presiden
tial Canvass of 1868. Rule of the "Harry Wadsworth Club" from "Ten Times
One is Ten." 1870. The Ballot in 1871." Let no Guilty Man Escape." Politi
cal Introduction of the " Mugwump." Head-Line in the " New York Sun," 23
March, 1884. A Bon-Mot in the Cleveland-Elaine Campaign of 1884. From the
President's Inaugural Address, 5 March, 1877. Asked at the Republican Na
tional Convention, Chicago, 1880. From the President's Inaugural Speech, 4
March, 1881. Written when Asked for an Autograph, July, 1881. "Limited Cos
mopolitanism."" Worse than Provincial, Parochial." " A Finer Art in Our
Day." Faith and Reason. " Public Office is a Public Trust." " Honor Lies
in Honest Toil."" Offensive Partisans."" Labor is the Capital of our Work-
ingmen." " Innocuous Desuetude." " The Government should not Support
the People." "A Condition Not a Theory." " A Roll of Honor." "The
Communism of Capital." Party Honesty. " We Love him for the Enemies
he lias Made." From the Democratic Platform of 1884. By one of the Depu
tation of Clergy Visiting Mr. Elaine, at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York
City, 29 October, 1884. Motto of the American Copyright League. Written 20
November, 1885. Before the U. S. Senate Committee on Patents, 29 January,
1886. Name Conferred upon the Republican Stump-Speakers for Holding their
Audiences "Spell-Bonnd." Presidential Campaign of 1888. Experto Crede.
"Practical Politics." "Jacksonian Vulgarity." The Royalty of Virtue. From
a Speech at the Washington Centennial Celebration : Sub-Treasury, Wall St.j
New York City, 30 April, 1889. At the Woodstock, Conn., Celebration, 4 July,
1889. By a Justice of the U. S. Supreme Court, when Advised to Arm Him
self. California, 1889." Measures, Not Men, have Always been my Mark."
Popular Epithets Given to Certain Americans ..... 446

INDEX OP AUTHORS, ETC., IN THIS VOLUME 453

SHORT BIOGRAPHIES of all Authors represented in this Work. By Arthur

Stedman . . . . . . . , . . . 467

GENERAL INDEX 615

XXVI

PORTRAITS IN VOLUME XL

portraits in tfjts Uolume.

ON STEEL.

. FRONTISPIECE.

MISCELLANEOUS.

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP .
JOHN BACH MCMASTER .
BRANDEK MATTHEWS
THOMAS NELSON PAGE .
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS
EDITH MATILDA THOMAS
HENRY CUYLER BUNKER

PAGE

108

132

140

154

188

LITERATURE

OF THE REPUBLIC

PART IV CONCLUDED
18611888

THERE is a feeling of Eternity in youth which makes us amends for everything. To be young

is to be as one of the Immortals.

WILLIAM HAZLITT. A.D. 1821.

America has still a long vista of years stretching before her in which she will enjoy condi
tions far more auspicious than England can count upon. And that America marks the high
est level, not only of material well-being, but of intelligence and happiness, which the race
has yet attained, will be the judgment of those who look not at the favored few for whose
benefit the world seems hitherto to have framed its institutions, but at the whole body of the

people.

JAMES BKYCE. A.D. 1888.

AMERICA.

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! Oh, ye

Who north or south, on east or western land,

Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,

Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God

For God ; oh ye who in eternal youth

Speak with a living and creative flood

This universal English, and do stand

Its breathing book ; live worthy of that grand

Heroic utterance parted, yet a whole,

Far yet unsevered, children brave and free

Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be

Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,

Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,

And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.

SYDNEY DOBELL. A.D. 185-.

That in us which more distinctively than anything else we can call Americanism our faith
in humanity, our love of equality. One cannot claim that Americans of English origin are

alone the depositaries of this belief, this passion The ideal America, which is the

only real America, is not in the keeping of any one race ; her destinies are too large for that
custody ; the English race is only one of many races with which her future rests. .

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. A.D. 1889.

Literature is the fragment of fragments. The smallest part of what has been done and
spoken has been recorded ; and the smallest part of what has been recorded has survived.

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. A.D. 182-.

LITEEATUEE

OF THE REPUBLIC.

PART IV. CONCLUDED.

1861-1888.

jftar? jBoatileg jftutfree*

BORN at Grantlands, near Murfreesboro', Tenn.

THE "HAUNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.

[From the Story by that title. In the Tennessee Mountains. By Charles Egbert

Craddock. 1884.]

f I ^HE breeze freshened, after the sun went down, and the hop and gourd
-L vines were all astir as they clung about the little porch where Clarsie was
sitting now, idle at last. The rain-clouds had disappeared, and there bent over
the dark, heavily wooded ridges a pale blue sky, with here and there the crys
talline sparkle of a star. A halo was shimmering in the east, where the mists
had gathered about the great white moon, hanging high above the mountains.
Noiseless wings flitted through the dusk ; now and then the bats swept by so
close as to wave Clarsie's hair with the wind of their flight. What an airy,
glittering, magical thing was that gigantic spider-web suspended between the
silver moon and her shining eyes ! Ever and anon there came from the woods
a strange, weird, long-drawn sigh, unlike the stir of the wind in the trees,
unlike the fret of the water on the rocks. Was it the voiceless sorrow of the
sad earth ? There were stars in the night besides those known to astronomers:
the stellular fire-flies gemmed the black shadows with a fluctuating brilliancy;
they circled in and out of the porch, and touched the leaves above Clarsie's
head with quivering points of light. A steadier and tin intenser gleam was ad-

4 MART NOAILLES MURFREE. [1861-88

vancing along the road, and the sound of languid footsteps came with it ; the
aroma of tobacco graced the atmosphere, and a tall figure walked up to the
gate.

" Come in, come in," said Peter Giles, rising, and tendering the guest a
chair. " Ye air Tom Pratt, ez well ez I kin make out by this light. Waal,
Tom, we hain't f urgot ye seuce ye done been hyar. "

As Tom had been there on the previous evening, this might be considered
a joke, or an equivocal compliment. The young fellow was restless and awk
ward under it, but Mrs. Giles chuckled with great merriment.

" An' how air ye a-comin' on, Mrs. Giles ? " he asked propitiatorily.

" Jes' toler'ble, Tom. Air they all well ter yer house ? "

" Yes, they're toler'ble well, too." He glanced at Clarsie, intending to ad
dress to her some polite greeting, but the expression of her shy, half-startled
eyes, turned upon the far-away moon, warned him. " Thar never war a gal
so skittish," he thought. " She'd run a mile, skeered ter death, ef I said a
word ter her."

And he was prudently silent.

" Waal," said Peter Giles, " what's the news out yer way, Tom ? Enny-
thing a-goin' on ? "

" Thar war a shower yander on the Backbone ; it rained toler'ble hard fur
a while, an' sot up the corn wonderful. Did ye git enny hyar ? "

"Notadrap."

'"Pears ter me ez I kin see the clouds a-circlin' round Chilhowee, an'
a-rainin' on everybody's corn-field 'ceptin' ourn," said Mrs. Giles. " Some
folks is the favored of the Lord, an' t'others hev ter work fur everything an'
git nuthin'. Waal, waal ; we-uns will see our reward in the nex' worl'. Thar's
a better worl' than this, Tom."

" That 's a fac'," said Tom, in orthodox assent.

" An' when we leaves hyar once, we leaves all trouble an' care behind us,
Tom ; fur we don't come back no more." Mrs. Giles was drifting into one of
her pious moods.

" I dunno," said Tom. " Thar hev been them ez hev."

" Hev what ?" demanded Peter Giles, startled.

" Hev come back ter this hyar yearth. Thar's a harnt that walks Chil
howee every night o' the worl'. I know them ez hev seen him."

Clarsie's great dilated eyes were fastened on the speaker's face. There was
a dead silence for a moment, more eloquent with these looks of amazement
than any words could have been.

" I reckons ye remember a puny, shrivelled little man, named Eeuben
Crabb, ez used ter live yander, eight mile along the ridge ter that thar big
sulphur spring," Tom resumed, appealing to Peter Giles. " He war born with
only one arm."

"I 'members him," interpolated Mrs. Giles, vivaciously. "He war a
mighty porely, sickly little critter, all the days of his life. 'Twar a wonder
he war ever raised ter be a man, an' a pity, too. An' 'twar powerful comi
cal, the way of his takin' off ; a stunted, one-armed little critter a-ondertak-
in' ter fight folks an' shoot pistols. He hed the use o' his one arm, sure."

1861-88] MART NOAILLES MURFREE. 5

" Waal," said Tom, " his house ain't thar now, 'kase Sam Grim's brothers
burned it ter the ground fur his a-killin' of Sam. That warn' t all that war
done ter Keuben fur killin' of Sam. The sheriff run Reuben Crabb down this
hjar road 'bout a mile from hyar, mebbe less, an' shot him dead in the
road, jes' whar it forks. Waal, Reuben war in company with another evil
doer, lie war from the Cross- Roads, an' I furgits what he hed done, but he
war a-tryin' ter hide in the mountings, too ; an' the sheriff lef Reuben a-ly-
ing thar in the road, while he tries ter ketch up with the t'other ; but his
horse got a stone in his hoof, an' he los' time, an' hed ter gin it up. An' when
he got back ter the forks o' the road whar he had lef Reuben a-lyin' dead,
thar war nuthin' thar 'ceptin' a pool o' blood. Waal, he went right on ter
Reuben's house, an' them Grim boys hed burnt it ter the ground; but he seen
Reuben's brother Joel. An' Joel, he tole the sheriff that late that evenin' he
hed tuk Reuben's body out'n the road an' buried it, 'kase it hed been lyin'
thar in the road ever sence early in the mornin', an' lie couldn't leave it thar
all night, an' he hedn't no shelter fur it, sence the Grim boys hed burnt down
the house. So he war obleeged ter bury it. An' Joel showed the sheriff a new-
made grave, an' Reuben's coat whar the sheriff's bullet hed gone in at the
back an' kem out'n the breast. The sheriff 'lowed ez they 'd fine Joel fifty
dollars fur a-buryin' of Reuben afore the cor'ner kem ; but they never done it,
z I knows on. The sheriff said that when the cor'ner kem the body would
be tuk up fur a 'quest. But thar hed been a powerful big frishet, an' the
river 'twixt the cor'ner's house an' Chilhowee couldn't be forded fur three
weeks. The cor'ner never kem, an' so thar it all stayed. That war four year
ago."

" Waal," said Peter Giles, dryly, "I ain't seen no harnt yit. I knowed all
that afore."

Clarsie's wondering eyes upon the young man's moonlit face had elicited
these facts, familiar to the elders, but strange, he knew, to her.

" I war jes' a-goin' on ter tell," said Tom, abashed. " Waal, ever sence his
brother Joel died, this spring, Reuben's harnt walks Chilhowee. He war seen
week afore las', 'bout daybreak, by Ephraim Blenkins, who hed been a-fish-
in', an' war a-goin' home. Eph happened ter stop in the laurel ter wind up
his line, when all in a minit he seen the harnt go by, his face white, an' his
eye-balls like fire, an' puny an' one-armed, jes' like he lived. Eph, he owed
me a haffen day's work; I holped him ter plough las' month, an' so he kem ter-
day an' hoed along cornsider'ble ter pay fur it. He say he believes the harnt
never seen him, 'kase it went right by. He 'lowed ef the harnt hed so much
ez cut one o' them blazin' eyes round at him he couldn't but hev drapped
dead. Waal, this mornin', 'bout sunrise, my brother Bob's little gal, three
year old, strayed off from home while her mother war out milkin' the cow.
An' we went a-huntin' of her, mightily worked up, 'kase thar hev been a b'ar
prowlin' round our corn-field twict this summer. An' I went to the right, an'
Bob went to the lef. An' he say ez he war a-pushin' 'long through the laurel,
he seen the bushes ahead of him a-rustlin'. An' he jes' stood still an' watched
'em. An' fur a while the bushes war still too ; an' then they moved jes' a lit
tle, fust this way an' then that, till all of a suddint the leaves opened, like the

Q MART NOAILLES MURFREE. [1861-88

mouth of hell mought hev done, an' thar he seen Eeuben Crabb's face. He
say he never seen sech a face ! Its mouth war open, an' its eyes war a-startin r
out 'n its head, an' its skin war white till it war blue ; an' ef the devil hed hed
it a-hangin' over the coals that minit it couldn't hev looked no more skeered.
But that war all that Bob seen, 'kase he jes' shet his eyes an' screeched an*
screeched like he war ^stracted. An' when he stopped a second ter ketch
his breath he hearn su'thin' a-answerin' him back, sorter weak-like, an*
thar war little Peggy a-pullin' through the laurel. Ye know she's too little
ter talk good, but the folks down ter our house believes she seen the harnt,
too."

" My Lord I" exclaimed Peter Giles. "I 'low I couldn't live a minit ef I
war ter see that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee ! "

" I know /couldn't/' said his wife.

"Nor me, nuther," murmured Clarsie.

" Waal," said Tom, resuming the thread of his narrative, " we hev all been
a-talkin' down yander ter our house ter make out the reason why Keuben
Crabb's harnt hev sot out ter walk jes' sence his brother Joel died, 'kase it
war never seen afore then. An' ez nigh ez we kin make it out, the reason is
'kase thar 's nobody lef in thish yar worl' what believes he warn't ter blame in
that thar killin' o' Sam Grim. Joel always swore ez Eeuben never killed him
no more'n nuthin'; that Sam's own pistol went off in his own hand, an' shot
him through the heart jes' ez he war a-drawing of it ter shoot Keuben Crabb.
An' I hev hearn other men ez war a-standin' by say the same thing, though
them Grims tells another tale ; but ez Reuben never owned no pistol in his
life, nor kerried one, it don't 'pear ter me ez what them Grims say air reason
able. Joel always swore ez Sam Grim war a mighty mean man, a great big
feller like him a-rockin' of a deformed little critter, an' a-mockin' of him,
an' a-hittin' of him. An' the day of the fight Sam jes' knocked him down fur
nuthin' at all ; an' afore ye could wink Reuben jumped up suddint, an' flew
at him like an eagle, an' struck him in the face. An' then Sam drawed his
pistol, an' it went off in his own hand, an' shot him through the heart, an r
killed him dead. Joel said that ef he could hev kep' that pore little critter
Reuben still, an' let the sheriff arrest him peaceable-like, he war sure the jury
would hev let him off ; 'kase how war Reuben a-goin' ter shoot ennybody when
Sam Grim never left a-holt of the only pistol between 'em, in life, or in death ?
They tells me they hed ter bury Sam Grim with that thar pistol in his hand ;
his grip war too tight fur death to unloose it. But Joel said that Reuben war
sartain they'd hang him. He hedn't never seen no jestice from enny one
man, an' he couldn't look fur it from twelve men. So he jes' sot out ter run
through the woods, like a painter or a wolf, ter be hunted by the sheriff, an^
he war run down an' kilt in the road. Joel said he kep' up arter the sheriff
ez well ez he could on foot, fur the Crabbs never hed no horse, ter try ter
beg fur Reuben, ef he war cotched, an' tell how little an' how weakly he war.
I never seen a young man's head turn white like Joel's done ; he said he reck
oned it war his troubles. But ter the las' he stuck ter his rifle faithful. He
war a powerful hunter ; he war out rain or shine, hot or cold, in sech weather
ez other folks would think thar waru't no use in tryin' ter do nuthin' in. I'm

1861-88] MARY NOAILLE8 MURFREE. 7

mightily afeard o' seem' Reuben, now, that's a fac'," concluded Tom, frank
ly ; " 'kase I hev hearn tell, an' I believes it, that ef a harnt speaks ter ye, it
air sartain ye're bound ter die right then."

"'Pears ter me," said Mrs. Giles, "ez many mountings ez thar air round
hyar, he mought hev tuk ter walkin' some o' them, stiddier Chilhowee."

There was a sudden noise close at hand : a great inverted splint-basket,
from which came a sound of napping wings, began to move slightly back and
forth. Mrs. Giles gasped out an ejaculation of terror, the two men sprang to
their feet, and the coy Clarsie laughed aloud in an exuberance of delighted
mirth, forgetful of her shyness. " I declar' ter goodness, you-uns air all
skeered fur true ! Did ye think it war the harnt that walks Chilhowee ?"

" What's under that thar basket ?" demanded Peter Giles, rather sheep-'
ishly as he sat down again.

"Nuthin' but the duck-legged Dominicky," said Clarsie, " what air bein'
broke up from settin'." The moonlight was full upon the dimpling merri
ment in her face, upon her shining eyes and parted red lips, and her gurgling
laughter was pleasant to hear. Tom Pratt edged his chair a trifle nearer, as
he, too, sat down.

"Ye oughtn't never ter break up a duck-legged hen, nor a Dominicky,
nuther," he volunteered, "'kase they air sech a good kind o' hen ter kerry
chickens ; but a hen that is duck-legged an' Dominicky too oughter be let ter
set, whether or no."

Had he been warned in a dream, he could have found no more secure road
to Clarsie's favor and interest than a discussion of the poultry. "I'm a- think-
in'," she said, " that it air too hot fur hens ter set now, an' 'twill be till the
las' of August. "

" It don't 'pear ter me ez it air hot much in June up hyar on Chilhowee,
thar's a differ, I know, down in the valley; 'but till July, on Chilhowee, it
don't 'pear ter me ez it air too hot ter set a hen. An' a duck-legged Domi
nicky air mighty hard ter break up."

" That's a fac'," Clarsie admitted ; " but I'll hev ter do it, somehow, 'kase
I ain't got no eggs fur her. All my hens air kerryin' of chickens."

"Waal ! " exclaimed Tom, seizing his opportunity, "I'll bring ye some
ter-morrer night, when I come agin. We-uns hev got eggs ter our house."

"Thanky," said Clarsie, shyly smiling.

This unique method of courtship would have progressed very prosperously
but for the interference of the elders, who are an element always more or less
adverse to love-making. " Ye oughter turn out yer hen now, Clarsie," said
Mrs. Giles, " ez Tom air a-goin' ter bring ye some eggs ter-morrer. I wonder
ye don't think it's mean ter keep her up longer'n ye air obleeged ter. Ye
oughter remember ye war called a merciful critter jes' ter-day."

Clarsie rose precipitately, raised the basket, and out flew the "duck-legged
Dominicky," with a frantic flutter and hysterical cackling. But Mrs. Giles
was not to be diverted from her purpose ; her thoughts had recurred to the
absurd episode of the afternoon, and with her relish of the incongruity of the
joke she opened upon the subject at once.

" Waal, Tom," she said, " we'll be hevin' Clarsie married, afore long, I'm

g MAET NOAILLE8 MURFREE. [1861-88

a-thinkin'. " The young man sat bewildered. He, too, had entertained views
concerning Clarsie's speedy marriage, but with a distinctly personal applica
tion ; and this frank mention of the matter by Mrs. Giles had a sinister sug
gestion that perhaps her ideas might be antagonistic. " An' who d'ye think
hev been hyar ter-day, a-speakin' of complimints on Clarsie ?" He could not
answer, but he turned his head with a look of inquiry, and Mrs. Giles contin
ued, " He is a mighty peart, likely boy, he is."

There was a growing anger in the dismay on Tom Pratt's face ; he leaned
forward to hear the name with a fiery eagerness, altogether incongruous with
his usual lack-lustre manner.

" Old Simon Burney ! " cried Mrs. Giles, with a burst of laughter. " Old
Simon Burney! Jos' a-speakin' of complimints on Clarsie ! "

The young fellow drew back with a look of disgust. " "Why, he's a old
man ; he ain't no fit husband fur Clarsie."

" Don't ye be too sure ter count on that. I war jes' a-layin' off ter tell Clar
sie that a gal oughter keep mighty clar o' widowers, 'thout she wants ter mar
ry one. Fur I believes," said Mrs. Giles, with a wild flight of imagination,
" ez them men hev got some sort'n trade with the Evil One, an' he gives 'em
the power ter witch the gals, somehow, so's ter git 'em ter marry ; 'kase I don't
think that any gal that's got good sense air a-goin' ter be a man's second
ch'ice, an' the mother of a whole pack of step-chil'ren, 'thout she air under
some sort'n spell. But them men carries the day with the gals, ginerally, an'
I'm a-thinkin' they're banded with the Devil. Ef I war a gal, an' a smart,
peart boy like Simon Burney kem around a-speakin' of complimints, an' say-
in' I war a merciful critter, I'd jes' give it up, an' marry him fur second ch'ice.
Thar's one blessin'," she continued, contemplating the possibility in a cold
blooded fashion positively revolting to Tom Pratt : " he ain't got no tribe of
chil'ren fur Clarsie ter look arter ; nary chick nor child hev old Simon Bur
ney got. He hed two, but they died. "

The young man took leave presently, in great depression of spirit, the
idea that the widower was banded with the powers of evil was rather over
whelming to a man whose dependence was in merely mortal attractions ; and
after he had been gone a little while Clarsie ascended the ladder to a nook in
the roof, which she called her room.

For the first time in her life her slumber was fitful and restless, long inter
vals of wakefulness alternating with snatches of fantastic dreams. At last
she rose and sat by the rude window, looking out through the chestnut leaves
at the great moon, which had begun to dip toward the dark uncertainty of
the western ridges, and at the shimmering, translucent, pearly mists that
filled the intermediate valleys. All the air was dew and incense ; so subtle
and penetrating an odor came from that fir-tree beyond the fence that it
seemed as if some invigorating infusion were thrilling along her veins ; there
floated upward, too, the warm fragrance of the clover, and every breath of
the gentle wind brought from over the stream a thousand blended, undistiu-
guishable perfumes of the deep forests beyond. The moon's idealizing glam
our had left no trace of the uncouthness of the place which the daylight re
vealed ; the little log house, the great overhanging chestnut-oaks, the jagged

1861-88] MART NOAILLES MURFREE. 9

precipice before the door, the vague outlines of the distant ranges, all suffused
with a magic sheen, might have seemed a stupendous alto-rilievo in silver
repousse. Still, there came here and there the sweep of the bat's dusky
wings ; even they were a part of the night's witchery. A tiny owl perched for
a moment or two amid the dew-tipped chestnut-leaves, and gazed with great
round eyes at Clarsie as solemnly as she gazed at him.

" I'm thankful enough that ye hed the grace uot ter screech while ye war
hyar," she said, after the bird had taken his flight. " I ain't ready ter die yit,
an' a screech-owe? air the sure sign."

She felt now and then a great impatience with her wakeful mood. Once
she took herself to task: " Jes' a-sittin' up hyar all night, the same ez ef I war
a fox, or that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee ! "

And then her mind reverted to Tom Pratt, to old Simon Burney, and to
her mother's emphatic and oracular declaration that widowers are in league
with Satan, and that the girls upon whom they cast the eye of supernatural
fascination have no choice in the matter. " I wish I knowed ef that thar say-
in' war true," she murmured, her face still turned to the western spurs, and
the moon sinking so slowly toward them.

"With a sudden resolution she rose to her feet. She knew a way of telling
fortunes which was, according to tradition, infallible, and she determined to
try it, and ease her mind as to her future. Now was the propitious moment.
" I hev always hearn that it won't come true 'thout ye try it jes' before day
break, an' a-kneelin' down at the forks of the road." She hesitated a moment
and listened intently. " They'd never git done a-laffin' at me, ef they fund
it out," she thought.

There was no sound in the house, and from the dark woods arose only those
monotonous voices of the night, so familiar to her ears that she accounted
their murmurous iteration as silence too. She leaned far out of the low win
dow, caught the wide-spreading branches of the tree beside it, and swung
herself noiselessly to the ground. The road before her was dark with the
shadowy foliage and dank with the dew; but now and then, at long intervals,
there lay athwart it a bright bar of light, where the moonshine fell through
a gap in the trees. Once, as she went rapidly along her way, she saw speeding
across the white radiance, lying just before her feet, the ill-omened shadow
of a rabbit. She paused, with a superstitious sinking of the heart, and she
heard the animal's quick, leaping rush through the bushes near at hand ; but
she mustered her courage, and kept steadily on. " Tain't no use a-goin' back
ter git shet o' bad luck," she argued. " Ef old Simon Burney air my fortune,
he'll come whether or no. ef all they say air true."

The serpentine road curved to the mountain's brink before it forked, and
there was again that familiar picture of precipice, and far-away ridges, and
shining mist, and sinking moon, which was visibly turning from silver to gold.
The changing lustre gilded the feathery ferns that grew in the marshy dip.
Just at the angle of the divergent paths there rose into the air a great mass of
indistinct white blossoms, which she knew were the exquisite mountain aza
leas, and all the dark forest was starred with the blooms of the laurel.

She fixed her eyes upon the mystic sphere dropping down the sky, knelt

10 MART NOAILLE8 MURFREE. [1861-88

among the azaleas at the forks of the road, and repeated the time-honored in
vocation :

" Ef I'm a-goin' ter marry a young man, whistle, Bird, whistle. Ef I'm a-go-
in' ter marry an old man, low, Cow, low. Ef I ain't a-goin' ter marry nobody,
knock, Death, knock."

There was a prolonged silence in the matutinal freshness and perfume of
the woods. She raised her head, and listened attentively. No chirp of half-
awakened bird, no tapping of wood-pecker, or the mysterious death-watch ;
but from far along the dewy aisles of the forest, the ungrateful Spot, that
Clarsie had fed more faithfully than herself, lifted up her voice, and set the
echoes vibrating. Clarsie, however, had hardly time for a pang of disappoint
ment. While she still knelt among the azaleas her large, deer-like eyes were
suddenly dilated with terror. From around the curve of the road came the
quick beat of hastening footsteps, the sobbing sound of panting breath, and
between her and the sinking moon there passed an attenuated, one-armed fig
ure, with a pallid, sharpened face, outlined for a moment on its brilliant
disk, and dreadful starting eyes, and quivering open mouth. It disappeared
in an instant among the shadows of the laurel, and Clarsie, with a horrible
fear clutching at her heart, sprang to her feet.

Her flight was arrested by other sounds. Before her reeling senses could
distinguish them, a party of horsemen plunged down the road. They reined
in suddenly as their eyes fell upon her, and their leader, an eager, authorita
tive man, Avas asking her a question. Why could she not understand him ?
With her nerveless hands feebly catching at the shrubs for support, she list
ened vaguely to his impatient, meaningless words, and saw with helpless dep
recation the rising anger in his face. But there was no time to be lost. With
a curse upon the stupidity of the mountaineer, who couldn't speak when she
was spoken to, the party sped on in a sweeping gallop, and the rocks and the
steeps were hilarious with the sound.

When the last faint echo was hushed, Clarsie tremblingly made her way
out into the road ; not reassured, however, for she had a frightful conviction
that there was now and then a strange stir in the laurel, and that she was stealth
ily watched. Her eyes were fixed upon the dense growth with a morbid fas
cination, as she moved away; but she was once more rooted to the spot when
the leaves parted and in the golden moonlight the ghost stood before her. She
could not nerve herself to run past him, and he was directly in her way home
ward. His face was white, and lined, and thin ; that pitiful quiver was never
still in the parted lips; he looked at her with faltering, beseeching eyes. Clar-
sie's merciful heart was stirred. " What ails ye, ter come back hyar, an' f oi
ler me ? " she cried out, abruptly. And then a great horror fell upon her.
Was not one to whom a ghost should speak doomed to death, sudden and im
mediate ?

The ghost replied in a broken, shivering voice, like a wail of pain, " I war
a-starvin', I war a-starvin '/' with despairing iteration.

It was all over, Clarsie thought. The ghost had spoken, and she was a
doomed creature. She wondered that she did not fall dead in the road. But
while those beseeching eyes were fastened in piteous appeal on hers, she could

1861-88] MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. ]_]_

not leave him. "I never hearn that 'bout ye, "she said, reflectively. "I knows
ye hed awful troubles while ye war alive, but I never knowed ez ye war starved."

Surely that was a gleam of sharp surprise in the ghost's prominent eyes,
succeeded by a sly intelligence.

" Day is nigh ter breakin'," Clarsie admonished him, as the lower rim of the
moon touched the silver mists of the west. " What air ye a-wantin' of me ? "

There was a short silence. Mind travels far in such intervals. Clarsie's
thoughts had overtaken the scenes when she should have died that sudden
terrible death : when there would be no one left to feed the chickens ; when
no one would care if the pigs cried with the pangs of hunger, unless, indeed,
it were time for them to be fattened before killing. The mare, how often
would she be taken from the plough, and shut up for the night in her shanty
without a drop of water, after her hard day's work ! Who would churn, or
spin, or weave? Clarsie could not understand how the machinery of the uni
verse could go on without her. And Towse, poor Towse ! He was a useless
cumberer of the ground, and it was hardly to be supposed that after his pro
tector was gone he would be spared a blow or a bullet, to hasten his lagging
death. But Clarsie still stood in the road, and watched the face of the ghost,
as he, with his eager, starting eyes, scanned her open, ingenuous countenance.

" Ye do ez ye air bid, or it'll be the worse for ye," said the "harnt," in the
same quivering, shrill tone. " Thar's hunger in the nex' worl' ez well ez in
this, an' ye bring me some vittles hyar this time ter-morrer, an' don't ye tell
nobody ye hev seen me, nuther, or it'll be the worse for ye."

There was a threat in his eyes as he disappeared in the laurel, and left the
girl standing in the last rays of moonlight.

A curious doubt was stirring in Clarsie's mind when she reached home, in
the early dawn, and heard her father talking about the sheriff and his posse,
who had stopped at the house in the night, and roused its inmates, to know
if they had seen a man pass that way.

" Clarsie never hearn none o' the noise, I'll be bound, 'kase she always sleeps
like a log," said Mrs. Giles, as her daughter came in with the pail, after milk
ing the cow. " Tell her 'bout'n it."

" They kem a-bustin' along hyar a while afore day-break, a-runnin' arter
the man," drawled Mr. Giles, dramatically. " An' they knocked me up, ter
know ef ennybody hed passed. An' one o' them men I never seen none of 'em
afore; they's all valley folks, I'm a-thinkin' an' one of 'em bruk his saddle-
girt' a good piece down the road, an' he kem back ter borrer mine ; ah' ez we
war a-fixin' of it, he tole me what they war all arter. He said that word war tuk
ter the sheriff down yander in the valley 'pears ter me them town-folks don't
think nobody in the mountings hev got good sense word war tuk ter the sher
iff 'bout this one-armed harnt that walks Chilhowee ; an' he sot it down that
Reuben Crabb warn't dead at all, an' Joel jes' purtended ter hev buried him,
an' it air Reuben hisself that walks Chilhowee. An' thar air two hunderd
dollars blood-money reward fur ennybody ez kin ketch him. These hyar val
ley folks air powerful cur'ous critters, two hunderd dollars blood-money re
ward fur that thar harnt that walks Chilhowee ! I jes' sot myself ter laffin'
when that thar cuss tole it so solemn. I jes' 'lowed ter him ez he couldn't

12 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. [1861-88

shoot a harnt nor hang a harnt, an/ Eeuben Crabb hed about got done with
his persecutions in this worl'. An' he said that by the time they hed scoured
this mounting, like they hed laid off ter do, they would find that that thar
puny little harnt war nuthin' but a mortal man, an' could be kep' in a jail ez
handy ez enny other flesh an' blood. He said the sheriff 'lowed ez the reason
Eeuben hed jes' taken ter walk Chilhowee sence Joel died is 'kase thar air no
body ter feed him, like Joel done, mebbe, in the nights ; an' Eeuben always
war a pore, one-armed, weakly critter, what can't even kerry a gun, an' he air
driv by hunger out'n the hole whar he stays, ter prowl round the corn-fields
an' hen-coops ter steal suthin', an' that's how he kem ter be seen frequent.
The sheriff 'lowed that Eeuben can't find enough roots an' yerbs ter keep him
up; but law ! a harnt eatin'! It jes' sot me off ter lafiin'. Eeuben Crabb hev
been too busy in torment fur the las' four year ter be a-studyin' 'bout eatin';
an' it air his harut that walks Chilhowee."

The next morning, before the moon sank, Clarsie, with a tin pail in her
hand, went to meet the ghost at the appointed place. She understood now
why the terrible doom that falls upon those to whom a spirit may chance to
speak had not descended upon her, and that fear was gone ; but the secrecy
of her errand weighed heavily. She had been scrupulously careful to put into
the pail only such things as had fallen to her share at the table, and which she
had saved from the meals of yesterday. " A gal that goes a-robbin' fur a hou-
gry harnt," was her moral reflection, " oughter be throwed bodaciously off'n
the bluff."

She found no one at the forks of the road. In the marshy dip were only
the myriads of mountain azaleas, only the masses of feathery ferns, only the
constellated glories of the laurel blooms. A sea of shining white mist was in
the valley, with glinting golden rays striking athwart it from the great cresset
of the sinking moon; here and there the long, dark, horizontal line of a dis
tant mountain's summit rose above the vaporous shimmer, like a dreary, som
bre island in the midst of enchanted waters. Her large, dreamy eyes, so wild
and yet so gentle, gazed out through the laurel leaves upon the floating gilded
flakes of light, as in the deep coverts of the mountain, where the fulvous-
tinted deer were lying, other eyes, as wild and as gentle, dreamily watched
the vanishing moon. Overhead, the filmy, lace-like clouds, fretting the blue
heavens, were tinged with a faint rose. Through the trees she caught a
glimpse of the red sky of dawn, and the glister of a great lucent, tremulous
star. From the ground, misty blue exhalations were rising, alternating with
the long lines of golden light yet drifting through the woods. It was all very
still, very peaceful, almost holy. One could hardly believe that these conse
crated solitudes had once reverberated with the echoes of man's death-dealing
ingenuity, and that Eeuben Crabb had fallen, shot through and through,
amid that wealth of flowers at the forks of the road. She heard suddenly the
far-away baying of a hound. Her great eyes dilated, and she lifted her head
to listen. Only the solemn silence of the woods, the slow sinking of the noise
less moon, the voiceless splendor of that eloquent day-star.

Morning was close at hand, and she was beginning to wonder that the ghost
did not appear, when the leaves fell into abrupt commotion, and he was stand-

1861-88] MART NOAILLE8 MURFREE. ^3,

ing in the road, beside her. He did not speak, but watched her with an eager,
questioning intentness, as she placed the contents of the pail upon the moss
at the roadside. " I'm a-comin' agin ter-morrer," she said, gently. He made
no reply, quickly gathered the food from the ground, and disappeared in the
deep shades of the woods.

She had not expected thanks, for she was accustomed only to the gratitude
of dumb beasts; but she was vaguely conscious of something wanting, as she
stood motionless for a moment, and watched the burnished rim of the moon
slip down behind the western mountains. Then she slowly walked along her
misty way in the dim light of the coming dawn. There was a footstep in the
road behind her; she thought it was the ghost once more. She turned, and
met Simon Burney, face to face. His rod was on his shoulder, and a string of
fish was in his hand.

" Ye air a-doin' wrongful, Clarsie," he said, sternly. " It air agin the law
fur folks ter feed an' shelter them ez is a-runnin' from jestice. An' ye'll git
yerself inter trouble. Other folks will find ye out, besides me, an' then the
sheriff'll be up hyar arter ye."

The tears rose to Clarsie's eyes. This prospect was infinitely more terrify
ing than the awful doom which follows the horror of a ghost's speech.

"I can't holp it," she said, however, doggedly swinging the pail back and
forth. " I can't gin my consent ter starvin' of folks, even ef they air a-hidin'
an' a-runnin' from jestice."

" They mought put ye in jail, too, I dunno," suggested Simon Burney.

" I can't holp that, nuther," said Clarsie, the sobs rising, and the tears fall
ing fast. "Ef they comes an' gits me, and puts me in the pen'tiary away
down yander, somewhars in the valley, like they done Jane Simpkins, fur
a-cuttin' of her step-mother's throat with a butcher-knife, while she war
asleep, though some said Jane war crazy, I can't gin my consent ter starv
in' of folks."

A recollection came over Simon Burney of the simile of "hendering the
sun from shining."

" She hev done sot it down in her mind," he thought, as he walked on be
side her and looked at her resolute face. Still he did not relinquish his effort.

" Doin' wrong, Clarsie, ter aid folks what air a-doin' wrong, an' mebbe hev
done wrong, air powerful hurtful ter everybody, an' benders the law an' jes
tice."

" I can't holp it," said Clarsie.

"It 'pears toler'ble comical ter me," said Simon Burney, with a sudden
perception of a curious fact which has proved a marvel to wiser men, " that
no matter how good a woman is, she ain't got no respect fur the laws of the
country, an' don't sot no store by jestice." After a momentary silence he ap
pealed to her on another basis. "Somebody will ketch him arter awhile, ez
sureez ye air born. The sheriff 'sa-sarchin' now, an' by the time that word gits
around, all the mounting boys'll turn out, "kase thar air two hunderd dollars
blood-money fur him. An' then he'll think, when they ketches him, an'
everybody'll say so, too, ez ye war constant in feed in' him jes' ter 'tice him
ter comin' ter one place, so ez ye could tell somebody whar ter go ter ketch

14 MARY NO A ILLS 8 MURFREE. [1861-88

him, an' make them gin ye haff en the blood-money, mebbe. That's what the
mounting will say, mos' likely."

"I can't holp it/' said Clarsie, once more.

He left her walking on toward the rising sun, and retraced his way to the
forks of the road. The jubilant morning was filled with the song of birds ;
the sunlight flashed on the dew; all the delicate enamelled bells of the pink
and white azaleas were swinging tremulously in the wind; the aroma of ferns
and mint rose on the delicious fresh air. Presently he checked his pace, creep
ing stealthily on the moss and grass beside the road rather than in the beaten
path. He pulled aside the leaves of the laurel with no more stir than the wind
might have made, and stole cautiously through its dense growth, till he came
suddenly upon the puny little ghost, lying in the sun at the foot of a tree.
The frightened creature sprang to his feet with a wild cry of terror, but be
fore he could move a step he was caught and held fast in the strong grip of
the stalwart mountaineer beside him. "I hev kem hyar ter tell ye a word,
Eeuben Crabb," said Simon Burney. "I hev kem hyar ter tell ye that the
whole mounting air a-goin' ter turn out ter sarch fur ye; the sheriff air a-rid-
iii' now, an' ef ye don't come along with me they'll hev ye afore night, 'kase
thar air two hunderd dollars reward fur ye."

What a piteous wail went up to the smiling blue sky, seen through the dap
pling leaves above them ! What a horror, and despair, and prescient agony
were in the hunted creature's face! The ghost struggled no longer; he slipped
from his feet down upon the roots of the tree, and turned that woful face,
with its starting eyes and drawn muscles and quivering parted lips, up toward
the unseeing sky.

" God A'mighty, man ! " exclaimed Simon Burney, moved to pity.
" Whyn't ye quit this hyar way of livin' in the woods like ye war a wolf ?
Whyn't ye come back an' stand yer trial? From all I've hearn tell, it 'pears
ter me ez the jury air obleeged ter let ye off, an' I'll take keer of ye agin them
Grims."

" I hain't got no place ter live in, " cried out the ghost, with a keen despair.

Simon Burney hesitated. Eeuben Crabb was possibly a murderer, at the
best could but be a burden. The burden, however, had fallen in his way, and
he lifted it.

" I tell ye now, Keuben Crabb," he said, " I ain't a-goin' ter holp no man
ter break the law an' hender jestice ; but ef ye will go an' stand yer trial, I'll
take keer of ye agin them Grims ez long ez I kin fire a rifle. An' arter the
jury hev done let ye off, ye air welcome ter live along o' me at my house till
ye die. Ye air no 'count ter work, I know, but I ain't a-goin' ter grudge ye
fur a livin' at my house."

And so it came to pass that the reward set upon the head of the harnt that
walked Chilhowee was never claimed.

With his powerful ally, the forlorn little spectre went to stand his trial, and
the jury acquitted him without leaving the box. Then he came back to the
mountains to live with Simon Burney. The cruel gibes of his burly mockers
that had beset his feeble life from his childhood up, the deprivation and lone
liness and despair and fear that had filled those days when he walked Chil-

1861-88] ISAAC HENDERSON. }5

howee, had not improved the harnt's temper. He was a helpless creature,
not able to carry a gun or hold a plough, and the years that he spent smoking
his cob-pipe in Simon Burney's door were idle years and unhappy. But Mrs.
Giles said she thought he was " a mighty lucky little critter: fust, he hed
Joel ter take keer of him an' feed him, when he tuk ter the woods ter pertend
he war a harnt; an' they do say now that Clarsie Pratt, afore she war married,
used ter kerry him vittles, too ; an' then old Simon Burney tuk him up an'
fed him ez plenty ez ef he war a good workin' hand, an' gin him clothes an'
house-room, an' put up with his jawin' jes' like he never hearn a word of it.
But law ! some folks dun no when they air well off."

There was only a sluggish curren t of peasant blood in Simon Burney's veins,
but a prince could not have dispensed hospitality with a more royal hand.
Ungrudgingly he gave of his best ; valiantly he defended his thankless guest
at the risk of his life ; with a moral gallantry he struggled with his sloth, and
worked early and late, that there might be enough to divide. There was no
possibility of a recompense for him, not even in the encomiums of discrimi
nating friends, nor the satisfaction of tutored feelings and a practised spirit
ual discernment ; for he was an uncouth creature, and densely ignorant.

The grace of culture is, in its way, a fine thing, but the best that art can do
the polish of a gentleman is hardly equal to the best that Nature can do
in her higher moods.

BORN in Brooklyn, N. Y., 1850.

WOMAN AND PRIEST.
[The Prelate. 1886.]

"T^vTJKING- the following week Padre Martini visited the villa daily, and
J' had many a chat with the princess and Helen, and many a game with
Leo. On Friday afternoon he did not come, and, as Alessandra was not
feeling very well, Helen suggested to Leo that they take a stroll together. So
they walked smartly for an hour, while Helen told the little fellow, in Ital
ian, the story of " Jack the Giant-Killer, " to his immense delight. The road
ran through a grove, and before turning back they sat down to rest under
the boughs of an old chestnut-tree. Presently the sound of hoofs was heard,
and immediately the prince appeared upon his favorite horse. He reined up
when he reached them, and told them that his horse was going lame and he
had decided to return.

" Take me with you, papa," pleaded Leo.

The prince smiled affectionately upon the boy.

" Can you ride in front and hold on tightly ?"

" Yes, papa. Do take me ; it will be such fun ! "

" But would you leave Aunt Elena alone ?"

IQ ISAAC HENDERSON: [1861-88

The child looked distressed. " I hadn't thought of Aunt Elena ; couldn't
you take her behind ? "

The prince and Helen laughed heartily.

" Go, dear Leo/' said Helen ; " I don't mind walking home alone ; I shall
be only half an hour behind you. "

" Shall we leave you ?" asked the prince, doubtfully.

" Certainly ; the boy wishes to ride, and I don't mind being left."

So, in a moment, she saw them disappear around a bend in the road, little
Leo riding proudly in front of his father.

Helen sat for a few moments, and then started after them. She had not
gone far when she noticed a priest, walking toward her slowly. She glanced
at his face in passing, and, turning impulsively, exclaimed :

"Giuseppe !"

The young man stopped and regarded her curiously.

" Dio mio! Is it you, signorina ?"

" Yes ; I am very glad to meet you."

He looked up and down the road anxiously.

"I must not stop," he said.

" But I wish to speak with you."

" Signorina, it would be very dangerous for me to be seen talking with
you ; pray permit me to pass on "; and he made a movement as if to leave
her. Helen was in despair, for she felt that an opportunity had come which
was not to be lost, and she looked anxiously for a secluded place where they
could talk with more privacy. She saw above her an embankment shaded
by thick trees.

" Let us go up there," she suggested.

" It will be better for us not to speak together ; have consideration for me,
signorina. "

'' I have had more consideration for you than for myself ; you must hear
what I have to say come !" and she led the way to a sheltered spot under a
tree, a dozen yards from the road.

He followed with evident reluctance ; but there was something about the
stern young girl which compelled him to obey her.

" You remember me ?" she said, turning to him.

" Perfectly, signorina."

" You know that I delivered your message ?"

"Yes."

" You know that I have been faithful to my promise ?"

" Thank God, yes !"

" Do you know the consequences to me ?"

" No "; and he looked anxiously in her face.

" I dared not take any one with me to the monsignore's, and I was seen to
enter his apartment. I was obliged to wait for him until a late hour. I re
turned home alone, and the next day all Home talked of me and of him. Good
women turned from me. Honest Christians looked askance at him. His use
fulness suffered. My reputation perished, and I was forced to leave the
friends with whom I was. Your own sister refused to live with such a woman,

1801-8SJ ISAAC HENDERSON. \>J

and to-day I am worse than dead I am tainted ! " She paused a moment,
and then added, passionately : " What future have I ? Better none than that
which is before me ! I am a vile thing in the eyes of the world. They shrink
from me as from a leper, and cry, 'Unclean.'" Her eyes blazed, and, com
ing close to him, she demanded, " Do I deserve this ?"

" No ; you have suffered a great wrong "; and his heart burned with pity
as he noted her changed appearance.

" I have been faithful, then, to my promise, you believe it ? "

He bowed his head. " But I could not prevent this," he said. " Do you
regret having gone to the monsignore ?"

She looked far through the overhanging trees and into the blue sky beyond,
and a smile came to her lips, and her face was illumined with a joy which
caused him to marvel.

"No," she said ; " no, I don't regret it ; I would do it again to gain the
same end. But is my penalty necessary f Convince me that it is, and I'll
never speak nor think a word of complaint again so long as I live."

He did not reply immediately, but stood looking at her sadly.

" Yes, signorina," he said, at last ; " I fear it is necessary."

She passed her hand over her eyes, as though to see him better.

" Do you mean to tell me there is no escape ; that I must bear this dis
grace all my life ?"

He sighed. " You are terribly to be pitied, signorina ; but I see no alter
native."

She seemed stunned.

" I had better go now," he said. " I bid you good-by, signorina "; and he
moved toward the road. Recalled to the necessity of action she sprang after
him, and laid her hand upon his arm.

" Do you realize what you are doing ? " she demanded. " You have made
me despised ; I ask you for justice, and you treat me as though it bored you
to discuss the matter. I'll not endure it ! You shall listen to me until I dis
miss you, which I will do when I'm through with you."

" You misjudge me, signorina. I pity you God only knows how much ;
but I am powerless, and words are useless." He made a motion as if to
move on.

"So you would leave me in this terrible position without even telling me
why it is necessary ; as though it were some penance you thought fit to put
upon me. Indeed, sir, vou underrate the circumstances, and vou misjudge
me."

He turned and looked full into her face, with flashing eyes.

"Well?" he said.

"Do you wish the truth made known ? "

" You had better strike me dead ! "

" What stands in my way ? "

His voice was low, but trembled with excitement, as he replied slowly :

' ' Your sacred promise given in a church of God ! "

She had become so accustomed to believing that, eventually, the priest
would vindicate her, that her expectation had grown into a conviction ;
VOL. XL 2

18 ISAAC HENDERSON. [1861-88

therefore his words and all that they implied struck her with overwhelming
force.

She looked at the priest anxiously, clasping her hands together in an effort
to control her excitement.

" I know I am in your power," she said ; " but you are human, and you
must pity me. Try to realize my position. Think of your own sister placed
as I am, disgraced and despised unjustly. What would you say to the only
man on earth who could vindicate her ? "

He leaned against a tree, and buried his face in his hands.

The pleading girl came nearer and laid her hand upon his arm.

" Will you not at least tell me what keeps you from admitting the truth ?"

He was silent. She walked away a few paces, and then, turning suddenly,
demanded :

' ' What is it ? Surely, I have a right to know/'

He looked away, and was still silent.

" Is it conscience ? "

" I have taken oaths."

" You have taken no oath to connive at wickedness."

" But I have a duty to my Church."

" Have you none to the man who has been so kind to your family and to
you ? Have you no duty to me, an innocent and helpless woman ? Is your
Church the guardian of crime ?"

It was a moment before he replied :

" I warned the monsignore ; was that nothing ? "

" A heathen would have done it ! You did your duty, nothing more."

" But I have my obligations to my Order."

"Arid to truth and virtue and your fellow-man." He remained silent.
" Sir," and she drew herself to her full height, " you are a coward ! This
can be no question of conscience, because if your Order compels you to abet
wickedness, you are already a perjurer and a traitor in having disclosed what
you did to me. No, you are afraid to tell the truth ; you fear the conse
quences, and because of this fear you would sacrifice the man who has lifted
you and yours above the brutes, and blight the life of an innocent woman.
In some way justice will be done. In the eyes of men you shall yet rank with
Judas Iscariot, and the judgment of God will link your lot with his."

The wretched youth shrank before her and sank upon his knees.

" Holy Mother of God, what shall I do ! " he exclaimed.

"Stop!" and, thoroughly aroused, she stood above him quivering with
excitement. ' ' Never again dare to supplicate the Mother of Jesus while you
yourself would crucify virtue ! "

He gazed upon her awe-stricken, as she continued :

"Have you no pity? No manhood ? No conscience ? My promise keeps
me silent ; but what forbids your speaking ? Are you truly such a coward ? "

" No," he said, proudly ; " I am not a coward."

" I do not believe you, for there can be no other reason."

He covered his face with his hands and rocked backward and forward. "I
do not know I do not know," he cried ; "I loved my Church once," and

1861-88] ISAAC HENDERSON. jg

he groaned with the anguish of his smitten soul. " Now I am not sure that
I love her more than myself God help me ! "

" You have to choose between right and wrong. It is clear you have al
ready done a good deed ; the question now is, will you turn back, and be the
ally of those whose sin you have denounced ? You need not stay with those
whom you must abhor. The world is large, and God's work is not confined
to any people or peculiar order."

He did not repel the suggestion, and, watching him eagerly, she felt that
her words had made an impression.

" If you will relieve me of this stigma I will provide you with sufficient
money to get beyond the reach of vengeance, and to live independently of
your Order. I am rich, and you know I keep my word. I do not propose to
bribe you to tell the truth ; but I will, so far as I can, protect you in telling it."

He uncovered his face and seemed to be pondering her words.

'' Don't weigh chances," she said ; " don't measure results ; decide to do
what is right, and that being your fixed purpose we may consider the mate
rial part."

He passed his hand over his forehead as though confused. " No, signori-
na," he said, " I am not a coward, nor do I wish money. In this you are un
just ; but I cannot blame you, for you have suffered greatly. Let me speak
frankly. When I left Monsignore Altieri to go to college I judged the whole
Church by him, its representative whom I knew best, and I revered it to the
utmost depths of my soul. Then I studied its traditions and history under
the guidance of men so experienced and gifted that my boyish enthusiasm
became man's complete consecration. Then I took my vows and began my
practical experience. I was pure and earnest, and my ideal was an exalted
one." He shuddered. "You cannot imagine what my experience was:
beaten from one stronghold to another, clinging always to the last tenacious
ly, as a son to his faith in his mother. My associates were human, with self
ish, sordid aims ; while I, inexperienced in worldly affairs and methods,
judged all things by the divine standard. One day, in my anguish, I crept
into a cell in an unfrequented part of the convent to commune with myself
and pray. Suddenly I heard voices, and, resenting any disturbance, I went
to an inner room, perfectly dark and for years unused, and throwing myself
upon the damp, stone seat, gave way to my disappointment and sorrow. The
voices did not pass away, but grew more distinct, and presently I heard them
within the outer cell. I presumed that the intruders were my companions,
and that they would soon go out again into the air. They remained, how
ever, and, withdrawing into the darkest part of the room, came near the en
trance of the inner cell, where I lay within a few feet of them. I was silent at
first, because I wished to hide my emotion ; I remained silent afterwards be
cause of the words I heard in connection with the name of Altieri. At last
some one said that one who had been a friend of Altieri's must be found who
would betray him in the interest of the Church, and my name was suggested.
I did not recognize the voices, nor could I identify them. I only know that
I was half stunned, and that my heart was well-nigh broken with shame
and horror. I made up my mind that, come what might, Altieri should be

2Q ISAAC HENDERSON. [1861-88

warned. I was confident that I would be approached soon in reference to the
matter, and I thought it better to undertake the work than leave it to an
enemy of my old. benefactor. I tried to contrive some way to warn him be
fore I should be intrusted with any confidence that would cause them to
watch me. In this I failed, for that night the superior sent for me, and, after
a few general questions, began to ask me about my early life. I mentioned,
casually, that Altieri had been my first instructor, and the superior pretended
to be surprised, and asked me many questions about him. In answering, I
spoke of the monsignore with some bittern ess, half concealed, but apparently
heartfelt. The superior's face lit up in response to my seeming emotion, yet
he controlled instantly this manifestation of feeling. He spoke with sorrow
of Altieri's course, and this gave me an opportunity of deepening the impres
sion I had made. Little by little, under the encouragement of my apparent
hatred of this powerful enemy of my Church, the superior became less guard
ed, until, in a word, he laid before me the part he wished me to play in his
accursed plot, the main features of which he intrusted to me, promising me
high consideration should I succeed.

" I considered every possible way of communicating secretly and quickly
with Altieri, and at last thought of the plan of telling my sister. I knew your
habit of going to the festivals at St. Peter's. The rest you know. One of my
companions, that afternoon, suspected that I had communicated with you
in some way. When the plot was frustrated it was generally believed that I
had warned Altieri ; but no one could prove it while you and he were silent,
and thus far I've escaped punishment, although I know that they hope event
ually to convict me. I heard afterwards that there was a scandal connected
with the monsignore, and I wondered if you were the lady ; but I did not
think much about you ; I thought always of him and of my Church. You
cannot know how I have suffered. I have been nearly frantic with diverse
feelings. Should I vindicate my benefactor at the expense of iny Church ?
A thousand, ten thousand times I have cried, ' What is my duty ? God,
show me my duty \'" He closed his eyes, and his lips moved as if in prayer.

At length he spoke again :

" Siguorina, nothing can be worse than what I am now experiencing. I
wish sincerely to do what is right ; but I do not feel called upon to sacrifice
my liberty and usefulness, even if I can bring myself to state the truth.'' He
was silent for seVeral minutes; then his face grew stern, and his clasped
hands trembled violently, as he said, in a low tone, " It is decided ! I will go
to another land, and do what I can for the cause to which my life is conse
crated. I will accept enough money to take me where I will go, and I will
meet you when you wish, and do whatever you may ask !"

Helen could scarcely credit her senses. She paused to control her excite
ment ; while her companion, as if to gain strength for the fulfilment of his
resolution, prayed silently.

" Come, Sunday, to the villa of the Prince Tolozzi," she said, '' and there
make a written statement of the truth, before witnesses."

" I will do so"; and then he added, " My statement shall be kept a secret
for ten days after I make it ?"

1861-88] DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD. 21

" Certainly ; you shall have every opportunity of getting away in safety."

" At Avhat hour shall I come ?"

"At eleven, precisely."

" I will be punctual."

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and Helen felt that there was noth
ing to be gained by further words ; so she bade him go, while she would re
main where she was for a few moments, lest some of his companions might
by chance see them together. The poor fellow came forward, and, kneeling
humbly, took her hand and kissed it.

" Signorina," he said, " I am about to make a terrible plunge into a new
world ; pray for me ;" and, rising, he turned from her, and in a moment had
disappeared.

BORN in New York, N. Y., 1851. DIED at Weehawken, N. J., 1889.

THE CONVENTION SCENE IN "FOR CONGRESS."

[For Congress. A Political Sketch. This Comedy was first produced at the National
Theatre, Washington, D. C., 1883, with John T. Raymond in the part of General
Josiah Limber. ]

ACT II.

SCENE. Ante-room to the Convention Hall. Leaning against scene are political banners,
as follows: "Woolley the stern Statesman." "Miggs Forever, Woolley Never."
"We want reform in the. other party." "The people demand Zephaniah Miggs."
"Chunkalunk County solid for Woolley."

[LIMBER discovered with JOHN PRICE and two men.]

~T~ IMBER. Now, boys, I want Woolley's nomination to be as spontaneous as we can
-J ^ make it. John, I want you to propose Peter Woolley as a compromise candidate,
on the ground of his deep interest in politics. Then, Tom, I want you to get up and
say you know positively Mr. Woolley will not accept the nomination, and "if any
man dare dispute it, meet nie outside." If any of them get up to go out, you re
main where you are! Then, John, you make another of your grand efforts and say
that is the very reason he ought to be nominated ; that the office should seek the
man, and not the man the office. You're familiar with that tune! Then, Joe, you
demand Woolley's nomination in the interests of economy and reform. Throw your
whole weight on reform. We're all reformers now ! Then cast the vote of your county
for Woolley, you ditto, and then holler! Tell all the boys to holler, and we'll start
a stampede for old Pete that will beat Miggs to pieces! But remember, boys, it
must be spontaneous !

PRICE. Do you think Woolley will do the right thing by the boys ?

LIMBER. John Price, I've been in politics ever since I was thirteen years old.
I've been called a rascal a great many times, but nobody has ever taken me for a
fool, and it's too late to begin now. Now get in, boys. [ The three men go up.] Oh,
John! [PRICK comes down.] You tell Bill Dey I see through his little game.

22 DA VID DEMAREST LLOYD. [1861-88

Chunkalunk County isn't solid for Woolley. He'd have me think it is, and when
the critical moment comes, he'll swing his vote over to Miggs. Now, John, you
know I never say things I don't know to be true. Woolley's worth a million. And
I judge from his appearance that his capacity to shell out for the legitimate ex
penses of the campaign is simply immense! You tell Bill Dey he is making the
biggest mistake of his life. {Enter WOOLLEY.]

LIMBER. Peter, here's a special" message from his excellency the clerk of the
Buzzard Hotel. {Hands note to WOOLLEY.]

WOOL. General, I don't understand politics. I can't make this out at all.

LIMBEK. Why, I ordered a little refreshment for the boys. They expect it.
" Hon. Peter Woolley," you're elected, you see, Pete, "Dr. to the Buzzard Hotel
$100 for six hundred drinks for one hundred friends of reform."

{Enter PELHAM PERRIWINKLE, JULIA FREE, and ANNA WOOLLEY.]

ANNA. Have they begun yet ?

JULIA. I don't know. How strange the old school-house looks.

{Enter MRS. MUFFIN.]

ANNA. I wish it would do for us to go in. I don't see why people think politics
are stupid! They're delightful! I was never so excited in my life.

MRS. M. Be still, child. When you're as familiar with politics as I am, you'll
understand these things better.

ANNA. But I can't keep still! Julia! Let's go and look in.

MRS. M. Anna, try and behave yourself like a lady.

PELHAM. {Has gone up stage.] I say, just look at this.

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, what is it ?

MRS. M. {Pushing in between the girls.'] Girls, don't be so inquisitive. What is it, eh ?

PELHAM. [Reading banners.] "Woolley the stern Statesman."

ANNA. What funny people these politicians are the idea of calling papa a stern
statesman! {Shouts. Exit PELHAM.]

JULIA. But what's this "The people demand Zephaniah Miggs."

ANNA. The idea of their demanding Miggs or anybody else when they can get my
papa!

JULIA. Down with Miggs! Woolley forever! {Enter PELHAM. ]

PELHAM. I say, they've begun.

JULIA. Oh, do tell us what they are doing.

ANNA. I wish I were in there.

MRS. M. Now, girls, don't be so inquisitive. {Pulls ANNA round to L. H. corner.}
What did you say they were doing ?

PELHAM. Well, there's a man making a speech.

ALL the LADIES. Well, well.

PELHAM. He really quite alarmed me, you know. He says the country is going
to destruction.

ANNA. Oh, I wonder if that's true ?

JULIA. I think they usually change their minds after election. {Shouts outside.]

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, hear that! {They turn up stage.]

MRS. M. Girls, don't talk about what you don't understand. The country is in a
deplorable state. General Limber told me all about it. {Enter LIMBER.]

LIMBER. Why, here's an oasis of beauty, blooming right in the desert of politics.
How are you, girls ? How are you, Jule ? I had just finished the platform and was
about to take it in.

ANNA. Oh, do let us see it.

1861-88] DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD. 23

JULIA. Let us hear it.

PELHAM. Platform ? I don't see any platform.

LIMBER. Our friend from the effete and enervated East doesn't understand. A
platform is the resolutions. It's what we say before election we'll do after elec
tion. We don't always do it, but we always say it.

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, do let us hear it.

LIMBER. Would you like to have me read it just as I am going to read it in
there ?

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, do, do!

MRS. M. Girls, be calm. Look at me, I am perfectly calm !

ANNA. Oh, I am so excited !

LIMBER. [Reading.] "Your committee, profoundly impressed with the colossal
importance of the duty intrusted to them, beg leave to report as follows" ahem!

"Resolved: That we have met in the midst of a great crisis" Girls, it is the
peculiarity of our party that we always meet in the midst of a great crisis.

PELHAM. There ! I told you so !

LIMBER. ' ' Resolved : That our party is a towering monument of public virtue.
Resolved: That the other party is a festering slough of political slime."

ANNA. Oh, dear!

MRS. M. It's just like poetry. [Shouts. Exit PELHAM.]

LIMBER. "Resolved: That all the offices should be bestowed upon our party. Re
solved: That if the other party should get any of the offices, the stability of our in
stitutions would be eternally imperilled, and the proud figure of Freedom herself
would totter on her mountain height."

ANNA. Oh, how splendid!

JULIA. Superb ! And so pure, and lofty in tone.

LIMBER. "Resolved " no, I'll have to fix that. [Shouts.]
[JULIA and ANNA run up to C.]

MRS. M. Girls, girls, don't be so inquisitive.

ANNA. I don't care, I'm going in. [Exeunt girls C. ]

LIMBER. There ! No, no, that won't do. That expresses an idea.

MRS. M. Well, I guess I'll take a little peek myself. [Exit.]

LIMBER. There, that heads either way, like a ferry-boat. [Enter Miss GRIMM.]

Miss G. Stop ! In the name of the down-trodden women of America, I demand
the insertion of this woman-suffrage plank in the resolutions of the Convention.

LIMBER. Oh, thanks.

Miss G. I want to know your personal views on woman suffrage. Now, / think
the exclusion of women from the polls is one of the crying evils of the age.

LIMBER. Well

Miss G. / think our politics will never be pure and picturesque till the refining
influence of woman is felt there.

LIMBER. Well

Miss G. / think it is a question our public men must meet at once.

LIMBER. Well

Mrss G. Your views are very satisfactory.

LIMBER. I'm <*lad she's got my views on woman suffrage. [Miss G. has taken off
her glasses and nmc turns to LIMBER.] What, Jemima Grimm!

Miss G. Why, Josiah Limber! Why, I didn't know you at all!

LIMBER. No wonder. You haven't seen me for twenty years, and you're here in
Woolleyville. You must have carpet-bagged a good deal.

Miss G. Yes, I have, like all school-teachers.

LIMBER. So have I, like all school-teachers. You're still Jemima Grimm ?

24 DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD. [1861-88

Miss G. Josiah Limber, in a land where women are denied the right to vote, I
am proud to say I am an old maid!

LIMBER. Well, I've had my ups and downs mostly downs. Yes, I've seen the
time when smoked herring was stalled ox to me. But if the scheme I have now
succeeds, I shan't have to consider my duster in the light of an ulster next winter.
But Jemima, do you remember when we were boys and girls together in Pennsyl
vania at least one boy and one girl ? Do you remember how fond I used to be of
you ?

Miss G. You always were a fool !

LIMBER. I thought you'd remember that! Do you remember the singing-school,
eh and that night coming home when the candle went out in the lantern you re
member the husking-bees and the bench under the old apple-tree in the orchard
and the straw rides? Oh, Jemima! [Embraces her.]

Miss G. There's somebody coming. [Enter MRS. MUFFIN; exit Miss G.]

LIMBER. [Pretending to be absorbed in the platform.] "Resolved." [MRS. M. angry.']
Jealous! That won't do. She'll withdraw the old man. Did you observe that little
episode just now ?

MRS. M. I observed what you call an episode.

LIMBER. That was political purely political.

MRS. M. I didn't see much politics in it.

LIMBER. Oh, that's politics. That's what we poor politicians have to undergo
all the time. You see that's a very dangerous character. She's what we term a wo
man suffragist, and it won't do for Peter to favor woman suffrage. So I was trying
to conciliate her smooth her down.

MRS. M. You seemed to be smoothing her down very successfully! [Shouts.]
[Enter PELHAM, ANNA, and JULIA.]

PELHAM. I say, Limber, they've begun to vote.

LIMBER. Well, I'm glad of it.

PELHAM. Miggs has got the first ten votes.

LIMBER. Miggs ! [Rushes off, followed by PELHAM. ]

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, oh!

MRS. M. Girls, girls ! [Enter PELHAM.]

PELHAM. Five for Woolley ! [Exit. Enter Miss G.]

ANNA. Oh, good ! but they are only five.

PELHAM. [Enters.] Five more for Woolley! [Exit.]

ANNA and JULIA. Oh, splendid!

PELHAM. [Enters.] Fifteen for Miggs. [Exit.]

Miss G. All, good !

JULIA. The hateful thing !

Miss G. I don't hesitate to say that I'm for Miggs. Miggs is in favor of woman
suffrage.

ANNA. Well, if she's for Miggs, I hope she'll never get the right to vote for him or
anybody else. [Enter MIKE.]

MIKE. I'm all tore up ! I want to see Mr. Woolley nominated, but I hate to see
Moriarty beat. It isn't often an Irishman gets an office. They're too modest! I'll see
how things are going anyhow. [Exit.]

PELHAM. [Enters.] Ten more for Miggs ! Do you know, I never saw a convention,
all the time I was abroad. [Exit.]

JULIA. Oh, Anna, let us keep count. How can we do it ?

PELHAM. [Enters.] What extraordinary names you have here in America! Aris-
towoobskook County gives ten votes for Woolley. [Exit.]

ANNA. Oh, hurry ! What shall we do ?

1861-88] DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD, 25

JULIA. Here's just the thing.

ANNA. One of the school blackboards just the tiling quick !

[They place the blackboard on chair, board facing up stage. Enter MIKE.]

MIKE. Ould Ireland's been heard from ! Mackerel vi lie gives fifteen votes to Pat
rick Moriarty ! Aha ! Them Mackerelville boys are the fellows. Ah, ye divils, ye !
[Exit,]

PELHAM. [Enters.} Five for Woolley. [Exit.]

ANNA. Quick!

JULIA. Where's the chalk ? Now you keep the tally for Peter Woolley, and I'll
put down the votes for Zephaniah Miggs. Oh, Aunt, I wish you weren't for Miggs!
I hate Miggs! I'd like to count him out!

ANNA. Oh, Julia, if women went into politics wouldn't they cheat though!

Miss G. Pooh ! Pooh !

PELHAM. [Enters.] More names! Miggs gets twenty votes from Squashopolis ! [Exit.]

ANNA. Oh, we haven't put them down. Hurry before there's another. 5 5 10
5.

JULIA. 10 15 10 20 I hate to put it down. That makes Miggs 30 ahead.

PELHAM. [Enters. ] Thirty for Woolley ! [Exit. Shouts.]

ANNA. That makes them even

JULIA. If I have to keep count for Miggs, I'll applaud for Woolley. [Enter MIKE.]

MIKE. Ould Ireland's gaining! Moriarty's got one more vote. [Exit.]

PELHAM. [Enters.] Fifteen for Miggs. [Exit.]

Miss G. Good for Miggs ! Miggs will be nominated. You'll see!

JULIA. I'm opposed to woman suffrage from this hour!

PELHAM. [Enters.] Twenty votes for Peter Woolley ! [Exit.]

JULIA. What does it make all together ?

ANNA. Oh, I don't know! They won't add up at all!

PELHAM. [Enters.] Twenty more for Woolley! [Exit. Shouts.]

[Enter LIMBER radiant.]

ANNA. Will papa be nominated ?

LIMBER. Papa will be nominated unanimously. You know the old phrase As
old Chunkalunk goes, so goes the Union! Well, old Chunkalunk, in spite of their
banner there, were a little uncertain as to whom they'd give their sixty votes to.
But they have agreed, in consideration of ahem ! of Peter Woolley's many emi
nent qualities, to give him their sixty votes. It took me some time, but it's all set
tled!

Miss G. Has my woman-suffrage resolution been adopted yet ?

LIMBER. Well, not yet.

Miss G. I knew it!

MRS. M. Now, girls, I'm going to find brother Peter, and bring him here. The
candidate ought to be on the spot to be surprised at the nomination. \Exit.]
[Enter WOOLLEY. Sees portrait on banner.]

WOOL. Who's that ?

ANNA. Why, here's papa now.

WOOL. Anna ! What's all this about ? What does it mean ?

ANNA. It's the Convention. We thought no one would see us, and we were so
anxious.

WOOL. What, the Convention ? Oh, I must go right away ! I haven't done half
the work in the garden this morning.

ANNA. Now, wait, papa. General Limber has told us you will surely be nominated.

WOOL. Dear! dear!

26 DAVID DEMAREST LLOYD. [1861-88

ANNA. Yes, Chunk-a-lunk yes, that's it, Chuukalunk County is going to give
you all its sixty votes !

WOOL. I hope they won't do it now.

ANNA. Now, wait, papa.

PELHAM. [Enters.] Twenty for Woolley ! [Exit.]

WOOL. What a start he gave me. I must go. I had no idea politics were so noisy.

Miss G. What are your views on woman suffrage ?

WOOL. I haven't got any. [Exit. Enter CHARLES MONTGOMERY.]

CHARLES. Why, Anna, I just heard of this a few moments ago. I had no idea your
father thought of running for Congress! I expect every moment to hear whom the
other Convention have nominated.

VOICE. [Outside.] Sixty votes for Zephauiah Miggs!

Miss G. Sixty votes for Miggs. [Shouts.]

JULIA. I wonder what that meant ? [Enter PELHAM.]

PELHAM. I say, where's Limber ? There's something wrong. There's a stampede
for Miggs. Miggs is getting all the votes.

OMNES. Limber! Limber! Where's Limber ? [Enter LIMBER.]

PELHAM. Something's wrong! Chunkalunk County gave sixty votes for Miggs!

LIMBER. What ! Grand old Chunkalunk ?

PELHAM. Yes, and they're all voting for Miggs. [Exit.]

LIMBER. Bill Dey's gone back on my bid ! But I'll beat him yet. [Exit.]

PELHAM. [Enters.] Twenty more for Miggs! [Shouts.]

LIMBER. [Offstage.] Boys, I appeal to your patriotism and intelligence. [Shout.]
You've lots of both. [Shout "Yes."] Will you hesitate between the Hon. Peter
Woolley and the infamous Miggs ? ["No."] Remember you are performing a mo
mentous duty. The eyes of the world are on you. This is the hour of your coun
try's peril, and the very crisis of her fate. [Loud shouts.]

PELHAM. [Enters.] He's making a most eloquent speech. I don't believe there's
a fellow in our club ever made such a speech.

JULIA. Too late.

Miss G. I wonder if he will defeat Miggs ?

ANNA. Hark!

VOICE. [Outside.] Three cheers for Zephaniah Miggs. [One feeble shout.]

PELHAM. That wasn't much of a cheer for Miggs.

VOICE. [Outside.] Three cheers for Peter Woolley. [Loud cheers.]

PELHAM. I say, that meant something. [Exit. Enter MIKE.]

MIKE. Oh, Mr. Charles, the other Convention have just up and nominated you for
Congress. [Exit.]

CHAS. What! me? No, it can't be !

ANNA. Oh, Charles, you and papa running against each other!

CHAS. I don't know what to make of it at all. [Enter PELHAM.]

PELHAM. I say, they're changing their votes back to Woolley. Limber is swing
ing the Convention right around. Chunkalunk County changes sixty votes to
Peter Woolley !

[Enter Brass Band playing " The Star Spangled Banner." Then LIMBER, followed by
delegate carrying flag on staff, which he waves over LIMBER and WOOLLEY. Crowd fill
in at back, shouting. Enter WOOLLEY led by MRS. MUFFIN.]

CURTAIN.

1861-88] JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. 27

91ulia Constance tfletcljer.

BORN in Rio Janeiro, Brazil.

A SYRIAN ADVENTURE.
[Mirage. By George Fleming. 1878.]

OF the two there was one who would have given much to have escaped the
necessity of any interview. Naturally enough, this one was the first to
speak.

" I am afraid we have been very selfish, Tom and I," she says, with a slight
increase of color on her cheeks ; " Fanny seems so tired. But these people
are interesting. I think this is a delightful place don't you ? "

" I think so now," says Mr. Stuart.

Some men passing along the road turn again to stare at the strangers, and
Mr. Stuart returns their glances with a little of that abounding contempt we
instinctively exhibit towards people who, in all probability, will never be in
any fashion connected with ourselves.

" It is so seldom Tom can be got to talk. Tom is something like an Eng
lishman in that respect. Did you never notice how an American will inva
riably endeavor to be interesting at any cost either to others or to himself ?
Now an Englishman has the courage to be dull."

" Some of us are dull enough without that," says Jack, moodily.

The Arabs are still standing watching him. They whisper together. As
the young man brushes by them there is a hoarse cry of " Backshish ! " and
then an insolent laugh. It is only a trifling annoyance, but it comes charged
with the weight of the morning's exasperation, and sends the hot blood flush
ing to his forehead. He turns upon Constance with that sudden, irrational
resentment of an unpleasant impression which is, perhaps, at the bottom of
half the follies of life.

"Don't you think these small travelling-parties are a mistake?" he says,
with an air of elaborate impartiality. " One sees the same people so contin
uously that in fact, you see the same people so much."

Miss Varley is entirely of his opinion. She says so, and then bends down
and busies herself with the folds of her habit to conceal a most unequivocal
smile.

" Yes, I am tired of it," says Mr. Stuart.

"Indeed!"

" I am tired of the whole thing. You treat me like a boy. You laugh at
me. You you attempt to to patronize me, by Jove ! " cries the young man,
turning very red. " I don't like it. I don't think you are treating me fairly,
Constance," he says, with sudden firmness, with an assertion of mastery in
his voice that she has never heard before.

Miss Varley draws herself up and turns her face full upon him, and all the
light and animation have gone out of that face.

" You are probably not aware of what you are saying. You will excuse me

28 JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. [1861-88

if I fail to understand " she begins very coldly ; and then there comes a sud
den look of kindness in her eyes. " What is the use of quarrelling, Jack?
You know you are talking nonsense. When have I ever done anything pur
posely to vex you ? " she says very gently.

A group of fair-haired Nablous children are standing in a doorway. At
the sight of the strange faces approaching them they dart away like fright
ened birds, all but one, a little boy of two or three, who stands in the middle
of the street and contemplates them meditatively. Such a flower-face as it
is! with the beautiful, open look of a peach-blossom overblown. "Come
here, you delightful little creature, and get some backshish," says Miss Var-
ley, and holds up a tempting silver coin. There is a moment's hesitation, and
then the baby comes forward a few steps, stops, stares about him. " Poor little
thing!" says Constance, and stoops to pick him up. To her surprise the
child resists her with sadden, shrill cries of alarm.

"Oh, put him down, do! "says Jack, hastily. There is quite a crowd
around them by this time.

" Poor little thing ! You don't suppose it was afraid I had the evil eye? "
begins the girl ; and at the same moment a woman, veiled and shapeless in
her cotton gown, breaks through the ring, seizes the sobbing child in her
arms, and turns and addresses the crowd in high-pitched Arabic.

" Come on ! " says Mr. Stuart again, and this time with even stronger em
phasis. "Let that little wretch alone; it doesn't want your money. Here,let's
get out of this."

But this is not so easily done. It is true the crowd parts before them, but
only to close about on every side. " Backshish ! " yells a tall, one-eyed lad in
a tattered gown, who has followed them persistently since they entered the
bazaar. " Backshish ! " calls out a man, putting a hand on Miss Varley's
shoulder and stooping to look into her face. "Back " A vigorous push
sends him staggering against the wall.

" Take my arm ; don't be frightened," says Jack, cheerfully. " If we can
only get through this infernal bazaar " A shove from the yellow fanatic on
the outside of the ring sends the nearest beggar upon him. He turns, and a
shove from the other side flings Constance against his shoulder. No sound ;
but the double movement meant mischief.

" Oh, what shall we do? " says Miss Varley, turning pale.

To her dying day she will never forget what takes place within the next
few minutes.

He took her hands in his ; he looked at her with a sort of despairing ten
derness.

" Don't be frightened," he says ; " there is going to be a row. Here, stand
back under that arch, and don't move, whatever happens. Don't be fright
ened, and don't cry. Don't cry, my darling, I'll take care of you."

As luck will have it, the arch of which he speaks is the gaudy-painted door
way of the mosque. A savage howl of execration runs through the crowd at
sight of this new outrage. They press forward, stop, waver ; and then Jack
turns and faces them and draws his pistol from his belt.

" Come on, then ! Why don't you come on, you blackguards !" he calls

1861-88] JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. 29

out, in English ; and, as by the breaking of a spell, the sound of his voice
evokes a very storm of frenzy and abuse. With every moment the tumult in
creases. A piece of mud knocks off his hat ; in an instant it is seized and
torn to shreds ; and the sight of his blond Saxon face is the signal for a new
outbreak of impotent rage. Twice already the jeering, hissing mass of infu
riated men has pushed and swayed up to the very limit of the steps, and twice
the sight of his steady, unblenching face has swept them back again with a
sound as of the surf grinding upon the shore. And each time they have les
sened the distance between them.

He took three steps forward, paused, then deliberately drew a deep line
with the heel of his boot in the dust. " We'll see who crosses that, my men ! "
he says, significantly. A long howl of defiance is the instant answer. And
now, with one common impulse, the mob hurls itself forward and stands
straining and foaming like a pack of craven, white-toothed pariah dogs on
the farther side of the barrier.

"Don't be frightened, my darling," says Jack; his own face is deathly
pale, and great beads of moisture are standing on his forehead.

There is a scuffle, a push ; one of the foremost assailants, a half-grown lad
in a long, blue caftan, is sent staggering across the mark : he falls heavily on
his face and is dragged back by his nearest neighbors. And then comes an
ominous pause.

From his vantage-ground on the mosque-steps Stuart overlooks the street ;
and at this moment he is aware of a disturbance in the spirit of the mob
some new object is drawing their attention. There is a cry of " Allah ! " the
sound of a low, wailing, inarticulate chant, a sudden falling asunder of the
close-packed men ; in the centre of this space, advancing slowly towards him,
is a creature a man. It has the figure of a man but whether young or old
it is impossible to say. A strip of sheepskin is slung about its waist, a long
string of coarse amulets dangles from its neck and down upon the naked
breast, covered with hair like the breast of an animal. On his head is a fan
tastic crown of iron spikes, from under which long and matted locks stream
down over his thick arms, his naked, shining shoulders, his fixed and vacant
eyes. He comes slowly forward, rolling from side to side in his walk, keeping
time to the monotonous, lolling chant. The crowd have fallen respectfully
back; he stands alone in the centre of an open space, looking at Stuart with
a dull, malignant smile.

"My God ! what shall I do ?" thought Stuart, clinching his teeth. He
moves, and the dervish catches sight of Constance. A sudden, furious gleam
of insanity transfigures the livid face. He turns, with a wild gesture of exhor
tation he turns and harangues the mob. He turns again he walks delib
erately forward. Jack raises the revolver slowly to a level.

And then a murderous silence falls upon the crowd. The dervish comes
steadily forward ; his foot is on the line ; he looks up at Stuart with an
idiotic laugh, and then, like a mockery from heaven, they hear through the
intense silence the innocent, bubbling laughter of a child.

The dervish passes the line. Constance springs forward with a cry. The
next sound is the click of the trigger settling back in its lock.

30 JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. [1861-88

"Jack !" She springs forward and clutches him by the arm. "Don't
fire ! Hassan ! " she says wildly, with white, breathless lips ; " Hassan
Hassan "

And even as she speaks there is a clattering charge of mounted men, a
swinging of sabres, a slashing of whips, a cheer. The surging mob sweeps
back against the steps. In a moment the dervish is seized, surrounded,
forced bodily into the shelter of the mosque. Major Thayer springs from his
saddle. The Turkish soldiers clear the piazza of the last terrified stragglers.
The dragoman rushes forward flourishing his koorbash.

" Thank God ! " says Stuart, seizing Constance by the hand. And then,
for the first time, Miss Varley breaks down.

" Take me home take me home, Tom, to Fanny," she says piteously.

"Will you ride?"

"No; I don't know: take me home," she says, and walks on blindly,
clinging to his arm, the centre of an excited, questioning, explaining group.

In three or four minutes they have reached the camp. As they enter the
tent Miss Varley turns to Stuart :

" I haven't thanked you. But you know," she says brokenly. She gives
him both her hands. Then she sits down on a chair in a corner and begins to
cry.

Mr. Stuart, too, sits down. He looks about him with a bewildered air.

' Good heavens ! Jack, are you hurt? Will you have some brandy? some
water ? Your face is as white as a sheet ! Tom, why don't you do some-
tiling ? Don't you see that Jack "

' I'm not hurt, Fanny. I've been badly frightened. I never knew what it
was like before," says Mr. Stuart, simply ; " but I bad Constance to take care
of, you know, and Look here ! "

He threw his revolver down upon the table. Major Thayer picks it up
curiously, examines it, starts, and throws it down again with an oath.

" I let Hassan have it for that salute. I had forgotten all about it. You
see it wasn't loaded ! " says Jack.

THE FIRING OP THE SHOT.
[Vestigia. By George Fleming. 1884.]

r MHE candle had burnt itself out in its socket. There was no sound in the
-J- room but the heavy breathing of the weary sleeper and the ticking of
Valdez's watch, which lay before him on the table. He sat there, counting
the hours.

And at last the dawn broke, chill and gray ; the dim light struggling in
at the window made a faint glimmer upon the glasses which stood beside the
untouched food. To the old man keeping his faithful watch beside the sleep
er, this was perhaps the hardest hour of all till the darkness wore slowly
away ; the sky turned to a clear stainless blue ; and all the city awoke to the
radiance of the April day.

1861-88J JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. 31

Soon the bells began their joyous clash and clamor. It was hardly eight
o'clock when the two men stepped out into the street together, but the re
joicing populace was astir already, and hurrying towards the new quarter of
the Macao.

Rome was in festa, heavy and splendid Rome. Bright flags fluttered, and
many-colored carpets and rugs were suspended from every available window.
All along the Via Nazionale, a double row of gaudily-decked Venetian masts,
hung with long wreaths and brilliant flapping banners, marked the course
where the royal carriages were to pass. But it was farther on, at the Piazza
dell' Indipendenza, that the crowd was already thickest. The cordon of sol
diers had been stationed here since early morning. Looking down from any
of the neighboring balconies upon that swarming sea of holiday-makers, it
seemed impossible that even the great Piazza could contain more; and yet
at every instant the place grew fuller and fuller ; a steady stream of people
poured in from every side street ; peasants from the country in gay festa dress ;
shepherds from the Campagna in cloaks of matted sheepskin ; and strapping
black-haired girls with shrill voices and the step of queens, who had come all
the way from Trastevere to look on at the spectacle, there was no end, no
cessation to the thickening and the growing excitement of the crowd.

Dino had taken his place very early. It was exactly at the corner of the
Piazza, where a street-lamp made a support for his back, and prevented him
from being brushed aside by the gathering force and pressure of the multi
tude. He had found a safe place for Palmira to stand, on the iron ledge
which ran around the lamp-post. The child's little pale face rose high above
the crowd ; she was quiet from very excess of excitement, only from time to
time she stooped to touch her brother's shoulder in token of mute content.

Valdez stood only a few paces behind them. He had kept the revolver in
his own possession to the last moment. It was arranged that he should pass
it to Dino at a preconcerted signal, and as the King came riding past for the
second time.

Dino had scarcely spoken all that morning, but otherwise there was no
sign of unusual excitement about him. He was deadly pale ; at short inter
vals a faint red flush came and went like a stain upon his colorless cheek.
But he answered all little Palmira's questions very patiently. The morning
seemed very long to him, that was all. He stood fingering the handkerchief
in his pocket with which he was to give Valdez the signal for passing him the
weapon.

It was more than twenty-four hours now since he had tasted food, and the
long abstinence was beginning to tell upon him ; at times his head felt dizzy,
and if he closed his eyes the continuous roar and chatter of the crowd sank
died away far off like the sound of the surf upon a distant shore. At one
moment he let himself go entirely to this curious new sensation of drifting
far away ; it was barely an instant of actual time, but he recovered himself
with a start which ran like ice from head to foot ; it was a horrible sensation,
like a slow return from the very nothingness of death. He shivered and
opened his eyes wide and looked about him. He seemed to have been far, far
away from it all in that one briefest pause of semi-unconsciousness, yet his

32 JULIA CONSTANCE FLETCHER. [1861-88

eyes opened on the same radiant brightness of the sunshine ; a holiday sun
shining bravely down on glancing arms and fretting horses ; on the dark line
of the soldiers pressing back the people, and the many-colored dresses, the
laughing, talking, good-natured faces of the gesticulating crowd.

One of these mounted troopers was just in front of Dino. As the humau
mass surged forward, urged by some unexplainable impulse of excitement
and curiosity, this man's horse began backing and plunging. The young sol
dier turned around in his saddle, and his quick glance fell upon Palmira's
startled face.

" Take care of your little girl there, my friend/' he said to Dino good-
humoredly, and forced his horse away from the edge of the pavement.

Dino looked at him without answering. He wondered vaguely if this sol
dier boy with the friendly blue eyes and the rosy face would be one of the first
to fall upon him when he was arrested ? And then his thoughts escaped him
again the dimness came over his eyes.

He roused himself with a desperate effort. He began to count the number
of windows in the house opposite ; then the number of policemen stationed
at the street corner ; an officer went galloping by ; he fixed his eyes upon the
glancing uniform until it became a mere spot of brightness in the distance.

Hark!

The gun at the palace. The King was starting from the Quirinal. All the
scattered cries and laughs and voices were welded together into one long qua
vering roar of satisfaction and excitement.

There again ! and nearer at hand this second gun.

The cheers rise higher, sink deeper. He is coming, the young soldier King,
the master of Italy, the popular hero. See ! hats are waving, men are shout
ing, the infection of enthusiasm catches and runs like fire along the line of
eager, expectant faces. Here he comes. The roar lifts, swells, grows louder
and louder; the military bands on either side of the piazza break with one
accord into the triumphant ringing rhythm of the royal march. They have
seen the troops defile before them with scarcely a sign of interest ; but now,
at sight of that little isolated group of riders with the plumed and glittering
helmets, there comes one mad instant of frantic acclamation, when every
man in that crowd feels that he too has some part and possession in all the
compelling, alluring splendor and success in life.

And just behind the royal cavalier, among the glittering group of aides-
de-camp, rode the young Marchese Balbi. He was so near that Dino could
scarcely believe their eyes did not actually meet ; but if Gasparo recognized
him he gave no sign, riding on with a smile upon his happy face, his silver-
mounted accoutrements shining bravely in the sun.

And so, for the first time, the doomed King passed by.

Dino scarcely heeded him ; at that moment he had forgotten everything
unconnected with the sight of that one familiar face. His mother, his old
home, Italia even, had grown dim and unreal ; he forgot them all in the
sensation of that quick rush of renewed affection. All the old pride, the old
delight, in Gasparo, which had made so great a part of his boyhood, came
back upon him with the irresistible claims of reawakened tenderness. He

1861-88] GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 33

was there to commit a murder ; and out of all that crowd he saw only the
one face which he knew and he loved it.

That curious sense of floating away, far away from everything living, fell
upon him again. He lost all count of time. He could never tell how long it
was before he heard little Palmira cry out in shrill tones of childish excite
ment :

" I see him, Dino. There he comes again. The King, the King all in
gold ! "

Dino started; it seemed to him as if he started wide awake. He drew him
self up like a soldier standing at attention ; his brain was steady ; his senses
till alert. He watched eagerly ; the white plumes were slowly advancing be
tween the two serried ranks of the soldiery. He waited until he could distin
guish the King's face distinctly ; he saw him lean a little forward and pat his
restive horse

And then, without turning, he gave Valdez the preconcerted signal.

And even as he raised the handkerchief to his lips he heard, not ten paces
off, the sharp ringing report of a shot.

It was all over in an instant the sound the plunging of the frightened
horses. He saw the white plume of the King pass by unscathed and Gas-
paro Balbi, who was riding nearest him, throw up his arms and fall back
ward, quietly, into the rising cloud of dust.

A great cry broke from the people all about him it rang in his ears it
sounded far away like the beating of a furious tide upon the distant, distant
shore. A blackness, a horrible blackness which he could feel, passed over
his face like a cloud. And then he knew nothing more.

Some quarter of an hour later one of the two guardie who were helping to
lift his insensible body into a street cab looked compassionately down at
Dino's clinched hands and pallid death-like face.

"'Tis no wonder the poor giovane fainted," he said sympathetically, ad
dressing the little crowd about him. " 'Tis no wonder he fainted, Perdio!
As it so happens I was looking straight at him, he was not ten paces away
from the villain who fired the shot."

BORN in Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, 1851.

FROM "KEENAN'S CHARGE."

CHANCELLORSVILLE, 2 MAY, 1863.

[Originally contributed to the Century Magazine, June, 1881.]

BY the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes
VOL. XL 3

34 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. [1861-88

For an instant clear, and cool, and still ;
Then, with a smile, he said: " I will."

" Cavalry, charge! " Not a man of them shrank.

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,

Rose joyously, with a willing breath

Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;

Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,

In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;

And above in the air, with an instinct true,

Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came

To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;

Rode in and sabred and shot and fell ;

Nor came one back his wounds to tell.

And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall

In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,

While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung

'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line ; ay, whole platoons,

Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons

By the maddened horses were onward borne

And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;

As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.

So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls ? 'Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain : the army was saved !

Over them now year following year

Over their graves, the pine-cones fall,

And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;

But they stir not again: they raise no cheer:

They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,

Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.

The rush of their charge is resounding still

That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

1861-88] GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 35

NIGHT IN NEW YORK.

STILL as death are the places of life; Weary, the night grows pale:

The city seems crumbled and gone, With a blush as of opening flowers

Sunk 'mid invisible deeps Dimly the east shines red.

The city so lately rife Can it be that the morn shall fulfil

With the stir of brain and brawn. My dream, and refashion our clay

Haply it only sleeps ; As the poet may fashion his rhyme ?

But what if indeed it were dead, Hark to that mingled scream

And another earth should arise Rising from workshop and mill

To greet the gray of the dawn ? Hailing some marvellous sight;

Faint then our epic would wail Mighty breath of the hours,

To those who should come in our stead. Poured through the trumpets of steam;

But what if that earth were ours ? Awful tornado of time,

What if, with holier eyes, Blowing us whither it will.
We should meet the new hope, and not God has breathed in the nostrils of night,

fail ? And behold, it is day !

1884.

A WIFE'S FORGIVENESS.
[An Echo of Passion. 1882.]

rode up and ascertained that they were coming by the usual road ;
then Anice and he set off.

Was that transformation of the moonlight something more than a fantasy?
As they flew forward under the moon, with large stars waiting for them in
advance, just above the sweep of the hills, Fenn was imbued with a kind of
illusion that they had been released for the time being from their ordinary
selves, and were gliding into some other phase less sharply defined, and not
hedged around with too many stubborn realities. Yet he thought of how soon
he must cease to see Anice, and this lent a poignancy to the pleasure of the
ride. It recalled him to himself, and quickened into more acute pain the dull
heart-ache into which the wrath that followed Keeves's attack had soon sub
sided.

When they rode more slowly, they talked of the beauty of the night and of
incidents at the picnic. The memories of both, however, were busy with that
day when they had first ridden over this road ; and, through the unseen
agency that was always at work between them, each was aware that the other's
thoughts were taking this direction.

" We are getting very far ahead of the rest," said Anice, as they ascended
one of the many rises they had to traverse. " Let's stop a moment and listen."

They reined in, and gazed back over the lower ground. The road was
empty ; the moonlight looked as if it had lain forever on the woods and pas
sive earth, and as if it would never go away. Transient as it is, there is more
of eternity in this calm illumination than in the swift and stimulating light
of the sun. Fenn thought, " What if we two were to be stricken by some last-

36 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. [1861-85

ing change, here in this pale light, and kept together forever in it, dead, or
mute and blind, yet conscious of our companionship ! " It was an unearthly
fancy, but his heart throbbed Avarmly and fiercely under it. He felt an in
satiable desire for some isolating fate which should separate them from every
body else. Yet there was a something within him that remonstrated against
this desire : for an instant, he even felt the despair of a drowning man, and
struggled within himself for something to hold by and keep himself from
being drawn under. In vain !

Such silence was in the air that they could hear the whistle of a locomotive
at some great distance, so far that it was hardly louder than the coo of a
bird. But nearer and slighter sounds from the road they had been travelling,
as is sometimes the case, did not reach them.

" It is strange," said Fenn, in a dry tone that gave no hint of what was go
ing on in his mind, ' ' that we don't hear them coming."

" Very," said Anice. " How fresh and sweet it is here ! "

Their voices sounded cold in the moonlight.

" Ah, what was that ? Isn't it the carriages ? "

A faint rumbling of the vehicles could be detected. " Yes ; that's they at
last," assented Fenn, and immediately touched his horse.

They did not wait again, and when they entered the village they were far
in advance. As they came up the hill to the junction of roads which formed
an irregular common among the houses, some men moving across this space,
with their legs very black against the moonlight, presented a queer appear
ance.

" Up so far above us, they look like insects crawling on the top of the hill,"
Fenn observed ; and Anice laughed. They tried to put themselves at ease
with trifles of this sort.

He accompanied her at a light trot to the farm-house, where Star was
housed by the man, and Fenn's gray hitched in the barn. "I shall wait
here," Fenn had explained, " until Mr. Evans comes. I don't like to leave
you quite alone."

'"' Let us go around into the garden, then," said Anice. " There are some
seats, and it will be pleasanter there." She was nervous at being thus thrown
passively alone with him, and fancied that going into the house would in
crease her constraint.

The garden lay in an angle between the house and the bank formed by the
cutting of the hillside. There were trees here and there ; among them one
that was dead ; and their shadows fell with soft abundance on the brightly
flooded paths and beds.

" This is where you found those flower-pods that you sent me ?" he asked.
It was the first allusion he had made to them.

"Yes," she replied, her voice coming much fainter than she wished. She
would have offered some remark to divert him, but her wit failed her.

Fenn stopped abruptly. They were under the shadow of the dead tree.

" I cannot be bound by that symbol," he declared, with resistless impet
uosity. " I have thrown those skeletons of flowers away, for my honesty is
more than a common one ; and before I go I must speak." She drew back,

1861-88] GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 3*7

terrified ; but he went on, crying, " No, no ! Anice Anice ! don't judge
me as you would other men. There is some fate upon me ; I don't know what ;
I cannot resist it. Oh, I have tried ! But the passion that was beginning
and never had free play, when I knew you so long ago, has come again, and
will not be stifled. I love you, Anice ! You cannot tell me of faiths and du
ties. I only know this one thing, and it is truer than all others."

" This is cowardly/' she gasped, when she could. ' ' It is unworthy of you."

" No, it is not cowardly," he answered, pale and determined. " It is brav
er than to keep a lying face. Have you not seen, have we not both known for
weeks what was growing up around us ? And is it better to part, with that
knowledge smouldering in us, than to face it and speak of it faithfully ? "

She collected all her force, and said coldly : " If you knew this, you should
have gone away long ago, never to see me on earth again. And will you tell
me what you think is to be gained by declaring to me now a love that dis
honors us all ? It is a sin against yourself, and an unpardonable wrong to me. "

He looked at her in rigid silence. " You may deceive yourself," he said,
" but you cannot me. You know well very well the power you have had
over me. I fancied it was a thing that could be turned into some new kind
of devotion, like that we talked of. But you saw how it was overcoming me,
and you forbade me to see you again. Why do you accuse me, when you had it
all in your hands, and allowed our acquaintance to continue ?"

"Because I trusted you and wished you well," Anice returned, with less
firmness. Then, seeing that the only hope was in an immediate parting, she
added : " I shall not leave this garden, Mr. Fenn. It is for you to go ! " She
pointed commandingly towards the entrance by which they had come in.

For an instant all his strength forsook him. Then he burst into a fierce,
broken laugh.

" I understand at last," he said, with a bitter intensity she had never even
dreamed of. "You have taken a terrific and skilful vengeance. Out of re
sentment for a clumsy, boyish mistake, you have deliberately ruined a man's
heart, and made him put his honor in the dust before you. Yes, I'll go." He
turned, so dizzy that he could hardly see the path, and began to move away.

There was a moment of passionate effort on her part to repress the storm
within herself ; but as she beheld him receding she yielded, and made a de
taining gesture. He saw it, and came back rapidly.

" Am I wrong ? " he cried, searching her face. " You felt more than that ;
you you loved ! Tell me it was so."

She tried to steady herself by putting her hands out into the air. Then she
gasped, "No no!"

" You did not ? " he repeated.

But she could no longer reply. She was on the point of falling ; and with
an instinct of protection he stretched out his arms, almost enfolding her in
them. As they stood thus for an instant, the shadow of the dead tree lay
motionless upon them, and the icy moonlight around gave visible bounds to
that isolation for which he had so lately wished.

She had confessed nothing ; but at that instant Fenn felt that all had been
confessed between them. He saw, with a pity that wrung his heart, what her

38 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. [1861-88

struggle had been ; and remorse struck through him like a sword, for his own
sin against Ethel, and for the attitude into which he had forced this woman
who stood with him here. Was this the joy of liberation he had looked for
ward to ?

Anice recovered herself at once. She drew away from his contact and held
on to the bench near at hand. " This will kill me ! " she was moaning, like
one only half conscious. "All these years No; oh, no! You must leave
me instantly. For Ethel's sake go ; go ! Tell her all you have said, every
thing."

" Thank God, Anice, you are nobler than I ! " Uttering these words with
lips that seemed chilled by a frost, he fled. . .

When he came into the hotel, those who saw him wondered at the breath
less and exhausted appearance about his face, ordinarily so strong and com
posed and glowing with healthy color ; but they attributed it to anxiety, for
his first words were an inquiry about his wife. . . .

He stood still in the street, and noticed all at once that the moonlight had
nearly waned, the weird illumination which, an hour or two before, had
seemed so permanent. It gave him a bitter satisfaction to think how his mad
ness had crumbled and slipped away with it. A huge field of cloud was ris
ing, and had swallowed half the stars.

" Oh, my God ! If I should never see Ethel again ! What if some accident
has happened, from which she will die? "

This was the cry in his heart.

A horse and rider, springing out of the feeble light a little way off, and
dashing by, roused him. It had been but a flash, but the face of Kingsmill
seemed to be printed on the night air, and to be lingering behind like a vision,
while the rider swept on.

Fenn ran after him towards the hotel, at his greatest speed. The young
man was there already, dismounted, quivering with excitement, and talking
to a little dusky group of men.

" What is it?" cried Fenn, with an awful fear, as the others fell back be
fore him.

"There has been an accident," said Kingsmill, rapidly.

" Where? Tell me where? "

"The railroad crossing"

" Is she killed ? " The words burst from Fenn like the red drops that spurt
from a knife- thrust.

" She was not badly hurt/' said Kingsmill. " The cars struck them just
as they had got over, and they were thrown out. But some people are taking
care of them."

" I must go ! " cried Fenn wildly, rushing to get Kingsmill's horse, which
was being led away.

" Not that one ! " exclaimed the owner. " I have a fresh one in the stable."

There was a sharp scurry to saddle the fresh steed, and just as Fenn put his
foot in the stirrup the farmer from Mr. Evans's came up with the tired gray
and a message from Auice, who had also become alarmed.

1861-88] GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 39

" For God's sake, go and tell her, Kingsmill ! " shouted Fenn, mounting.
The next instant his horse had shot away, under spur, for the tannery
road.

It was a solemn group that wound up the highway from the railroad cross
ing, coming back.

By the time the wagon that had been obtained was ready to start, Anice,
also, had arrived on horseback ; and the two mounted figures moved at a
funereal pace beside the cart. Ethel had fainted at first, but was restored ;
and, unless she had suffered internal hurt, was judged to be the worse only
for a few bruises. Mr. Evans had not come off so well. He had a broken arm,
and was prostrated by the shock he had sustained. His light carriage was
left behind, a partial wreck, and the borrowed wagon had to proceed slowly,
in order to avoid possible injury to the sufferer.

Fenn and Anice did not exchange a word, but both were lost in wonder at
the chance that had thus brought them together again on this same night,
under such altered conditions. From time to time Fenn, bringing his horse
close to the wheels on EtheFs side, spoke some low word of inquiry or sooth
ing, as indistinguishable to any but her ear as the murmur of the night breeze
in the pines. Sometimes, when he fell back and watched the muffled forms
reclining in the wagon, a picture presented itself to him in which he saw
Ethel as she might have been, motionless and darkly covered and insensible
to the jolting of the springs, a picture of the dead being brought home si
lently from the place of her death ; and then he would turn away and curse
himself, in the midst of a mute thanksgiving.

The chemist sat by his wife all night and watched, while she slept, after
many vain attempts. In the morning, the physician who had been tele
graphed for from a distance arrived, and pronounced with some confidence
that she had no unseen injuries.

It was late in the afternoon that Fenn knelt by his wife's bed, while a soft
light from the fading west pervaded the room. Seeing that she was strong
and recovered, he spoke : " Ethel, I cannot put off any longer the confession
I must make of the wrong that has been in my heart these last few weeks."

" I have been afraid," she answered calmly. " Oh, yes, I knew "; and the
tears rose in her eyes. " But I must not hear it. I cannot."

The blood mounted to his face. " How despicable 1 am ! " he groaned.
" But you don't know all, Ethel. You cannot know that I told her "

She covered her face with her hands, crying, " Oh, why must I believe
this ! Why can't I forget it all, pretend that I did not see?" Then, with a
hot beating in her temples, she took away her hands, and said with forced de
liberation, " Never tell me any more. I cannot promise to be the same to you
or to hold you so ; but I will hear nothing. Only tell me, did you mean to
do me a wrong? Are you true to me? "

" The wrong," he replied, " was a madness, an infatuation. That was all.
But I am not fit, now, even to say I am true to you." He lifted his eyes to
hers.

40 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. [1861-88

She looked into them with a calm, just scrutiny ; and Fenn thought that
he knew what the light in the recording angel's eyes must be like. But it was
only the glance of a tender woman possessing deep intuitions. She said at
length : "I will believe in you."

Ethel put her hand upon his head, with a touch so simple and gentle that it
was the best of benedictions.

He had held, once, that there was a peculiar mystery about Anice, and the
belief had made her the more dangerously fascinating. Ethel was transpar
ent enough, exteriorly ; but the mystery of her nature lay deeper down, and
he was only just beginning to apprehend it. The quality in Anice served
merely as a unit of measure for its larger presence in Ethel. Kneeling here
before his wife, with too much humility in him even to put his lips to hers,
Fenn saw that he was touching the mystery which is profounder than intel
lectual choice ; which ditfuses itself through earth and heaven, and solves all
but explains nothing, pure love.

THE PHCEBE-BIRD.

YES, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird :
Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard.
I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow
Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow
Strength from the other, making one more brave
And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave.

But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens:
One is for hey-day, one for sorrow's cadence.
Our voices vary with the changing seasons
Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons.

Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered
If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered.
We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain,
Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane,
With love and hate or good and evil all
At separate times in separate accents call;
Yet 'tis the same heart-throb within the breast
That gives an impulse to our worst and best.
I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended,
The Listener finds them in one music blended.

THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES.

THE sunshine of thine eyes, The sunshine of thine eyes,

(O still, celestial beam !) Oh, let it fall on me !

Whatever it touches it fills Though I be but a mote of the air,

With the life of its lambent gleam. I could turn to gold for thee.

1861-88]

ROSE HA WTHOBNE LA TIIROP.

THE FLOWN SOUL.

FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP, FEBRUARY, 1881.

not again! I dwell with you
_> Above the realm of frost and dew,
Of pain and fire, and growth to death.
I dwell with you where never breath
Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows
From life to life ; even as a rose
Unseen pours sweetness through each

vein,

And from the air distils again.
You are my rose unseen : we live
Where each to other joy may give
In ways untold, by means unknown
And secret us the magnet-stone.

For which of us, indeed, is dead ?
No more I lean to kiss your head ;
The gold-red hair so thick upon it:
Joy feels no more the touch that won it,
When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm
In tenderness so childish, calm,
Crept softly, once. Yet, see : my arm
Is strong, and still my blood runs warm :

1883.

I still can work and think, and weep.
But all this show of life I keep
Is but the shadow of your shine;
Flicker of your fire ; husk of your vine :
Therefore you are not dead, nor I,
Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy.
Among the stars your feet are set :
Your little feet are dancing yet
Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth.
So swift, so slight, are death and birth !

Come not again, dear child. If thou
By any chance couldst break that vow
Of silence, at thy last hour made ;
If to this grim life, unafraid,
Thou couldst return, and melt the frost
Wherein thy bright limbs' power was

lost ;

Still would I whisper since so fair
The silent comradeship we share
Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain
Of tears : ' ' Come not ! Come not again ! "

BORN in Lenox, Mass., 1851.

A SONG BEFORE GRIEF.

[Along the Shore. 1888.]

SORROW, my friend,
When shall you come again ?
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send

Their silvery motions wearily down the plain.
The bird is dead

That sang this morning through the summer rain !

Sorrow, niy friend,

I owe my soul to you.
And if my life with any glory end

Of tenderness for others, and the words are true,
Said, honoring, when I'm dead,

Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due.

ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP.

[1861-88

And yet, my friend,

When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend

With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,

" Away ! " I shriek, "nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong! "

Still, you are near:

Who can your care withstand ?
When deep eternity shall look most clear,

Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling land,
My joy shall disappear,

A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea by your pale hand.

TWENTY BOLD MARINERS.

Y bold mariners went to the wave,
-*- Twenty sweet breezes blew over the main;
All were so hearty, so free, and so brave,
But they never came back again !

Half the wild ocean rose up to the clouds,

Half the broad sky scowled in thunder and rain ;

Twenty white crests rose around them like shrouds,
And they stayed in the dancing main!

This is easy to sing, and often to mourn,

And the breaking of dawn is no newer to-day;

But those who die young or are left forlorn,
Think grief is no older than they !

THE LOST BATTLE.

TO his heart it struck such terror
That he laughed a laugh of scorn-
The man in the soldier's doublet,
With the sword so bravely worn.

It struck his heart like the frost-wind

To find his comrades fled,
While the battle-field was guarded

By the heroes who lay dead.

He drew his sword in the sunlight,
And called with a long halloo :

"Dead men, there is one living
Shall stay it out with you ! "

He raised a ragged standard,

This lonely soul in war,
And called the foe to onset,

With shouts they heard afar.

They galloped swiftly toward him.

The banner floated wide ;
It sank; he sank beside it

Upon his sword, and died.

1861-88] WILLIAM CRARY BROWNELL. 43

DOROTHY.

DEAR little Dorothy, she is no more !
I have wandered world-wide, from shore to shore,
I have seen as great beauties as ever were wed ;
But none can console me for Dorothy dead.

Dear little Dorothy ! How strange it seems

That her face is less real than the faces of dreams;

That the love which kept true, and the lips which so spoke,

Are more lost than my heart, which died not when it broke!

Crar?

BORN in New York, N. Y., 1851.

THE FRENCHWOMAN.
{French Traits. 1889.]

THE domesticity aimed at by the Spanish convent and cultivated by the
Germanic hearth and chimney-corner is in no sense the object of the
Frenchman's ambition for the Frenchwoman. Here as elsewhere his social in
stinct triumphs over every other, and he regards the family circle as altogether
too narrow a sphere for the activities of a being who occupies so much of his
mind and heart, and in whose consideration he is as much concerned as she
in his. To be the mother of his children and the nurse of his declining years
is a destiny which, unrelieved by the gratification of her own instincts of ex
pansion, he would as little wish for her as she would for herself. To be the
ornament of a society, to awake perpetual interest, to be perpetually and
universally charming, to contribute powerfully to the general aims of her en
vironment, never to lose her character as woman in any of the phases or func
tions of womanly existence, even in wifehood or maternity this central mo
tive of the Frenchwoman's existence is cordially approved by the Frenchman.
In fact it is because he approves and insists upon it that she is what she is. It
is for this reason that she devotes so much attention to dress, which in her thus,
spite of those surface indications that mislead the foreigner, is almost never
due to the passion for dress in itself to which similar preoccupation infallibly
testifies in the women of other societies. A New York belle dresses for her
rivals when she does not, like the aborigines of her species, dress for herself
alone. Mr. Henry James acutely represents the Mrs. Westgate of his "Inter
national Episode "as "sighing to think the Duchess would never know how
well she was dressed." To induce analogous regret in a Frenchwoman a cor
responding masculine obtuseness would be absolutely indispensable. And
this among her own countrymen she would never encounter. Her dress, then,

44 WILLIAM CHARY BROWNELL. [1861-88

is a part of her coquetry one of the most important weapons in a tolerably
well -stocked arsenal ; but it is nothing more, and it in no degree betokens
frivolity. Like her figure and her carriage it is a continual ocular demonstra
tion and a strong ally of her instinct, her genius, for style. In these three re
gards she is unapproachable, and in every other attribute of style she is cer
tainly unsurpassed. In elegance, in intelligence, in self-possession, in poise,
it would be difficult to find exceptions in other countries to rival the average
Parisienne. And her coquetry, which endues her style with the element of
charm (of which it is, as I said, the science), is neither more nor less than the
instinct to please highly developed. It is not, as certainly coquetry elsewhere
may sometimes be called, the instinct to please deeply perverted. The French
coquette does not flirt. Her frivolity, her superficiality, may be great in many
directions in religion, in moral steadfastness, in renunciation, in constancy,
even in sensibility but in coquetry she is never superficial ; the dimly veiled,
half acknowledged insincerity of what is known as flirtation would seem to
her frivolous to a degree unsuspected by her American contemporary. To
her as to her countrymen the relations of men and women are too important
and too interesting not to be at bottom entirely serious.

In fine, to estimate the Frenchwoman's moral nature with any approach to
adequacy it is necessary entirely to avoid viewing her from an Anglo-Saxon
standpoint. Apart from her milieu she is not to be understood at all. The
ideals of woman in general held by this milieu are wholly different from our
ideals. To see how and wherein let us inquire of some frank French friend.
"We shall never agree about women/' he will be sure to admit at the outset ;
and he may be imagined to continue very much in this strain : "We French
men have a repugnance, both instinctive and explicit, to your propensity to
make companionability the essential quality of the ideal woman. Consciously
or unconsciously this is precisely what you do. It is in virtue of their being
more companionable, and in an essentially masculine sense, that the best of
your women, the serious ones, shine superior in your eyes to their frivolous
or pedantic rivals. You seem to us, in fact, to approach far more nearly than
your English cousins to the ideal in this respect of your common Gothic an
cestors. Your ideal is pretty closely the Alruna woman an august creature
spiritually endowed with inflexible purity and lofty, respect-compelling vir
tues, performing the office of a ' guiding-star ' amid the perplexities of life,
whose approval or censure is important in a thousand moral exigencies, and
one's feeling for whom is always strongly tinctured even in the days of court
ship with something akin to filial feeling. In your daily life this ideal be
comes, of course, familiarized you do not need to be reminded that ' famil
iarized ' is, indeed, an extenuating term to describe the effect upon many of
your ideals when they are brought into the atmosphere of your daily life, that
thecontrast between American ideals andAmerican practice frequently strikes
us as grotesque. In the atmosphere of your daily life the Alruna woman be
comes a good fellow. She despises girls who flirt, as you yourselves despise
our dandies and our petits jeunes gens. She despises with equal vigor the
lackadaisical, the hysterical, the affected in any way. She plays a good game
of tennis; it is one of her ambitions to cast a fly adroitly, to handle an oar

18G1-88] WILLIAM CRART BROWNELL. 45

well. She is by no means a Di Vernon. She has a thoroughly masculine an
tipathy to the romantic, and is embarrassed in its presence. She reads the
journals ; she has opinions, which, unlike her inferior sisters, she rarely ob
trudes. She is tremendously efficient and never poses. She is saved from
masculinity by great tact, great delicacy in essentials, by her beauty which is
markedly feminine, by her immensely narrower sphere, and by Divine Provi
dence. She is thus thoroughly companionable, and she is after all a woman.
This makes her immensely attractive to you. But nothing could be less se
ductive to usthan this predominance of companionableness over the feminine
element, the element of sex. Of our women, ideal and real (which yon know
in France, the country of equality, of homogeneity, of averages, is nearly the
same thing), we could better say that they are thoroughly feminine and that
they are, after all, companionable. Indeed, if what I understand by * com
panionable ' be correct, i.e., rien que s' entendre, they are quite as much so as
their American sisters, though in a very different way, it is true.

" Let me explain. The strictness of your social code effectually shuts off
the American woman from interest in, and the American girl from knowledge
of, what is really the essential part of nearly half of life ; I mean from any
mental occupation except in their more superficial aspects with the innumer
able phenomena attending one of the two great instincts from which modern
science has taught us to derive all the moral perceptions and habits of human
life. This is explainable no doubt by the unwritten but puissant law which
informs every article of your social constitution that relates to women : name
ly, the law that insures the precedence of the young girl over the married AVO-
man. With you, indeed, the young girl has le liaut du pave in what seems to
us a very terrible degree. Your literature, for example, is held by her in a
bondage which to us seems abject, and makes us esteem it superficial. ' Since
the author of " Tom Jones " no one has been permitted to depict a man as he
really is,' complains Thackeray. With you it is even worse, because the young
girl exercises an even greater tyranny than in England. Nothing so forcibly
illustrates her position at the head of your society, however not even her
overwhelming predominance in all your social reunions within and without
doors, winter and summer, at luncheons, dinners, lawn-parties, balls, recep
tions, lectures, and church as the circumstance that you endeavor success
fully to keep her a girl after she has become a woman. You desire and con
trive that your wives shall be virgins in word, thought, and aspiration. That
this should be the case before marriage every one comprehends. That is the
end of our endeavor equally with yours. In every civilized society men wish
to be themselves the introducers and instructors of their wives in a realm of
such real and vital interest as that of which marriage, everywhere but in your
country, opens the door. But with us the young girl is constantly looking
forward to becoming, and envying the condition of, a woman. That is the
source of our restrictions, of our conventual regulations, which seem to you
so absurd, even so dishonoring. You are saved from having such, however,
by the fact that with you the young girl is the rounded and complete ideal,
the type of womanhood, and that it is her condition, spiritually speaking,
that the wife and even the mother emulate. And you desire ardently that

46 WILLIAM CRARY BROWNELL. [1861-88

they should. You do not ' see any necessity,' as you say in your utilitarian
phraseology, of a woman's 'losing' anything of the fresh and clear charm
which perfumes the existence of the young girl. You have a short way of dis
posing of our notion that a woman is the flower and fulfilment of that of which
the young girl is the bud and the promise. You esteem this notion a piece of
sophistry designed to conceal our really immoral desire to rob our women of
the innocence and naivete which we insist upon in the young girl, in order
that our social life may be more highly spiced. Your view is wholly different
from that of your race at the epoch of its most considerable achievements in
the l criticism of life ' and antecedent to the Anglo-Saxon invention of prud
ery as a bulwark of virtue. It is a view which seems to spring directly from
the Puritan system of each individual managing independently his own spir
itual affairs without any of the reciprocal aids and the division of labor pro
vided for in the more elaborate scheme of Catholicism, in consequence of
which each individual left in this way wholly to himself is forced into a timid
and distrustful attitude toward temptation. Nothing is more noticeable in
your women, thus, than a certain suspicious and timorous exclusion from
the field of contemplation of anything unsuited to the attention of the young
girl. It is as if they feared contamination for virtue if the attitude and habit
of mind belonging to innocence were once abandoned. They probably do fear
vaguely that you fear it for them, that your feminine ideal excludes it.

" Now, it is very evident that however admirable in its results this position
may be, and however sound in itself, it involves an important limitation of
that very companionableness which you so much insist on in your women.
In this sense, the average Frenchwoman is an equal, a companion, to a degree
almost never witnessed with you. After an hour of feminine society we do not
repair to the club for a relaxation of mind and spirit, for a respiration of ex
pansion, and to find in unrestrained freedom an enjoyment that has the ad
ditional sense of being a relief. Our clubs are in fact mere excuses for gam
bling, not refuges for bored husbands and homeless bachelors. Conversation
among men is perhaps grosser in quality, the equivoque is perhaps not so deli
cate, so spirituelle, but they do not differ in kind from the conversational tis
sue in mixed company, as with you they do so widely. With you this difference
in kind is notoriously an abyss. In virtue of our invention of treating deli
cate topics with innuendo, our mixed society gains immensely in interest and
attractiveness, and our women are more intimately companionable than
yours

" Even if your women were intimately companionable they would none the
less radically differ from our own ; we should still reproach them with a cer
tain masculine quality in the elevated, and a certain prosaic note in the famil
iar types. By masculine, I certainly do not here intend the signification you
give to your derisive epithet 'strong-minded.' In affirming that there is a
generous ampleness in the feminine quality of our women unobservable in
yours, I do not mean to charge them with inferiority in what you call ' pure
mentality'; in intelligence and capacities we believe them unequalled the
world over. But they are essentially less masculine in avoiding strictly all
competition with men, in conserving all their individuality of sex and follow-

1861-88] WILLIAM CHARY BROWNELL. 47

ing their own bent. Nothing is more common than to hear American women
lament their lack of opportunity, envy the opportunity of men. Nothing is
rarer with us. It never occurs to a Frenchwoman to regret her sex. It is
probable that almost every American woman with any pretensions to 'pure
mentality/ feels, on the contrary, that her sex is a limitation, and wishes, with
that varying ardor and intermittent energy which characterize her, that she
were a man and had a man's opportunity. In a thousand ways she is the man's
rival, which with us she never is. Hence the popularity with you of the agi
tation for woman suffrage, practically unknown in France.

" The difference is nowhere so luminously illustrated as in the respective
attitudes of French and American women toward the institution of marriage.
With us from the hour when she begins first to think at all of her future an
epoch which arrives probably much earlier than with you marriage is the
end and aim of a woman's existence. And it is so consciously and deliberately.
A large part of her conduct is influenced by this particular prospect. It is
the conscious and deliberate aim also of her parents or guardians for her.
They constantly remind her of it. Failure to attain it is considered by her and
by them as the one great failure, to avoid which every effort should tend, every
aspiration be directed. In its excess this becomes either ludicrous or repul
sive as one looks at it. ' Si tu veux te marier, ne fais jamais ga' ' Cela t'em-
pechera de te marier' who has not been fatigued with such maternal ad
monitions which resound in interiors by no means always of the basse classef
But the result is that marriage occupies a share of the young girl's mind and
meditation which to your young girls would undoubtedly seem disproportion
ate, and indeed involve a sense of shame. There is no more provision in the
French social constitution than in the order of nature itself for the old maid.
Her fate is eternal eccentricity, and is correspondingly dreaded among us who
dread nothing more than exclusion from the sympathies of society and a share
in its organized activities. Marriage once attained, the young girl, though
become by it a woman, is not of course essentially changed, but only more
highly organized in her original direction. You may be surprised to hear
that sometimes it suffices her as it suffices English, and used to American
women ; though it must be admitted that our society does not make of even
marriage an excuse for exacting the sum of a woman's activities which it is
the Anglo-Saxon tendency to do, and that thus her merit is less conspicuous.
If marriage do not suffice her, it is not in 'Sorosis ' or Dorcas or Browning
societies, or art or books that she seeks distraction, but in the consolation
strictly cognate to that of marriage which society offers her. Accordingly,
whatever goes to make up the distinctively feminine side of woman's nature
tends with us to become highly developed. It acquires a refinement, a sub
tlety, of organization quite unknown to societies whose ideal women inspire
filial feeling. We have as a rule very few Cornelias. Our mothers themselves
are far from being Spartan. The Gothic goddess is practically unknown in
France. ' Woman's sphere,' as you call it, is totally distinct from man's.
The action and reaction of the two which produce the occupation, the amuse
ment, the life of society are far more intimate than with you, but they are the
exact reverse of homogeneous.

48 WILLIAM GEARY BROW NELL. [1861-88

" It is an inevitable corollary from this that that sentimental side which
you seem to us to be endeavoring to subordinate in your more serious women,
receives in the Frenchwoman that greatest of all benefits, a harmonious and
natural development. Before and after marriage, and however marriage may
turn for her, it is her disposition to love and her capacity for loving which are
stimulated constantly by her surroundings, and which are really the measure
of the esteem in which she is held. To love intensely and passionately is her
ideal. It is so much her ideal that if marriage does not enable her to attain
it, it is a virtue rather than a demerit in her eyes to seek it elsewhere. Not
to die before having attained in its fulness this end of the law of her being is
often the source of the Frenchwoman's tragic disasters. But even when in
dubitable disaster arrives to her it is at least tragic, and a tragedy of this kind
is in itself glorious. To remain spiritually an etre incomplet is to her nearly
as dreadful a fate as to become a monstrosity. Both are equally hostile to na
ture, and we have a national passion for being in harmony with nature. It is
probably impossible to make you comprehend how far this is carried by us.
Take the life of George Sand as an instance. It was incontestably the inspira
tion of her works, and to us it is the reverse of reprehensible, 'for she loved
much '; it is not her elopement with Musset but her desertion of him that in
dicates to our mind her weak side. In this way the attitude of the French
woman toward love is one of perfect frankness. So far from dissembling its
nature either transcendentally or pietistically, after the fashion of your
maidens, or mystically, after the fashion in the pays de Gretchen she appre
ciates it directly and simply as a passion, and for her the most potent of the
passions, the passion whose praise has been the burden of all the poets since
the morning stars first sang together, and whose possession shares equally with
the possession of superior intelligence the honor of distinguishing man from
the lower animals. This is why to our women, as much as to our men, your
literature, your 'criticism of life,' seems pale, as we say pale and superficial.
This is why we had such an enyouement for your Byron and never heard of
your "Wordsworth. This is why we occupy ourselves so much with cognate
subjects as you will have remarked.

"And the sentimental side, being thus naturally and harmoniously devel
oped, becomes thus naturally and spontaneously the instrument of woman's
power and the source of her dignity. Through it she seeks her triumphs and
attains her ends. To it is due not her influence over men as with your in
veterate habit of either divorcing the sexes into a friendly rivalry or associat
ing them upon the old-fashioned, English, harem-like, basis, you would in
evitably express it but her influence upon society. This results in a great
gain to women themselves increases indefinitely their dignity and power.
It is axiomatic that anything inevitable and not in itself an evil it is far better
to utilize than to resist. Every one acknowledges the eminence of the senti
mental side in woman's nature, the great part which it plays in her conduct,
the great influence it has upon her motives. And since it has, therefore, in
evitably to be reckoned with, its development accomplishes for women results
which could not be hoped for if sentiment were merely treated as an inevita
ble handicap to be modified and mitigated. Your own logic seems to us ex-

1861-88] HENRY WOODFEN QRADY. 49

ceedingly singular. You argue that men and women should be equal, that
the present regrettable inequality with you is due to the greater influence of
sentiment on women's minds in viewing purely intellectual matters (you are
constantly throwing this up to your woman suffragists), and that therefore
the way in which women are to be improved and elevated (as you curiously
express it) is clearly by the repression of their sentiment. It is the old story :
you are constantly teaching your women to envy the opportunities of men, to
regret their ' inferiority ' hitherto, and to endeavor to emulate masculine vir
tues by mastering their emotions and suppressing their sentiment ; that is to
say, you are constantly doing this by indirection and unconsciously, at least,
and by betraying the fact that such is your ideal for them. You never seem
to think they can be treated as a fundamentally different order of capacity
and disposition. I remember listening for two hours to one of your cleverest
women lecturing on Joan of Arc, and the thesis of her lecture was that there
was no mystery at all about the Maid and her accomplishments, except the
eternal mystery of transcendent military genius, that she was in fact a female
Napoleon and that it was the 'accident of sex' simply that had prevented her
from being so esteemed by the purblind masculine prejudice which had there
tofore dominated people's minds. Thinking of what Jeanne d'Arc stands for
to us Frenchmen, of her place in our imaginations, of the way in which she il
lustrates for us the puissance of the essentially feminine element in humanity,
I said to myself, ' No, the Americans and we will never agree about women. ' ' ;

BORN in Athens, Ga., 1851. DIED in Atlanta, Ga., 1889.

THE SOFTER ASPECTS OF SLAVERY.

[From a Series of Articles on " The New South." The New York Ledger, 1889.]

I )ERHAPS no period of human history has been more misjudged and less
JL understood than the slave-holding era in the South. Slavery as an in
stitution cannot be defended; but its administration was so nearly perfect
among our forefathers as to challenge and hold our loving respect. It is
doubtful if the world has seen a peasantry so happy and so well-to-do as the
negro slaves in America. The world was amazed at the fidelity with which
these slaves guarded, from 1861 to 1865, the homes and families of the mas
ters who were fighting with the army that barred their way to freedom. If
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" had portrayed the rule of slavery rather than the
rarest exception, not all the armies that went to the field could have stayed
the flood of rapine and arson and pillage that would have started with the
first gun of the civil war. Instead of that, witness the miracle of the slave in
loyalty to his master, closing the fetters upon his own limbs maintaining
and defending the families of those who fought against his freedom and at
VOL. xi. 4

50 HENRY WOODFEN GRADT. [1861-88

night on the far-off battle-field searching among the carnage for his young
master, that he might lift the dying head to his breast and bend to catch the
last words to the old folks at home, so wrestling the meantime in agony and
love that he would lay down his life in his master's stead.

History has no parallel to the faith kept by the negro in the South during
the war. Often five hundred negroes to a single white man, and yet through
these dusky throngs the women and children walked in safety, and the un
protected homes rested in peace. Unmarshalled, the black battalions moved
patiently to the fields in the morning to feed the armies their idleness would
have starved, and at night gathered anxiously at the big house to " hear the
news from marster," though conscious that his victory made their chains en
during. Everywhere humble and kindly. The body-guard of the helpless.
The rough companion of the little ones. The observant friend. The silent
sentry in his lowly cabin. The shrewd counsellor. And when the dead came
home, a mourner at the open grave. A thousand torches would have dis
banded every Southern army, but not one was lighted. When the master,
going to a war in which slavery was involved, said to his slave, " I leave my
home and loved ones in your charge," the tenderness between man and mas
ter stood disclosed.

The Northern man, dealing with casual servants, querulous, sensitive, and
lodged for a day in a sphere they resent, can hardly comprehend the friendli
ness and sympathy that existed between the master and the slave. He can
not understand how the negro stood in slavery days, open-hearted and sym
pathetic, full of gossip and comradeship, the companion of the hunt, frolic,
furrow, and home, contented in the kindly dependence that has been a habit
of his blood, and never lifting his eyes beyond the narrow horizon that shut
him in with his neighbors and friends. But this relation did exist in the
days of slavery. It was the rule of that regime. It has survived war, and
strife, and political campaigns in which the drum-beat inspired and Federal
bayonets fortified. It will never die until the last slave-holder and slave has
been gathered to rest. It is the glory of our past in the South. It is the an
swer to abuse and slander. It is the hope of our future.

The relations of the races in slavery must be clearly understood to under
stand what has followed, and to judge of what is yet to come. Not less im
portant is it to have some clear idea of the civilization of that period.

That was a peculiar society. Almost feudal in its splendor, it was almost
patriarchal in its simplicity. Leisure and wealth gave it exquisite culture.
Its wives and mothers, exempt from drudgery, and almost from care, gave to
their sons, through patient and constant training, something of their own
grace and gentleness and to their homes beauty and light. Its people, homo
geneous by necessity, held straight and simple faith, and were religious to a
marked degree along the old lines of Christian belief. This same homogene
ity bred a hospitality that was as kinsmen to kinsmen, and that wasted at the
threshold of every home what the more frugal people of the North conserved
and invested in public charities. The code duello furnished the highest ap
peal in dispute. An affront to a lad was answered at the pistol's mouth. The

1861-88] HENRY WOODFEN ORADT. 5^

sense of quick responsibility tempered the tongues of even the most violent,
and the newspapers of South Carolina for eight years, it is said, did not con
tain one abusive word. The ownership of slaves, even more than of realty,
held families steadfast on their estates, and everywhere prevailed the socia
bility of established neighborhoods. Money counted least in making the so
cial status, and constantly ambitious and brilliant youngsters from no estate
married into the families of planter princes. Meanwhile the one character
utterly condemned and ostracized was the man who was mean to his slaves.
Even the coward was pitied and might have been liked. For the cruel master
there was no toleration.

The ante-bellum society had immense force. Working under the slavery
which brought the suspicion or hostility of the world, and which practically
beleaguered it within walls, it yet accomplished good things. For the first
sixty-four years of the republic it furnished the president for fifty-two years.
Its statesmen demanded the war of 1812, opened it with but five Northern
senators supporting it, and its general, Jackson, won the decisive battle of
New Orleans. It was a Southern statesman who added the Louisiana terri
tory of more than 1,000,000 square miles to our domain. Under a Southern
statesman Florida was acquired from Spain. Against the opposition of the
free States, the Southern influence forced the war with Mexico, and annexed
the superb empire of Texas, brought in New Mexico, and opened the gates of
the republic to the Pacific. Scott and Taylor, the heroes of the Mexican war,
were Southern men. In material, as in political affairs, the old South was
masterful. The first important railroad operated in America traversed Caro
lina. The first steamer that crossed the ocean cleared from Savannah. The
first college established for girls was opened in Georgia. No naturalist has
surpassed Audubon ; no geographer equalled Maury ; and Sims and McDon
ald led the world of surgery in their respective lines. It was Crawford Long,
of Georgia, who gave to the world the priceless blessing of anaesthesia. The
wealth accumulated by the people was marvellous. And, though it is held
that slavery enriched the poor at the general expense, Georgia and Carolina
were the richest States, per capita, in the Union in 1860, saving Rhode Isl
and. Some idea of the desolation of war may be had from the fact that, in
spite of their late remarkable recuperation, they are now, excepting Idaho,
the poorest States, per capita, in the Union. So rich was the South in 1860,
that Mr. Lincoln spoke but common sentiment when he said : " If we let the
South go, where shall we get our revenues ?"

lu its engaging grace in the chivalry that tempered even Quixotism with
dignity in the piety that saved master and slave alike in the charity that
boasted not in the honor held above estate in the hospitality that neither
condescended nor cringed in frankness and heartiness and wholesome com
radeship in the reverence paid to womanhood and the inviolable respect in
which woman's name was held the civilization of the old slave regime in the
South has not been surpassed, and perhaps will not be equalled, among men.

And as the fidelity of the slave during the war bespoke the kindness of the
master before the war, so the unquestioning reverence with which the young
men of the South accepted, in 1865, their heritage of poverty and defeat,

52 JOHN ALFRED MACON. [1861-88

proved the strength and excellence of the civilization from which that her
itage had come. In cheerfulness they bestirred themselves amid the ashes
and the wrecks, and, holding the inspiration of their past to be better than
their rich acres and garnered wealth, went out to rebuild their fallen for
tunes, with never a word of complaint, nor the thought of criticism !

BORN in Demopolis, Ala., 1851.

TERPSICHORE IX THE FLAT CREEK QUARTERS.

[Contributed to the Century Magazine. 1880-83.]

T ISTEN when I call de flggers ! Watch de music es you go !

-I ^ Chassay forrard ! (Now look at 'em ! some too fas' an' some too slow !)

Step out when I gibs de order; keep up eben wid de line;

What's got in dem lazy niggers ? Stop dat stringin' out behin' !

All go forrard to de centre ! Balance roun' an' den go back f

Keep on in de proper 'rection, right straight up an' down de crack! mm.

Moobe up sides an' mind de music; listen when you hear me speak!

(Jes' look at dem Pea Riclge niggers, how dey's buckin' 'gin de Creek!)

Dat's de proper action, Sambo ! den you done de biznis right !

Now show 'em how you knocked de splinters at de shuckin' t'udder night ;

Try to do your lebbel bes', an' stomp it like you use to do !

Jes' come down on de " Flat Creek step " an' show de Ridge a thing or two!

Now look at dat limber Jonah tryin' to tech de fancy fling!

(Who ebber seed a yaller nigger dat could cut de pidgin-wing ?)

Try dat lick agin, dar, Moses; tell you what, dat's hard to beat!

(How kin sich a little nigger handle sich a pile o' feet ?)

Swing your corners! Turn your pardners! ('Pears de motion's gittin' slow.).

What's de matter wid de music ? Put some rosgum on dat bow!

Moobe up, Tom don't be so sleepy! Let 'em see what you kin do!

Light off in de " gra'-vine-twis' " an' knock de "double-shuffle," too!

Gosh! dat double- j'inted Steben flings a hifalutin hoof!

He kicks de dus' plum out de planks an' jars de shingles on de roof!

Steady, now, an' check de motion! Let de fiddler stop de chune!

I smell de 'possum froo de crack, an' supper's gwine to call you soon!

De white folks come it mighty handy, waltzin' 'roun' so nice an' fine ;

But when you come to reg'lar danciri 1 , niggers leabes 'em way 'behiri' !

1861-88] JOHN ALFRED MACON. 53

POLITICS AT THE LOG-ROLLING.

IB'LEBES dat any nigger's in n sorry sort o' way
Dat swallows all tie racket dat de politicians say;
For I's been a grown-up cullud man some forty years or so,
An' I's heard 'em make de same old 'sertions heap o' times befo'.
Dar's lots o' cussed foolishness an' gassin', anyway,
'Bout bustin' up de Constercluision eb'ry 'lection-day;
'Cause I gib it as de notion ob a plain an' humble man,
Dat de Gub'ment an' de country, too, is tough enough to stan'.
I nebber takes more polertics den one good man kin tote,
An' I don't need any 'visin' when I go to drap my vote;
I talks wid all de caiierdates, au' tell 'em what I choose,
But I goes in on de side dat gibs de liyyest Wibykews !

THE OLD SHIP OF ZION.

OH ! eb'rything's ready, Dey's a-loosenin' de line,

De wind is steady, An' soon she'll be gwine,

An' de folks keep a-crowdin' to de gospel For yonder come de deck-hands to push

ship; her off de bank ;

Tis de best time to ride She's a-puffin' ! she's a-puffin' !

On de Jordan tide An' she nebber waits for nuffin'

Dar's no use o' waitin' for the 'scursion Better git abode, sinners, 'fo' dey pull in

trip ! de plank !

THE WEDDING ON THE CREEK.

OH! I's got to string de banjer 'g'inst de closin' ob de week.
For dar's gwine to be a weddin' 'mongst de niggers on de Creek.
Dey's gittin' up a frolic, an' dar's gwine to be a noise
When de Plantation knocks ag'in' de Slab Town boys!
Dar'll be stranger folks a-plenty, an' de gals is comin' too,
All lubly as de day-break, an' fresher dan de jew !
A'nt Dinah's gittin' ready, wid her half a dozen daughters,
An' little Angelina, f urn. de Chinkypen Quarters ;
Anudder gal's a-comin', but I couldn't tell her name;
She's sweet as 'lasses candy an' pretty all de same !
She's nicer dan a rose-bush an' lubly ebrywhar
Fum de bottom ob her slippers to de wroppiu's in her ha'r.
Lordy mussy 'pon me, how 'twill flusterate de niggers
To see her slidin' cross de flo' an' steppin' froo de figgers.

54 CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. [1861-88

tfrancig

BORN in Hallowell, Me., 1851.

NATHANIEL HAWTHOBNE.

[American Literature : 1607-1885. In Two Volumes. 1887-89.]
HIS GENIUS AS AN ARTIST.

LADLY we turn toward the singularly beautiful and characteristic list
of writings which began with " Fanshawe" in 1828 and closed with the
unfinished " Dolliver Romance " in 18G4. Throughout nearly all of them we
shall find that artlessness which characterizes the true genius, and that art
which shows genius to be accompanied by high powers of construction and
elaboration. An English painter and poet of Hawthorne's own time wrote,
in youth, a story which has for its central thought the idea that " an artist
need not seek for intellectualized moral intentions in his work, but will ful
fil God's highest purpose by simple truth in manifesting, in a spirit of devout
faith, the gift that G-od has given him." This idea is one which, in some
shape, often occurs to Hawthorne's readers, and must more often have been
in the romancer's own mind, though he seldom formulated it.

The delight which we take in Hawthorne is, then, the joy of perception of
the work of an artist. The several methods of intellectual communication
between mind and mind are widely variant in method and result. "We derive
one impression or pleasure from painting, and another now stronger, now
weaker from sculpture, architecture, action, music ; or from the apprehen
sion of inanimate nature by the sense. It is the privilege and power of liter
ature in the hands of its masters to convey to readers a sort of combination or
intense suggestion of almost all other methods of thought-transfer or soul-
expression. If printing is the "art preservative of all arts," literature is the
art suggestive or inclusive of all arts. The author is an artist, and in di
rect proportion as he fulfils the highest artistic function in choice and elab
oration of his creations does he deserve his craft-name in its highest
sense. ....

The precise success which Hawthorne has attained, in his artist-work, is a
matter of debate, which it is hopeless to try to settle definitely as yet. The neg
lect which once surrounded his name has changed to a too silly and reveren
tial laudation. Already this modest writer has fallen into the hands of the
zealots who study plays or poems of Shakespeare or Shelley or Browning for
"inner meanings "or esoteric doctrine. There can no longer be question,
however, that Hawthorne is an artist, to be measured by the canons applicable
to the broader and more ambitious creations, and to stand or fall in letters ac
cording as his writings endure the large tests which they are brought to face.

Often enough did Hawthorne express his knowledge of the tremendous
lesson which life teaches to a great artist like a Dante or a Milton, but cannot
teach to a Schopenhauer or an Omar Khayyam. Bunyan never insisted more

1861-88J CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. 55

strongly upon the notion of God, duty, and immortality ; upon the " sinful-
ness of sin," as the old preachers used to phrase it, and as the liberal roman
cer in reality accepted it. The human heart was Hawthorne's highest and
most constant theme, and though he neyer wasted time in orotund sermoniz
ing, and threw away as chaff fit for " Earth's Holocaust " much that creed-
makers, from Nice to Plymouth, deem sacred, he was ever, without being
less an artist, a force in the world of life and letters. He watched with keen,
deep eyes, but sometimes he wrote with a pen of flame. " The heart, the
heart, there was the little yet boundless sphere wherein existed the original
wrong of which the crime and misery of this outward world were merely types.
Purify that inward sphere, and the many shapes of evil that haunt the out
ward, and which now seem almost our only realities, will turn to shadowy
phantoms and vanish of their own accord ; but if we go no deeper than the
intellect, and strive, with merely that feeble instrument, to discern and rec
tify what is wrong, our whole accomplishment will be a dream."

This "inward sphere," the human heart, was Hawthorne's field of study
and portrayal. He saw and described its innocence, its purity, its loveliness,
its noble hopes, its truest triumphs, its temptations, its sinful tendency, its
desperate struggles, its downward motions, its malignity, its "total deprav
ity," at least in appearance, its final petrifaction and self-destruction the
only destruction of which, in the divine plan, it is capable. Life, in Haw
thorne's view, was no Human Comedy, as to Balzac, or tragedy of lost souls,
as to the early New England theologians, but the struggle of individual men,
women, and children with the powers within and without them, and chiefly
the powers within. Surely a romancer could have no higher theme, and highly
did Hawthorne treat it.

AET AND ETHICS.

But did he thereby become the less an artist or the more?

The literature of the two great Anglo-Saxon peoples has always had a tol
erably clear idea that there is a necessary connection between art and ethics.
It has contained many mischievous or frivolous books ; it has wavered be
tween the austerity of Bunyan and the license of the dramatists of the Res
toration ; it has been successively influenced by Norman-French, Italian,
Latin, and Greek culture ; but it has never lost sight of certain principles pe
culiarly its own. One of these principles is that a book should have a definite
purpose, a real reason for being, if it expects a long life. This principle has
not been lost even in the imaginative literature of England and America.

Before the novel, the poem afforded our intellectual ancestors their means
of amusement ; and in early English poetry the moral element was seldom
lacking. ,

When fiction took the place of poetry, as an intellectual amusement, the
same principle held good. To this day, the best-known work of imagination
in English prose is a terribly earnest sermon. It so happened that the growth
of the English novel began when English society and religion were once more
in a degraded state, but in the indecency and coarseness of the novel of the
eighteenth century there still appears something that is not French, not Ital-

56 CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. [1861-88

ian, not Spanish. Eobinson Crusoe is a moral Englishman abroad, who has
changed his sky, not his disposition. Moralizing, if not morality, is not ab
sent from the loose sayings of Sterne. Swift, in his malignant, half-insane
way, at least had reforms in view. Fielding, like Chaucer and the author of
"Piers Plowman, " felt that accurate delineation was the precursor of a change
for the better. Goldsmith's pictures of virtuous rural life are still beloved be
cause, in Taine's phrase, the chief of them " unites and harmonizes in one
character the best features of the manners and morals of the time and coun
try, and creates an admiration and love for pious and orderly, domestic and
disciplined, laborious and rural life ; Protestant and English virtue has not a
more approved and amiable exemplar." Samuel Richardson, the precursor of
the long-regnant school of sentimental novelists, spent his literary lifetime
in trying to show that integrity and uprightness, even of the Grandison-
ian order, are more attractive than the vice of the ''town" in the era of the
Georges.

Something more than mere amusement, something behind the story, is
still more evident in Scott, the Scheherezade of modern literature ; in Dick
ens, promoting humanity and good fellowship, and attacking abuses in pris
ons, schools, law courts, and home-life ; in Thackeray, tilting loyally against
social shams; in saddened but brave Charlotte and Emily Bronte, amid the
Yorkshire moors ; in George Eliot, describing the Jew as she believed him to
be in reality, doing justice to the stern righteousness of a Dinah Morris, or
telling how Savonarola was a Protestant in spite of himself. Turning to
America, we note, as in England, the almost total disappearance of the out
ward immorality which defiled British fiction a hundred years ago, and which
still disgraces a part of French fiction : and more than this, we find positive
qualities, and a belief that story-telling is something more than story-telling.
Irving feels with the heart of humanity; Cooper, like Scott, magnifies the
chivalric virtues, under new skies ; and Hawthorne goes to the depth of the
soul in his search for the basal principles of human action.

What does all this mean ? Is a book great because its moral purpose is sound,
or is all literature bad as art and literature if it lacks the righteous purpose?
Not at all; neither has Anglo-Saxon literature monopoly of righteousness
and purpose. It means that this literature has insisted more strongly than
others upon the necessary connection between art and ethics ; that it has
never prized a profitless, soulless beauty ; and that, so long as the world can
be made better by literature, book-makers can and ought to help. Between
two books of equal literary merit, but of unequal purpose, it gives greater
and more lasting favor to the more useful book. It believes, with the Ameri
can poet who is usually considered our chief apostle of the merely beautiful,
that "taste holds intimate relations with the intellect and the moral sense."
Whether it is right or wrong in this general idea, it is certain that any change
in it, whether wrought by believers in " art for art's sake," by pseudo Greek
poets, by "cosmic" bards who sometimes confuse right and wrong, or by
strictly " realistic" novelists, will change a principle in accord with which
the race has acted for ten centuries.

In accord with that principle Nathaniel Hawthorne worked from the be-

1861-88] CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. 57

ginning to the end of his literary life ; but he was too great an artist to con
fuse for a moment the demands of ethics with those of pure art.

REALIST AND IDEALIST.

Hawthorne was a pioneer and master of that literary method which, under
the name of realism, has so strongly affected the fiction of the latter part of
the nineteenth century. He studied minutely, and portrayed with delicate
faithfulness, the smallest flower beneath his foot, the faintest bird in the dis
tant sky, the trivial mark or the seemingly unimportant act of the person
described. The microscopic artist was not more faithful in noting little
characteristics or swiftly-fleeting marks. Such sketches as " A Rill from the
Town Pump," " Main Street," " Sights from a Steeple," or " Little Annie's
Ramble " are realism in its complete estate. Turgueneff himself, the proto
type of so many followers in Russia, France, and America, is not more watch
ful with the eye or more painstaking with the pen. But between Hawthorne
and Turgueneff there is an unlikeness as marked as their external similar
ity of method. Hawthorne, a realist in portrayal, is a thorough idealist in
thought and purpose. The weariness and melancholy of Russian life and lit
erature are nowhere present in his writings. Turgueneff's exquisite " Poems
in Prose " virtually end with the query of that weakly pessimistic song the
burden of which is : "What is it all when all is done?" In Hawthorne's
books, to be sure, are the prof oundest sin, the deepest veil of misery and mys
tery, the "infinite gloom" of which Mrs. Hawthorne wrote; but always
above them the tremendous truth written with characters of fire, and yet
with "divine touches of beauty," with many a picture of artlessly lovely na
ture and life, and with the tender spirit of a child pervading the whole. At
the close of Turgueneff's portrayals silently falls the black impenetrable
curtain through which we may not peer, behind which there is nothing. But
in Hawthorne's pages, beyond the blackness and woe of sin and of slow spir
itual suicide, are the glow and the glory of the triumph that follows the strug
gle ; of the proved virtue that is better than untried innocence, and of the
eternity that tells the meaning of time. . .

HAWTHORNE'S BACKGROUND.

Some critics have lamented that Hawthorne, so equipped with the strength
and weapons of a genius, lacked the historic background which a great ro
mancer should enjoy. They have actually apologized for the poverty of the
materials which he was forced to use. On the contrary, it seems to me that he
found at hand scenes possessing remarkable capabilities for literary treat
ment ; strong and forceful characters never before portrayed ; and (because
of the vast changes caused by the Revolution) a sufficient remoteness of time.
Castles, draw-bridges, black forests, tournaments, battles, and knights and
dames had been used so often that none but a Scott could longer make them in
teresting. But houses of seven gables; witch-haunted Puritan villages, fringed
by native woods from which the Indians had scarcely fled ; soul-conflicts of

58 CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. [1861-88

stern dogmatists ; heart-sorrows of men and women whose lives were forced
back into their own selves ; lovely little maidens from whom the poetry of
nature could not be taken away ; children as pure as the field-springs or half-
hidden violets amid which they played, were unfamiliar in English fiction
before Hawthorne. Irving in his Hudson stories, or Cooper in his Indian
tales, was not more fortunate in theme nor more original in treatment ; while
Poe, the only other American novelist worth mentioning in a chapter de
voted to Hawthorne, did not find Ghostland itself a better artistic back
ground than Salem or Concord.

If it be an advantage for a novelist to follow other great workers in the
same field, then Hawthorne lacked such advantage. But the great creator,
whether he be novelist or poet, does not need prototypes and forerunners.
He avails himself freely of the lessons and the work of his predecessors, but
he is under no more than minor obligations to them. The man of genius is
injured by following others, quite as truly as he is helped. A similar remark
maybe made concerning the picturesque or imposing historic background of
literature. Such a background, in an ancient country, is pretty sure to be an
unduly familiar one. A genius, in point of fact, takes his background where
he finds it ; if at home, and still comparatively unknown, he follows his na
tional bent and local inspiration ; if not, he forages all afield, without com
plaining of the disadvantages of his surroundings. "When Hawthorne chose,
he made solemn and august Rome his background ; for the most part, how
ever, he was glad to employ the singularly rich unused realm close at hand.
It is the weaker novelist that is most concerned to find a fit setting for his
plot ; a mind like Hawthorne's possesses the element of large natural spon
taneity which characterizes the world-author as distinct from the provincial-
ist. A Dante is Italian, a Goethe is German, and even a Shakespeare is
intensely English ; but in their writings the local typifies the general. To
the statement, then, that Hawthorne was imprisoned or disadvantaged by
his environment, a double reply can be made : first, that he found at hand a
rich and virgin field, well suited to the nature of his working genius ; and
second, that his powers of invention and assimilation were too great to be
crushed down by adverse conditions, had such surrounded him. Indeed,
Hawthorne was related to his background as closely as flower to root, so nat
urally did he grow from it and so truly did he represent it to the beholder's
eye

CHARACTERISTICS.

Among his faults I have not been able to include morbidness or inartistic
incompleteness. That he had faults, however, is unquestionable, and they
should be stated definitely and frankly. Pure and fine in mental nature, he
was sometimes unexpectedly coarse (I mean coarse, not indecent) in utter
ance. Descriptions, or at times entire stories, are aggravatingly impassive ;
he stands without as a spectator, and what should be the broadly dramatic
view falls into an apparent indifferentism which we cannot reconcile with his
general purpose and attitude in literature. The unconscious strength sum
moned from a rich personal experience is missed at critical points. At times,

1861-88] CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. 59

as in reading the works of the Laodicean realists themselves, we are ready to
cry out against the frigid philosophy of curious external observation. Again,
while he was a great delineator of representative elements in the characters of
men, women, and children, his colors were sometimes too pale and monoto
nous, not the colors of flesh and blood. We seldom recognize a "Hawthorne
character" on the streets of our daily walk. We are not always in the pres
ence of vitality, but too often in that of personified ideas. His style is un
varied ; half a dozen short stories, or three romances, read in succession, may
for some readers emphasize this fact to the extent of weariness. The master
seems a mannerist ; self-control appears the dead level of a great mountain
table-land, as dull as the valley-plains below.

But, after all, these faults are incidental, not inherent. Hawthorne was a
great imaginative artist, with a highly ideal purpose and a strong and sure
hand ; therefore his fame, small at first, has steadily increased in the quarter
of a century since his death, and shows no sign of waning as the years go on.
He once wrote : " No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one."
Hawthorne's monument is not beside the modest grave above which whisper
the pines of Concord's Sleepy Hollow ; nor is it in the commendations or
analyses of his many critics. His monument is in his books, which so combine
genius and art, imagination and human nature. Those whose eyes may see
the fulness of human existence its brigh t gayety and its gloomy grief and sin
perceive in Hawthorne's books the breadth of that mysterious thing in
which we are, and which we call life. In "The Marble Faun " we are told that
"a picture, however admirable the painter's art and wonderful his power,
requires of the spectator a surrender of himself, in due proportion with the
miracle which has been wrought. Like all revelations of the better life, the
adequate perception of a great work of art demands a gifted simplicity of
vision." Hawthorne's students, indeed, need not claim that they must pos
sess high gifts of mind in order to perceive the art of his books ; for he but
requires in his readers somewhat of his own simplicity and naturalness. They
must follow him as a master, for the time being, and learn in his school. He
whose knowledge of human nature goes beyond shallow optimism on the one
hand, and worldly cynicism on the other, need find no riddles in Hawthorne's
pages. Perverse or dull was that French critic who once descri bed Hawthorne
as "un romancier pessimiste." It would be difficult to frame a statement
less accurate, or one more likely to amuse the romancer himself, if this title
has come to his knowledge in the land of shades.

I have said that Hawthorne's readers may follow him as a master, and learn,
in his school. The same advice is hardly to be given to those who not only
read but write, and who would catch the secret of his literary success and ap
ply it to their own novels or romances. Writers as well as readers, to be sure,
may follow Hawthorne in his habit of minutely-faithful and ever-delicate ob
servation of things great and small ; they may discover that a realism which
stoops to note the color of a single petal may be combined with a spiritualism
which deems a heart-throb more important than a world of matter. They
may study his pellucid English, simple and yet artistic ; and may learn not to
overcrowd their pages with too numerous figures or irrelevant episodes. He

() MARIANA GRI8WOLD VAN REN88ELAER. [1861-88

once made answer to a query as to his style : "It is the result of a great deal
of practice. It is a desire to tell the simple truth as honestly and vividly as
one can. " This seems easy enough ; but there is no likelihood that there will
be, in America or elsewhere, another Hawthorne. From his name has been
derived an adjective, but we always apply the word " Hawthornesque " to a
single effect or undeveloped idea, and even then some restriction is usually
added to the expression. His field, method, and style were in a large sense his

own At first unread, then underrated, then called morbid or at

best cold and aloof, Hawthorne now stands before us as in some sense " the
greatest imaginative writer since Shakespeare," of whose greatness we are
" beginning to arrive at some faint sense," a greatness "immeasurably vast
er than that of any other American who ever wrote."

In this greatness the spiritual element was of constant importance. Haw
thorne, all in all, was no cold observer and impassive chronicler. As author,
lie looked into the heart of the world, and wrote. As man, this deathless soul
could say in truth : "I have no love of secrecy and darkness. I am glad to
think that G-od sees through my heart, and, if any angel has power to pene
trate into it, he is welcome to know everything that is there."

jftariana d5ri$tooiD Ban

BORN iu New York, N. Y., 1851.

COROT.
[Coroi. Six Portraits. By Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer. 1889.]

*' rriKUTH," said Corot, " is the first thing in art, and the second and the
J- third." But the whole truth cannot be told at once. A selection from
the mass of Nature's truths is what the artist shows a few things at a time,
and with sufficient emphasis to make them clearly felt. You cannot paint
summer and winter on a single canvas. No two successive hours of a summer's
day are just alike, and you cannot paint them both. Nor, as certainly, can
you paint everything you see at the chosen moment. Crowd in too much and
you spoil the picture, weaken the impression, conceal your meaning, falsify
everything in the attempt to be too true.

This was Corot's creed. What now were the truths that he interpreted at
the necessary sacrifice of others which were less important in his eyes ? They
are implied, I think, in the words I have already written.

Corot prized effects rather than what the non-artistic world calls solid facts.
But effects are as truly facts as are the individual features and details which
make them. Indeed, they are the most essential as well as interesting of all
facts. It is effects that we see first when we are in Nature's presence, that
impress us most, and dwell the longest in our minds. Outlines, modelling,
local colors, minor details these shift, appear and disappear, or alter vastly

1861-88] MARIANA GUIS WOLD VAN REN88ELAER. Ql

as light and shadow change ; and most of them we never really see at all until
we take time to analyze. Look at the same scene on a sunny morning or by
cloudy sunset light. It is not the same scene. The features are the same, but
their effect has changed, and this means a new landscape, a novel picture.
The mistake of too many modern painters, especially in England, is that they
paint from analysis, not from sight. They paint the things they know are
there, not the things they perceive just as they perceive them. This Corot
never did. He studied analytically and learned all he could about solid facts ;
but he painted synthetically omitting many things that he knew about, and
even many that he saw at the moment, in order to portray more clearly the
general result. And this general result he found in the main lines of the scene
before him ; in its dominant tone ; in the broad relationships of one mass of
color to all others ; in the aspect of the sky, the character of the atmosphere,
and the play of light ; and in the palpitating incessant movement of sky and
air and leaf.

Look at one of Corot's foregrounds and you will see whether it is soft or
hard, wet with dew or dry in the sun ; you will see its color, its mobility.
Look at his trees and you will see their mass, their diversities in denseness,
their pliability and vital freshness. Look at his sky and you will see its shim
mering, pulsating quality : it has the softness of a blue which means vast
depths of distance, or of a gray which means layer upon layer of imponder
able mist, and the whiteness of clouds which shine as bright as pearls but
would dissipate at a touch. And everywhere, over all, behind all, in all, you
will see the enveloping air and the light which infiltrates this thing and trans
figures that; the air and the light which make all things what they are, which
create the landscape by creating its color, its expression, its effect ; the air
and the light which are the movement, the spirit, the very essence of nature.
No man had ever perfectly pain ted the atmosphere till Corot did it, or the dif
fused, pervading quality of light ; and for this reason no one had painted such
delicate, infinite distances, such deep, luminous, palpitating skies.

See now how Corot managed to paint like this to interpret the life, mood,
and meaning of the scene he drew. It was just through that process of omis
sion and suppression which the superficial misread as proof that he did not
really " render " nature at all. Even the smallest, simplest, natural fact can
not be " rendered" in the sense of being literally reproduced ; and to attempt
the literal imitation of large features is merely to sacrifice the whole in favor
of what must remain but a partial rendering of a part. A leaf can be painted,
but not a myriad leaves at once ; we are soon forced to generalize, condense,
suppress ; and to try to paint too many leaves is to lose the tree, for the tree
is not a congregation of countless individual leaves distinctly seen it is a
mass of leaves which are shot through and through with light and air, and
always more or less merged together and moving. It is an entity, and a live
one ; and which is the more important that we should see the living thing
or the items that compose it ? "What wer ask the painter is not just how his
tree was constructed, but just how it looked as a feature in the beauty and
aliveness of the scene. What we want is its general effect and the way it har
monized with the effect of its surroundings.

g2 MARIANA G BIS WOLD VAN RENSSELAER. [1861-88

Does it matter, then, if he omits many things, or even if he alters some
tilings, to get this right result ? Such altering is not falsifying. It is merely
emphasis a stress laid here and a blank left there that (since all facts can
not possibly be given) the accented fact shall at least be plain. The general
ized structure of Corot's trees, their blurred contours and flying, feathery
spray these are not untruths. They are merely compromises with the stern
necessities of paint, devices he employed, not because he was unable to draw
trees with precision, but because, had he done this, his foliage would have
been too solid and inert for truth. A twig is never long in one position. It
cannot be painted in two positions at once. But a twig that is blurred to the
eye because it is passing from one position to another this can be painted,
and this Corot preferred to paint rather than ramifications with exactness or
leaf-outlines with a narrow care. So his trees are alive, and, as he loved to
say, the light can reach their inmost leaves, and the little birds can fly among
their branches.

It is the same thing with color. The color schemes to which Corot kept
were never as strong and vivid as those we find with some of his contempo
raries and many of his successors. Browns and grays and pale greens predom
inate on his canvas with rarely an acuter accent, a louder note. But he fitted
his themes to his brush, so that we feel no lack ; or, in better words, he chose
his color schemes in accordance with the character of the natural effects that
he loved most. And within the scale he chose his coloring is perfect. His
tone (the harmony, or, as used to be said, the " keeping " of his result) is ad
mirable beyond praise. Yet it is gained at no sacrifice of truth in local color.
There are cheap processes for securing tone, which are indeed falsifications of
nature, ways of carrying over into one object the color of another, throw
ing things out of their right relationships, harmonizing with some universal
gauze of brown or gray. But Corot's was not a process like any of these.
His power to harmonize and unify his colors sprang from the fact that he
studied colors with a more careful and penetrating eye than ever before had
been brought to bear, and never forgot their mutual relationships. Look at
one of his pictures where the general effect, perhaps, is of soft delicious greens.
Everything in it is not greenish. The sky is pure blue and the clouds are pur
est white. The water is rightly related to the sky, and where things were gray
in nature, or brown, or even black, they are so on canvas. Harmony does not
mean monotony, tone does not mean untruth ; and this Corot could accom
plish because he studied " values " as no painter before him had studied them.

This word new in our language but indispensable has been a little hard
of comprehension to those who know nothing of the painter's problems and
devices. But it means, as simply as I can say it, the difference between given
colors as severally compared with the highest note in the scale white, and
the lowest black ; the difference between them as containing, so to speak,
more light or more dark. This does not mean the same thing as the relative
degrees of illumination and shadow which may fall upon them. The one qual
ity may be involved in or dependent upon the other, but the two are distinct
to the painter's eye.

It is not easy even to perceive differences in value. Given two shades of the

1861-88J MA URICE FRANCIS EG AN. 53

same tint, as of a blue-green or a yellow-green, it is easy enough to say which
is the darker; but it is more difficult when a yellow-green is compared with a
blue-green, and still more when we set a brown beside a green, or a blue be
side a yellow. Yet the painter must not only learn to see values in nature but
to transpose them correctly on canvas for color can never be exactly copied
on canvas ; from the nature of paint, there must always be transposition, adap
tation, compromise. Corot mastered the difficulty as no one else had done ;
and this mastery has made him the guide and teacher of all the landscape
painters who have since been born.

frantic <Cgan.

BOHN in Philadelphia, Penn., 1852.

THEOCRITUS.
[Preludes. Songs and Sonnets. 1885.]

DAPHNIS is mute, and hidden nymphs complain.
And mourning mingles with their fountains' song;
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long
They watch their sheep on the wide, Cyprus-plain;
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain;

Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong,
Done by the gods when gods and men were strong,
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain:
O sweetest singer of the olden days,

In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead ;
The gods are gone, but poets never die;
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays,
Sicilian nightingales enraptured

Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.

MAUEICE DE GUERIN.

THE old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair

Unseen by others; to him maidenhair
And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise

Brought charmed thoughts: and in earth everywhere

He, like sad Jaques, found unheard music rare
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise.
A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he,

He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed,

MAURICE FRANCIS EG AN.

[1861-88

Till earth and heaven met within his breast:
As if Theocritus in Sicily

Had come upon the Figure crucified

And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest.

BETWEEN THE LIGHTS.

TN the cool, soft, fragrant summer
-*- grass,

'Mid trembling stalks of white-tipped

clover,

I lie and dream, as the shadows pass
From twilight's gates the cloud-bridge
over.

On the other side, dim other side,
Lie starlight, gloom, and the night's

chill wind,

Calm eve comes forth, like a timid bride,
And with shaded eyes looks on man
kind ;
She looks at me, as I lounge and dream ;

She builds in the sky for my delight
High-towered castles that glow and

gleam

Redder than snow-crests in North fires
bright.

She shows me Ceres, mid corn-flowers
blue,

And Pluto's bride on her throne below,
And Helen fair, to her lord untrue,

Anguished and wailing in deathless

woe;
Gold arabesques on a jasper ground,

Gray cameo-faces, cold and grand,
Puck and Peas-blossom hovering round,

Oberon and his glittering baud.

She changes her aspect, opal eve
Shows me a plain near the walls of
Troy,

Where shepherds sheep in low shrubs
leave

In haste, to gaze on a bright-haired boy :
The boy is Paris, he cometh out,

Out of the city, strong-limbed and fair.
Live I in future or past ? I doubt

Am I Greek shepherd or gay trouvere

Who lieth, dreaming perhaps of her,

CEnone weeping for him, forlorn ?
Who strives with the plaintive lute to stir

Some love in a Norman heart of scorn ?
Out of a balcon of hues that glow,

There leans a lady against the sky ;
Her robe is bordered with pearls, I know,

Pearls on her neck with her pearl-skin
vie.

There stands a lover in gay slashed hose,
With a bright plumed hat and purple

cloak ;

He calls her " lily " and "damask rose ";
Even in cloudland they wear love's

yoke.
Bold knights ride forward on prancing

steeds,
King Arthur's court, with Sir Launce-

lot

Presto ! 'Tis Syrinx among the reeds :
Apollo seeks her, but finds her not.

I am so idle in summer grass,

I cannot think for scent of clover;

No moral I find in clouds that pass,
I only know that sunset's over.

1861-88] EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. (35

BOBN in Bath, Me., 1852.

THE ABLEST MAN IN THE WORLD.
[From the Story by that Title. The New Fork Sun. 1879.]

now had an opportunity to observe the personal characteristics
of the Eussian Baron. He was a young man of about thirty-five, with
exceedingly handsome and clear-cut features, but a peculiar head. The pe
culiarity of his head was that it seemed to be perfectly round on top that is,
its diameter from ear to ear appeared quite equal to its anterior and posterior
diameter. The curious effect of this unusual conformation was rendered
more striking by the absence of all hair. There was nothing on the Baron's
head but a tightly fitting skull cap of black silk. A very deceptive wig hung
upon one of the bedposts.

Being sufficiently recovered to recognize the presence of a stranger, Savitch
made a courteous bow.

" How do you find yourself now ? " inquired Fisher, in bad French.

" Very much better, thanks to Monsieur," replied the Baron, in excellent
English, spoken in a charming voice. " Very much better, though I feel a
certain dizziness here." And he pressed his hand to his forehead.

The valet withdrew at a sign from his master, and was followed by the por
ter. Fisher advanced to the bedside and took the Baron's wrist. Even his
unpractised touch told him that the pulse was alarmingly high. He was much
puzzled, and not a little uneasy at the turn which the affair had taken. " Have
I got myself and the Russian into an infernal scrape ?" he thought. " But
no he's well out of his teens, and half a tumbler of such whiskey as that
ought not to go to a baby's head."

Nevertheless, the new symptoms developed themselves with a rapidity and
poignancy that made Fisher feel uncommonly anxious. Savitch's face be
came as white as marble its paleness rendered startling by the sharp contrast
of the black skull cap. His form reeled as he sat on the bed, and he clasped
his head convulsively with both hands, as if in terror lest it burst.

" I had better call your valet," said Fisher, nervously.

" No, no ! " gasped the Baron. " You are a medical man, and I shall have
to trust you. There is something wrong here." With a spasmodic gesture
he vaguely indicated the top of his head.

" But I am not " stammered Fisher.

" No words ! " exclaimed the Russian, imperiously. "Act at once there
must be no delay. Unscrew the top of my head ! "

Savitch tore off his skull cap and flung it aside. Fisher had no words to
describe the bewilderment with which he beheld the actual fabric of the
Baron's cranium. The skull cap had concealed the fact that the entire top of
Savitch's head was a dome of polished silver.

" Unscrew it !" said Savitch again.
VOL. XL 5

66 EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. [1861-88

Fisher reluctantly placed both hands upon the silver skull and exerted a
gentle pressure toward the left. The top yielded, turning easily and truly in
its threads.

"Faster!" said the Baron, faintly. "I tell you no time must be lost."
Then he swooned.

At this instant there was a sound of voices in the onter room, and the door
leading into the Baron's bed-chamber was violently flung open and as vio
lently closed. The new-comer was a short, spare man of middle age, with a
keen visage and piercing, deep-set little gray eyes. He stood for a few seconds
scrutinizing Fisher with a sharp, almost fiercely jealous regard.

The Baron recovered his consciousness and opened his eyes.

"Dr. Eapperschwyll I" he exclaimed.

Dr. Eapperschwyll, with a few rapid strides, approached the bed and con
fronted Fisher and Fisher's patient. "What is all this?" he angrily de
manded.

Without waiting for a reply he laid his hand rudely upon Fishers arm and
pulled him away from the Baron. Fisher, more and more astonished, made
no resistance, but suffered himself to be led, or pushed, toward the door.
Dr. Eapperschwyll opened the door wide enough to give the American exit,
and then closed it with a vicious slam. A quick click informed Fisher that
the key had been turned in the lock.

The next morning Fisher met Savitch coming from the Trinkhalie. The
Baron bowed with cold politeness and passed on. Later in the day a valet de
place handed .to Fisher a small parcel, with the message : " Dr. Eapperschwyll
supposes that this will be sufficient." The parcel contained two gold pieces
of twenty marks.

Fisher gritted his teeth. " He shall have back his forty marks," he mut
tered to himself, "but I will have his confounded secret in return."

The Polish countess abundantly redeemed her promise, throwing in for
good measure many choice bits of gossip and scandalous anecdotes about the
Russian nobility, which are not relevant to the present narrative. Her story,
as summarized by Fisher, was this :

The Baron Savitch was not of an old creation. There was a mystery about
his origin that had never been satisfactorily solved in St. Petersburg or in
Moscow. It was said by some that he was a foundling from the Yospitatelnoi
Dom. Others believed him to be the unacknowledged son of a certain illus
trious personage nearly related to the House of Romanoff. The latter theory
was the more probable, since it accounted in a measure for the unexampled
success of his career from the day that he was graduated at the University of
Dorpat.

Rapid and brilliant beyond precedent this career had been. He entered
the diplomatic service of the Czar, and for several years was attached to the
legations at Vienna, London, and Paris. Created a Baron before his twenty-
fifth birthday for the wonderful ability displayed in the conduct of negotia
tions of supreme importance and delicacy with the House of Hapsburg, he

1861-88] EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. 57

became a pet of Gortchakoff's and was given every opportunity for the exer
cise of his genius in diplomacy. It was even said in well-informed circles at
St. Petersburg that the guiding mind which directed Russia's course through
out the entire Eastern complication, which planned the campaign on the
Danube, effected the combinations that gave victory to the Czar's soldiers,
and which meanwhile held Austria aloof, neutralized the immense power of
Germany, and exasperated England only to the point where wrath expends
itself in harmless threats, was the brain of the young Baron Savitch. It was
certain that he had been with Ignatieff at Constantinople when the trouble
was first fomented, with Shouvaloff in England at the time of the secret con
ference agreement, with the Grand Duke Nicholas at Adrianople when the
protocol of an armistice was signed, and would soon be in Berlin behind the
scenes of the Congress, where it was expected that he would outwit the states
men of all Europe, and play with Bismarck and Disraeli as a strong man
plays with two kicking babies.

But the countess bad concerned herself very little with this handsome
young man's achievements in politics. She had been more particularly inter
ested in his social career. His success in that field had been not less remark
able. Although no one knew with positive certainty his father's name, he had
conquered an absolute supremacy in the most exclusive circles surrounding
the imperial court. His influence with the Czar himself was supposed to be
unbounded. Birth apart, he was considered the best parti in Russia. From
poverty and by the sheer force of intellect he had won for himself a colossal
fortune. Report gave him forty million roubles, and doubtless report did not
exceed the fact. Every speculative enterprise which he undertook, and they
were many and various, was carried to sure success by the same qualities of
cool, unerring judgment, far-reaching sagacity, and apparently superhuman
power of organizing, combining, and controlling, which had made him in
politics the phenomenon of the age.

About Dr. Rapperschwyll ? Yes, the countess knew him by reputation and
lay sight. He was the medical man in constant attendance upon the Baron
Savitch, whose high-strung mental organization rendered him susceptible to
sudden and alarming attacks of illness. Dr. Rapperschwyll was a Swiss
had originally been a watchmaker or artisan of some kind, she had heard.
For the rest, he was a commonplace little old man, devoted to his profession
and to the Baron, and evidently devoid of ambition, since he wholly neg
lected to turn the opportunities of his position and connections to the ad
vancement of his personal fortunes.

Fortified with this information, Fisher felt better prepared to grapple with
Rapperschwyll for the possession of the secret. For five days he lay in wait
lor the Swiss physician. On the sixth day the desired opportunity unexpect
edly presented itself.

Half way up the Mercuriusberg, late in the afternoon, he encountered the
custodian of the ruined tower, coming down. " No, the tower was not closed.
A gentleman was up there, making observations of the country, and he, the
custodian, would be back in an hour or two." So Fisher kept on his way.

The upper part of this tower is in a dilapidated condition. The lack of a

68 EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. [1861-88

stairway to the summit is supplied by a temporary wooden ladder. Fisher's
head and shoulders were hardly through the trap that opens to the platform,
before he discovered that the man already there was the man whom he sought.
Dr. Kapperschwyll was studying the topography of the Black Forest through
a pair of field-glasses.

Fisher announced his arrival by an opportune stumble and a noisy effort
to recover himself, at the same instant aiming a stealthy kick at the topmost
round of the ladder, and scrambling ostentatiously over the edge of the trap.
The ladder went down thirty or forty feet with a racket, clattering and bang
ing against the walls of the tower.

Dr. Rapperschwyll at once appreciated the situation. He turned sharply
around, and remarked with a sneer, "Monsieur is unaccountably awkward. "'
Then he scowled and showed his teeth, for he recognized Fisher.

" It is rather unfortunate," said the New Yorker, with imperturbable cool
ness. " We shall be imprisoned here a couple of hours at the shortest. Let
us congratulate ourselves that we each have intelligent company, besides a
charming landscape to contemplate."

The Swiss coldly bowed, and resumed his topographical studies. Fisher
lighted a cigar.

" I also desire," continued Fisher, puffing clouds of smoke in the direction
of the Teufelmuhle, "to avail myself of this opportunity to return forty
marks of yours, which reached me, I presume, by a mistake."

" If Monsieur the American physician was not satisfied with his fee," re
joined Eapperschwyll, venomously, "he can without doubt have the affair
adjusted by applying to the Baron's valet."

Fisher paid no attention to this thrust, but calmly laid the gold pieces
upon the parapet, directly under the nose of the Swiss.

" I could not think of accepting any fee," he said, with deliberate empha
sis. " I was abundantly rewarded for my trifling services by the novelty and
interest of the case."

The Swiss scanned the American's countenance long and steadily with his
sharp little gray eyes. At length he said, carelessly :

" Monsieur is a man of science ? "

" Yes," replied Fisher, with a mental reservation in favor of all sciences
save that which illuminates and dignifies our national game.

" Then," continued Dr. Eapperschwyll, " Monsieur will perhaps acknowl
edge that a more beautiful or more extensive case of trephining has rarely
come under his observation."

Fisher slightly raised his eyebrows.

"And Monsieur will also understand, being a physician," continued Dr.
Rapperschwyll, "the sensitiveness of the Baron himself, and of his friends
upon the subject. He will therefore pardon my seeming rudeness at the time
of his discovery."

"He is smarter than I supposed," thought Fisher. "He holds all the
cards, while I have nothing nothing, except a tolerably strong nerve when
it comes to a game of bluff. "

" I deeply regret that sensitiveness," he continued, aloud, " for it had oc-

1861-88] EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. gg

curred to me that an accurate account of what I saw, published in one of the
scientific journals of England or America, would excite wide attention, and
no doubt be received with interest on the Continent."

" What you saw ? " cried the Swiss, sharply. " It is false. You saw noth
ing ; when I entered you had not even removed the "

Here he stopped short and muttered to himself, as if cursing his own im
petuosity. Fisher celebrated his advantage by tossing away his half-burned
cigar and lighting a fresh one.

" Since you compel me to be frank," Dr. Eapperschwyll went on, with visi
bly increasing nervousness, " I will inform you that the Baron has assured
me that you saw nothing. I interrupted you in the act of removing the silver
cap."

"I will be equally frank," replied Fisher, stiffening his face for a final
effort. " On that point, the Baron is not a competent witness. He was in a
state of unconsciousness for some time before you entered. Perhaps I was
removing the silver cap when you interrupted me "

Dr. Eapperschwyll turned pale.

" And, perhaps," said Fisher, coolly, " I was replacing it."

The suggestion of this possibility seemed to strike Eapperschwyll like a
sudden thunderbolt from the clouds. His knees parted, and he almost sank
to the floor. He put his hands before his eyes, and wept like a child, or,
rather, like a broken old man.

" He will publish it ! He will publish it to the court and to the world !"
he cried, hysterically. "And at this crisis "

Then, by a desperate effort, the Swiss appeared to recover to some extent
his self-control. He paced the diameter of the platform for several minutes,
with his head bent and his arms folded across the breast. Turning again to
.his companion, he said :

" If any sum you may name will "

Fisher cut the proposition short with a laugh.

"Then," said Eapperschwyll, "'if if I throw myself on your gener-
osity"

" Well ?" demanded Fisher.

" And ask a promise, on your honor, of absolute silence concerning what
you have seen ?"

" Silence until such time as the Baron Savitch shall have ceased to exist ?"

" That will suffice," said Eapperschwyll. " For when he ceases to exist I
die. And your conditions ? "

" The whole story, here and now, and without reservation."

" It is a terrible price to ask me," said Eapperschwyll, " but larger inter
ests than my pride are at stake. You shall hear the story.

"I was bred a watchmaker," he continued, after a long pause, "in the
Canton of Zurich. It is not a matter of vanity when I say that I achieved a
marvellous degree of skill in the craft. I developed a faculty of invention
that led me into a series of experiments regarding the capabilities of purely
mechanical combinations. I studied and improved upon the best automata
-ever constructed by human ingenuity. Babbage's calculating machine espe-

70 EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. [1861-8$

cially interested me. I saw in Babbage's idea the germ of something infi
nitely more important to the world.

" Then I threw up my business and went to Paris to study physiology. I
spent three years at the Sorbonne and perfected myself in that branch of
knowledge. Meanwhile, my pursuits had extended far beyond the purely
physical sciences. Psychology engaged me for a time ; and then I ascended
into the domain of sociology, which, when adequately understood, is the
summary and final application of all knowledge.

" It was after years of preparation, and as the outcome of all my studies,
that the great idea of my life, which had vaguely haunted me ever since the
Zurich days, assumed at last a well-defined and perfect form. "

The manner of Dr. Eapperschwyll had changed from distrustful reluc
tance to frank enthusiasm. The man himself seemed transformed. Fisher
listened attentively and without interrupting the relation. He could not help
fancying that the necessity of yielding the secret, so long and so jealously
guarded by the physician, was not entirely distasteful to the enthusiast.

"Now attend, Monsieur," continued Dr. Rapperschwyll, "to several sep
arate propositions which may seem at first to have no direct bearing on each
other.

" My endeavors in mechanism had resulted in a machine which went far
beyond Babbage's in its powers of calculation. Given the data, there was no
limit to the possibilities in this direction. Babbage's cogwheels and pinions
calculated logarithms, calculated an eclipse. It was fed with figures, and pro
duced results in figures. Now, the relations of cause and effect are as fixed
and unalterable as the laws of arithmetic. Logic is, or should be, as exact a
science as mathematics. My new machine was fed with facts, and produced
conclusions. In short, it reasoned; and the results of its reasoning were
always true, while the results of human reasoning are often, if not always,
false. The source of error in human logic is what the philosophers call the
* personal equation.' My machine eliminated the personal equation ; it pro
ceeded from cause to effect, from premise to conclusion, with steady precis
ion. The human intellect is fallible ; my machine was, and is, infallible in
its processes.

" Again, physiology and anatomy had taught me the fallacy of the medical
superstition which holds the gray matter of the brain and the vital principle
to be inseparable. I had seen men living with pistol balls imbedded in the me
dulla oblongata. I had seen the hemispheres and the cerebellum removed
from the crania of birds and small animals, and yet they did not die. I be
lieved that, though the brain were to be removed from a human skull, the
subject would not die, although he would certainly be divested of the intelli
gence which governed all save the purely involuntary actions of his body.

" Once more : a profound study of history from the sociological point of
view, and a not inconsiderable practical experience of human nature, had con
vinced me that the greatest geniuses that ever existed were on a plane not so
very far removed above the level of average intellect. The grandest peaks in
my native country, those which all the world knows by name, tower only a
few hundred feet above the countless unnamed peaks that surround them..

1861-88] EDWARD PAGE MITCHELL. -j|

Napoleon Bonaparte towered only a little over the ablest men around him.
Yet that little was everything, and he overran Europe. A man who surpassed
Napoleon, as Napoleon surpassed Murat, in the mental qualities which
transmute thought into fact, would have made himself master of the whole
world.

"Now, to fuse these three propositions into one: suppose that I take a
man, and, by removing the brain that enshrines all the errors and failures of
his ancestors away back to the origin of the race, remove all sources of weak
ness in his future career. Suppose, that in place of the fallible intellect which
I have removed, I endow him with an artificial intellect that operates with
the certainty of universal laws. Suppose that I launch this superior being,
who reasons truly, into the hurly-burly of his inferiors, who reason falsely,
and await the inevitable result with the tranquillity of a philosopher.

" Monsieur, you have my secret. That is precisely what I have done. In
Moscow, where my friend Dr. Duchat had charge of the new institution of
St. Vasili for hopeless idiots, I found a boy of eleven whom they called Stepan
Borovitch. Since he was born, he had not seen, heard, spoken or thought.
Nature had granted him, it was believed, a fraction of the sense of smell, and
perhaps a fraction of the sense of taste, but of even this there was no positive
ascertainment. Nature had walled in his soul most effectually. Occasional
inarticulate murmurings, and an incessant knitting and kneading of the fin
gers were his only manifestations of energy. On bright days they would place
him in a little rocking-chair, in some spot where the sun fell warm, and he
would rock to and fro for hours, working his slender fingers and mumbling
forth his satisfaction at the warmth in the plaintive and unvarying refrain of
idiocy. The boy was thus situated when I first saw him.

" I begged Stepan Borovitch of my good friend Dr. Duchat. If that excel
lent man had not long since died he should have shared in my triumph. I
took Stepan to my home and plied the saw and the knife. I could operate on
that poor, worthless, useless, hopeless travesty of humanity as fearlessly and
as recklessly as upon a dog bought or caught for vivisection. That was a lit
tle more than twenty years ago. To-day Stepan Borovitch wields more power
than any other man on the face of the earth. In ten years he will be the au
tocrat of Europe, the master of the world. He never errs ; for the machine
that reasons beneath his silver skull never makes a mistake."

Fisher pointed downward at the old custodian of the tower, who was seen
toiling up the hill.

" Dreamers," continued Dr. Kapperschwyll, " have speculated on the pos
sibility of finding among the ruins of the older civilizations some brief in
scription which shall change the foundations of human knowledge. Wiser
men deride the dream, and laugh at the idea of scientific kabbala. The wiser
men are fools. Suppose that Aristotle had discovered on a cuneiform-covered
tablet at Nineveh the few words, ' Survival of the Fittest.' Philosophy would
have gained twenty-two hundred years. I will give you, in almost as few
words, a truth equally pregnant. The ultimate evolution of the creature is
into the creator. Perhaps it will be twenty-two hundred years before the truth
finds general acceptance, yet it is not the less a truth. The Baron Savitch is

72 JOHN BACH M' MASTER. [1861-88

my creature, and I am his creator creator of the ablest man in Europe, the
ablest man in the world.

"Here is our ladder, Monsieur. I have fulfilled my part of the agreement.
Remember yours."

BORN in Brooklyn, N. Y,, 1852.

IN THE AMERICA OP 1784.
[A History of the People of the United States. Vol. I. 1883.]

OT less important than the school-master, in the opinion of his towns-
men, was the doctor. With the exception of the minister and the judge,
he was the most important personage in the district. His professional edu
cation would now be thought insufficient to admit him to practice ; for there
were then but two medical schools in the country, nor were they, by reason
of the expense and dangers of travelling, by any means well attended. In
general, the medical education of a doctor was such as he could pick up while
serving an apprenticeship to some noted practitioner in Boston or New York,
during which he combined the duties of a student with many of the menial
offices of a servant. He ground the powders, mixed the pills, rode with the
doctor on his rounds, held the basin when the patient was bled, helped to ad
just plasters, to sew wounds, and ran with vials of medicine from one end of
the town to the other. In the moments snatched from duties such as these
he swept out the office, cleaned the bottles and jars, wired skeletons, tended
the night-bell, and, when a feast was given, stood in the hall to announce the
guests.

It was a white day with such a young man when he enjoyed the rare good
fortune of dissecting a half -putrid arm, or examining a human heart and lungs.
So great, indeed, was the difficulty of procuring anatomical subjects, that
even at the medical school which had just been started at Harvard College,
a single body was made to do duty for a whole year's course of lectures. It
was only by filching from graveyards or begging the dead bodies of criminals
from the Governor that subjects could be obtained.

Under such circumstances, the doctor's knowledge was derived from per
sonal experience rather than from books, and the amount so obtained bore a
direct relation to the sharpness of his powers of observation and the strength
of his memory. If he were gifted with a keen observation, a logical mind,
and a retentive memory, such a system of education was of the utmost value.
For in medicine, as in mechanics, as in engineering, as in every science, in
short, where experience and practical skill are of the highest importance, a
practical education is most essential. The surgeon who has studied anatomy
from a book without ever having dissected a human body, the physician who
learns the names and symptoms of diseases from a work on pathology, and

1861-88] JOHN BACH M' MASTER. 73

the remedies from the materia medica, without ever having seen the maladies
in active operation and the remedies actually applied, is in a fair way to kill
far more patients than he will ever cure. But the value of knowledge obtain
able from books alone is on that account not the less useful, and by no means
to be despised. The student who has read much in his profession is in pos
session of the results of many centuries of experience derived from the labors
of many thousands of men. He is saved from innumerable blunders. He is
enabled to begin his career with a knowledge of things which, if left to his
own experience to find out, would cost him years of -patient waiting and care
ful observation. The advantages of such a system of study were, however,
but sparingly enjoyed by the medical students of the last century, when but
few physicians boasted a medical library of fifty volumes.

His apprenticeship ended, the half-educated lad returned to his native
town to assume the practice and to follow in the footsteps of his father. There
as years went by he grew in popularity and wealth. His genial face, his en-
gagiug manners, his hearty laugh, the twinkle with which he inquired of the
blacksmith when the next boy was expected, the sincerity with which he asked
after the health of the carpenter's daughter, the interest he took in the fam
ily of the poorest laborer, the good-nature with which he stopped to chat with
the farm-hands about the prospect of the corn crop and the turnip crop, made
him the favorite of the county for miles around. When he rode out he knew
the names and personal history of the occupants of every house he passed.
The farmers' lads pulled off their hats, and the girls dropped courtesies to
him. Sunshine and rain, daylight and darkness, were alike to him. He would
ride ten miles on the darkest night, over the worst of roads, in a pelting
storm, to administer a dose of calomel to an old woman, or to attend a child
in a fit. He was present at every birth ; he attended every burial ; he sat with
the minister at every death-bed, and put his name with the lawyer to every
will. i

But a few of the simplest drugs were then to be found stowed away on the
shelves of the village store, among heaps of shoes, Eohan hats, balls of twine,
packages of seed, and flitches of bacon. The physician was, therefore, com
pelled to combine the duties both of the doctor and the apothecary. He
pounded his own drugs, made his own tinctures, prepared his own infusions,
and put up his own prescriptions. His saddle-bag was the only drug-store
within forty miles, and there, beside his horn balances and his china mortar,
were medicines now gone quite out of fashion, or at most but rarely used.
Homoeopathy, with its tasteless mixtures and diminutive doses, was unknown,
and it is not too much to say that more medicine was then taken every year
by the well than is now taken in the same space of time by the sick. Each
spring the blood must be purified, the bowels must be purged, the kidneys
must be excited, the bile must be moved, and large doses of senna and manna,
and loathsome concoctions of rhubarb and molasses, were taken daily. In a
thousand ways the practice of medicine has changed since that day, and
changed for the better. Eemedies now in the medicine-box of every farmer
were then utterly unknown. Water was denied the patient tormented with
fever, and in its stead he was given small quantities of clam -juice. Mercurial

74 JOHN BACH M' MASTER. [1861-88

compounds were taken till the lips turned blue and the gums fell away from
the teeth. The damsel who fainted was bled profusely. Cupping and leech
ing were freely prescribed. The alkaloid quinia was unknown till 1820. The
only cure for malarial diseases was powdered cinchona bark ; but the amount
required to restore the patient was so great, and the supply so small, that
the remedy was all but useless. Vaccination was not made known by Jeii-
ner till 1798. Inoculation was still held by many to be attended by divine
punishment. Small-pox was almost as prevalent as pneumonia now is. The
discovery of anaesthesia by the inhalation of ether or chloroform was not given
to the world by Morton till 1846. Not one of the many remedies which as
suage pain, which destroy disease, which hold in check the most loathsome
maladies and the most violent epidemics, was in use. Every few years during
the dog-days the yellow fever raged with more violence in the Northern cities
than it has ever done in this generation in the cities of the far South. Whole
streets were depopulated. Every night the dead -cart shot its scores of corpses
into the pits of the Potters' Field. Better surgery is now generously given
to every laborer injured by the fall of a scaffold than could then have been
purchased at any price.

High as the doctors stood in the good graces of their fellow-men, the minis
ters formed a yet more respected class of New England society. In no other
section of the country had religion so firm a hold on the affections of the
people. Nowhere else were men so truly devout, and the minister held in
such high esteem. It had, indeed, from the days of the founders of the col
ony been the fashion among New Englanders to look to the pastor with a pro
found reverence, not unmingled with awe. He was not to them as other men
were. He was the just man made perfect ; the oracle of divine will ; the sure
guide to truth. The heedless one who absented himself from the preaching
on a Sabbath was hunted up by the tithing-man, was admonished severely,
and, if he still persisted in his evil ways, was fined, exposed in the stocks, or
imprisoned in the cage. To sit patiently on the rough board seats while the
preacher turned the hour-glass for the third time, and, with his voice husky
from shouting, and the sweat pouring in streams down his face, went on for
an hour more, was a delectable privilege. In such a community the author
ity of the reverend man was almost supreme. To speak disrespectfully con
cerning him, to jeer at his sermons, or to laugh at his odd ways, was sure to
bring down on the offender a heavy fine. His advice was often sought on mat
ters of state, nor did he hesitate to give, unasked, his opinion on what he con
sidered the arbitrary acts of the high functionaries of the province. In the
years immediately preceding the war the power of the minister in matters of
government and politics had been greatly impaired by the rise of that class
of laymen in the foremost rank of which stood Otis and Hancock and Samuel
Adams. Yet his spiritual influence was as great as ever. He was still a mem
ber of the most learned and respected class in a community by no means ig
norant. He was a divine, and came of a family of divines. Not a few of the
preachers who witnessed the Revolution could trace descent through an un
broken line of ministers, stretching back from son to father for three gener
ations, to some canting, psalm-singing Puritan who bore arms with distinc-

1861-88J JOHN BACH M'MASTER. 75

tion on the great day at Naseby, or had prayed at the head of Oliver's troops,
and had, at the restoration, when the old soldiers of the Protector were turn
ing their swords into reaping-hooks and their pikes into pruning-knives, come
over to New England to seek that liberty of worship not to be found at home.
Such a man had usually received a learned education at Harvard or at Yale,
and would, in these days, be thought a scholar of high attainments.

In the election sermon which he delivered on the return of every election-
day, he taught a very different lesson, exerted his eloquence to set forth the
equality of all men and the beauties of a pure democracy, and taxed his learn
ing to defend his politics with passages from scripture and quotations from
the writers of Greece.

Hatred of Kings and Princes had, indeed, always been a marked charac
teristic of his sect, and in the pre-revolutionary days he was among the most
eager in the patriot cause. It cannot be denied that this show of patriotism
was, in most cases, the result of personal interest rather than of a deeply
rooted conviction of the necessity of resisting the oppression of England. If
there was one sect of Christians which he detested above another, that sect
was the Episcopalian. He firmly believed that the stupid King, who cared as
little for the Church of England as for the Church of Scotland, was fully de
termined to make Episcopacy the established religion of the colonies. He
was sure that His Majesty had even matured a plan for the establishment of
the Church, and that, before many months had gone by, laws as odious as the
Conventicle Act and the Five-Mile Act would be in full operation ; that hun
dreds of dissenting divines would be ejected from their churches, stripped of
their livings, and sent to starve among the Indians on the frontier. While,
therefore, the rectors of Virginia and the Carolinas were ranging themselves
on the Tory side, the ministers of the eastern colonies were all active on the
side of the Whigs. .

In truth, of the writers who, up to the peace, and for many years after, put
forth treatises, arguments, and expositions on metaphysical themes, scarcely
one can be named who was not a native of New England, and a pastor of a
New England church. Each minister, therefore, felt in duty bound to dis
cuss his text in a philosophical way, and, however crude his attempt, the rea
sons he advanced, the analogies he drew, the hints and suggestions he threw
out, furnished each week many new topics for an evening's talk. And such
topics were needed, for of news the dearth was great. Almost every means
of collecting and distributing it familiar to this generation was unknown to
our great-grandfathers. There were, indeed, newspapers. Forty-three had
come safely through the long revolutionary struggle to publish the joyful tid
ings of peace. But, with a few exceptions, all were printed in the large towns,
and news which depended on them for circulation was in much danger of
never going fifty miles from the editor's door.

An interchange of papers did go on among the printers ; and some copies
of the "Spy" and the "Columbian Centinel" found their way to subscrib
ers at New York. But the papers were not received by the post-office, and
it was only by rewarding the post-riders that a place was made for a dozen
copies in the portmanteaus containing the letters. Even then, on reaching

76 JOHN BACH M' MASTER. [1861-88

INew York, they were almost a week old, and had they been carried on to
Charleston would have entered that city twenty days after the date of publi
cation. Had the time been less it would have mattered little, for the news to
be derived from them was usually of small value, and likely to convey only
the most general information. Even the Connecticut " Courant," the Boston
"Gazette," and the Pennsylvania "Packet," which seem to have been the
best among them, were poor and mean-looking, and printed on paper such
as would now be thought too bad for hand-bills and ballads. Few came out
oftener than thrice in a week, or numbered more than four small pages. The
amount of reading-matter which the whole forty-three contained each week
would not be sufficient to fill ten pages of ten daily issues of the New York
" Herald." Nothing in the nature of an editorial page existed. What is now
known as a leading article rarely appeared, and its place was supplied by ap
peals from the editor, sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, to his delin
quent subscribers, begging them to pay their bills, if not in money, in quar
ters of wheat, in pounds of cheese, or the flesh of hogs. The rest of the paper
was filled up with advertisements for runaway slaves or stray horses, with
scraps taken from other papers, with letters written from distant places to
friends of the editor, a summary of the news brought by the last packet from
Lisbon or London, a proclamation by Congress, a note to the editor posting
some enemy as a coward in the most abusive and scurrilous language, a long
notice setting forth that a new assortment of calamancoes and durants, col
ored tammies, shalloons, and rattinels were offered for sale at the shop of a
leading merchant, and, now and then, a proposal for the reprinting of an old
book. When there was a scarcity of intelligence, when no ships had come in
from the whale-fisheries, when no strictures were to be passed on the pro
ceedings of Congress, when the mails had been kept back by the rains, when
the editor was tired of reviling the Society of the Cincinnati, when nothing
further was to be said against the refugees, when no election was to be held,
when no distinguished strangers had come to town, when no man of note had
been buried, and when, consequently, there was great difficulty in filling the
four pages, odes, ballads, and bits of poetry made their appearance in the
poet's corner. Now and then a paper of enterprise and spirit undertook to
enlighten its readers and to fill its columns by the publication in instalments
of works of considerable length and high literary merit. Eobertson's " His
tory of America " was reprinted in the " Weekly Advertiser " of Boston, and
ran through more than one hundred and fifty numbers. A " History of the
Am erican Ee vol uti on " came ou t i n the " Spy. " ' ' Cook's Voyages " were p ub-
lished in the Pennsylvania " Packet," while other papers of lesser note found
room among essays and lampoons, epigrams, anecdotes, coarse "bon-mots,"
and town resolutions to discourage extravagance, for short treatises on geog
raphy and morals. But everything which now gives to the daily paper its pe
culiar value, and passes under the general name of news, was wanting.

1801-88] JOHN BAG A M' MASTER. 77-

THE AMERICAN WORKMAN IN 1784.
[From the Same.']

rriHERE can, however, be no doubt that a wonderful amelioration has
JL taken place since that day in the condition of the poor. Their houses
were meaner, their food was coarser, their clothing was of commoner stuff;
their wages were, despite the depreciation that has gone on in the value of
money, lower by one half than at present. A man who performed what would
now be called unskilled labor, who sawed wood, who dug ditches, who mended
the roads, who mixed mortar, who carried boards to the carpenter and bricks
to the mason, or helped to cut hay in the harvest-time, usually received as
the fruit of his daily toil two shillings. Sometimes when the laborers were
few he was paid more, and became the envy of his fellows if, at the end of a
week, he took home to his family fifteen shillings, a sum now greatly exceeded
by four dollars. Yet all authorities agree that in 1784 the hire of workmen
was twice as great as in 1774.

On such a pittance it was only by the strictest economy that a mechanic
kept his children from starvation and himself from jail. In the low and dingy
rooms which he called his home were wanting many articles of adornment
and of use now to be found in the dwellings of the poorest of his class. Sand
sprinkled on the floor did duty as a carpet. There was no glass on his table,
there was no china in his cupboard, there were no prints on his wall. What
a stove was he did not know, coal he had never seen, matches he had never
heard of. Over a fire of fragments of boxes and barrels, which he lit with
the sparks struck from a flint, or with live coals brought from a neighbor's
hearth, his wife cooked up a rude meal and served it in pewter dishes. He
rarely tasted fresh meat' as often as once in a week, and paid for it a much
higher price than his posterity. Everything, indeed, which ranked as a staple
of life was very costly. Corn stood at three shillings the bushel, wheat at
eight and sixpence, an assize of bread was fourpeuce, a pound of salt pork
was tenpence. Many other commodities now to be seen on the tables of the
poor were either quite unknown or far beyond the reach of his scanty means.
Unenviable is the lot of that man who cannot, in the height of the season,
when the wharfs and markets are heaped with baskets and crates of fruit,
spare three cents for a pound of grapes or five cents for as many peaches, or,
when Sunday comes round, indulge his family with watermelons or canta
loupes. One hundred years ago the wretched fox-grape was the only kind
that found its way to market, and was the luxury of the rich. Among the
fruits and vegetables of which no one had then even heard are cantaloupes,
many varieties of peaches and pears, tomatoes and rhubarb, sweet corn, the
cauliflower, the egg-plant, head lettuce, and okra. On the window-benches
of every tenement-house may be seen growing geraniums and verbenas, flowers
not known a century ago. In truth, the best-kept gardens were then rank
with hollyhocks and sunflowers, roses and snowballs, lilacs, pinks, tulips,
and, above all, the Jerusalem cherry, a plant once much admired, but now
scarcely seen.

78 WILLIS BROOKS HAWKINS. [1861-88

If the food of an artisan would now be thought coarse, his clothes would
be thought abominable. A pair of yellow buckskin or leathern breeches, a
checked shirt, a red flannel jacket, a rusty felt hat cocked up at the corners,
shoes of neatVskin set off with huge buckles of brass, and a leathern apron,
comprised his scanty wardrobe. The leather he smeared with grease to keep
it soft and flexible. His sons followed in his footsteps, or were apprenticed
to neighboring tradesmen. His daughter went out to service. She performed,
indeed, all the duties at present exacted from women of her class ; but with
them were coupled many others rendered useless by the great improvement
that has since taken place in the conveniences of life. She mended the clothes,
she did up the ruffs, she ran on errands from one end of the town to the other,
she milked the cows, made the butter, walked ten blocks for a pail of water,
spun flax for the family linen, and, when the year was up, received ten pounds
for her wages. Yet, small as was her pay, she had, before bestowing herself
in marriage on the footman or the gardener, laid away in her stocking enough
guineas and joes to buy a few chairs, a table, and a bed.

BORN in Aurora, 111., 1852.

LANGUAGE THAT NEEDS A REST.
[The Washington Post. 1889.]

I WAS awakened in the middle of the night by a disturbance in the library.
It did not seem to be the noise of burglars. It was more like the mur
muring sound of many tongues engaged in spirited debate. I listened closely
and concluded it must be some sort of a discussion being held by the words in
my big unabridged dictionary. Creeping softly to the door, I stood and lis
tened.

" I don't care," said the little word Of; " I may not be very big, but that
is no reason why everybody should take advantage of me. I am the most mer
cilessly overworked word in the whole dictionary, and there is no earthly rea
son for it, either. People say they ' consider of' and 'approve of and ' ac
cept of 'and * admit of 'all sorts of things. Then they say 'all of us, 'and 'both
of them,' and ' first of all,' and tell about ' looking out of ' the window, or cut
ting a piece of bread ' off of ' the loaf, until I am utterly tired out."

" Pshaw ! " said the word Up, " I am not much bigger than you and I do
twice as much work, and a good deal of it needlessly, too. People ' wake up '
in the morning and ' get up ' and ' shake up ' their beds and ' dress up ' and
' wash up ' and 'draw up ' to the table, and ' eat up ' and ' drink up ' their
breakfast. Then they ' jump up ' from the table and ' hurry up ' to ' go up '
to the corner, where the street-car driver ' pulls up ' his horses and the pas
sengers ' ascend up ' the steps and 'go up ' into the front seats and the con-

1861-88] WILLIS BROOKS HA WKINS. 79

ductor ' takes up ' the tickets. All this is done even before people ' get up '
town and ' take up' their day's work. From that time until they 'put up'
their books and ' shut up ' their offices I do more work than any two words in
this book ; and even after business hours I am worked until people ' lock up '
their houses and 'go up' to bed and * cover themselves up' and 'shut up'
their eyes for the night. It would take a week to tell what I have to ' put up '
with in a day, and I am a good deal ' worked up ' over it."

"I agree that both Up and Of are very much overworked, "said the word
Stated, " but I think I, myself, deserve a little sympathy. I am doing not
only my own legitimate work, but also that which ought to be done by my
friend Said. Nobody ' says ' anything nowadays ; he always ' states ' it."

"Yes," chipped in the funny little word Pun, "these are very stately
times/'

Some of the words laughed at this, but Humor said : " Pun is a simpleton. "

" No," answered Wit; " he is a fellow of duplicities."

" He makes me tired," said Slang.

Then the discussion was resumed.

" I do a great deal of needless work," said the word But. " People say they
have no doubt ' but that ' it will rain, and that they shouldn't wonder ' but
what ' it would snow, until I don't know ' but ' I shall strike."

" What I have most to complain about," said the word As, "is that I am
forced to associate so much with the word Equally. Only yesterday a man
said he could ' see equally as well as ' another man. I don't see what business
Equally had in that sentence."

" Well," retorted Equally, " men every day say that something is ' equally
as good ' as something else, and I don't see what business As has in that sen
tence."

"I think," said Propriety, "you two should be divorced by mutual con
sent."

There was a fluttering sound and a clamor of voices.

"We, too, ought to be granted divorce," was the substance of what they
said ; and among the voices I recognized those of the following-named
couples : Cover Over, Enter In, From Thence, Go Fetch, Have Got, Latter
End, Continue On, Converse Together, New Beginner, Old Veteran, Return
Back, Rise Up, Sink Doivn, They Both, Try And, More Perfect, Seldom
Ever, Almost Never, Feel Badly, United Together, Two First, An One, Over
Again, Repeat Again, and many others.

When quietude had been restored, the word Rest said : " You words all
talk of being overworked as if that were the worst thing that could happen to
a fellow, but I tell you it is much worse to be cut out of your own work. Now,
look at me. Here I am ready and willing to perform my part in the speech of
the day. but almost every body passes by me and employs my awkward friend
Balance. It is the commonest thing in the world to hear people say they will
pay the ' balance ' of a debt or will sleep the ' balance ' of the night."

" I suffer considerably from this same kind of neglect," said the word
Deem. " Nobody ever ' deems' a thing beautiful any more ; it is always * con
sidered ' beautiful, when in fact it is not considered at all."

80 BRANDER MATTHEWS. [1861-88

" True," said Irritate; " and people talk of being ' aggravated ' when they
ought instead to give me work."

" And me," said Purpose; " look at me. I get hardly anything to do be
cause people are always ' proposing' to do this or that when no idea of a propo
sition is involved. Why, I read the other day of a man who had ' proposed '
to murder another when really he had never said a word about it to a living
being. Of course he only purposed to commit the murder. "

" If it is my turn," said the word Among, " I should like to protest against
Mr. Between doing my work. The idea of people saying a man divided an
orange ' between ' his three children ! It humiliates me."

"It is no worse," said the word Fewer, "than to have people say there
were 'less ' men in one army than in another."

"No," added More Than; "and no worse than to have them say there
were ' over' 100,000 men."

" It seems to me," said the word Likely, "that nobody has more reason for
complaint than I have. My friend Liable is doing nearly all my work. They
say a man is ' liable ' to be sick or ' liable ' to be out of town when the ques
tion of liability does not enter into the matter at all."

"You're no worse off than I am," said the little word So; "that fellow
Such is doing all my work. People say there never was ' such ' a glorious
country as this when, of course, they mean there never was ' so ' glorious a
country elsewhere. "

I saw that there was likely to be no end to this discussion, since half the
words in the dictionary were making efforts to put in their complaints, so I
returned to my couch ; and I will leave it to any person who has read this ac
count to say whether I had not already heard enough to make me or any
body else sleepy.

*BtanDet jftatt^etog,

BORN in New Orleans, La., 1852.

PLAYING A PART.
[Playing a Part. A Comedy for Amateur Acting. In Partnership. 1884.]

SCENE : A handsomely- furnished parlor, with a general air of home comfort. A curtained
window on each side of the central fireplace would light the room if it were not evening,
as the lamp on the work-table in the centre of the room informs us. At one side of the
work-table is the wife, winding a ball of worsted from a skein which her husband holds
in his hands.

HE, looking at watch, aside. " This wool takes as long to wind up as a bankrupt
estate." Fidgets.

SHE. "Do keep still. Jack! Stop fidgeting and jumping around."
HE. "When you pull the string, Jenny, I am always a jumping-jack to dance at
tendance on you."

1861-88] BRANDER MATTHEWS. gj

SHE, seriously. "Very pretty, indeed! It was true too once before we were
married; now you lead me a different dance."

HE. " I am your partner still."

SHE, sadly. "But the figure is always the Ladies' Chain."

HE, aside. "If I don't get away soon I sha'n't be able to do any work to-night."
Aloud : "What do you mean by that solemn tone ? "

SHE. " Oh, nothing nothing of any consequence."

HE, aside. "We look like two fools acting in private theatricals."

SHE, finishing ball of worsted. " That will do; thank you. Do not let me detain
you; I know you are in a hurry."

HE. "I have my work to do."

SHE. " So it seems; and it takes all day and half the night."

HE, rising and going to fireplace. "I am working hard for our future happi
ness."

SHE, quietly. " I should like a little of the happiness now."

HE, standing with back to fireplace. "Are you unhappy ? "

SHE. "Oh no not very."

HE. " Do you not have everything you wish ? "

SHE. " Oh yes except the one thing I want most."

HE. " Well, my dear, I am at home as much as I can be."

SHE. " So you think I meant you ? "

HE, embarrassed. "Well I did suppose that "

SHE. " Yes, I used to want you. The days were long enough while you were away,
and I waited for your return. Now I have been alone so much that I am getting ac
customed to solitude. And I do not really know what it is I do want. I am listless,
nervous, good-for-nothing "

HE, gallantly. "You are good enough for me."

SHE. "You did think so once ; and perhaps you would think so again if you could
spare the time to get acquainted with me."

HE, surprised. " Jenny, are you ill ? "

SHE. "Not more so than usual. I was bright enough two years ago, when we were
married. But for two years I have not lived ; I have vegetated more like a plant
than a human being; and even plants require some sunshine."

HE, aside. " I have never heard her talk like this before. I don't understand it."
Aloud : " Why, Jenny, you speak as if I were a cloud over your life."

SHE. " Do I ? Well, it does not matter."

HE. "I try to be a good husband, don't I ? "

SHE, indifferently. " As well as you know how, I suppose."

HE. "Do I deprive you of anything you want ?"

SHE, impatiently. " Of course you do not."

HE. " I work hard, I know, but when I go out in the evening now and then "

SHE, aside. " Six nights every week." Sighing.

HE. " I really work. There are husbands who say they are at work when they are
at the club playing poker. Now, I am really working."

SHE, impatiently. " You have no small vices." Rising. "Is there no work call
ing you away to-night ? Why are you not off ? "

HE, looking at watch. "I am a little late, that's a fact ; still, I can do what I have
to do if I work like a horse."

SHE. " Have you to draw a conveyance ? That is the old joke."

HE. "This is no joke. It's a divorce suit."

SHE, quickly. "Is it that Lightfoot person again ?"

HE. " It is Mrs. Lightfoot's case. She is a very fine woman, and her husband
has treated her shamefully."
VOL. xi. 6

32 B BANDER MATTHEWS. [1861-88

SHE. " Better than the creature deserved, I dare say. You will win her case for
her ? "

HE. " I shall do my best."

SHE, sarcastically. "No doubt." Aside: "I hate that woman !" Crosses the
room and sits on sofa on the right of the fireplace.

HE. "But the result of a lawsuit is generally a toss-up; and heads do not always
win."

SHE. " I wish you luck this time for her husband's sake ; he'll be glad to be rid
of her. But I doubt it ; you can't get up any sympathy by exhibiting her to the jury ;
she isn't good-looking enough."

HE, quickly. "She's a very fine woman indeed."

SHE, aside. " How eagerly he defends her!" Aloud: " She's a great big, tall,
giantess creature, with a face like a wax doll and a head of hair like a Circassian
girl. No juryman will fall in love with her."

HE. " How often have I told you that Justice does not consider persons! Now,
in the eye of the law "

SHE, interrupting. "Do you acknowledge that the law has but one eye and can
see only one side ? "

HE. "Are you jealous ? " Crossing and standing in front of her.

SHE. " Jealous of this Mrs. Lightfoot ?" Laughs. "Ridiculous!"

HE. "I am glad of it, for I think a jealous woman has a very poor opinion of her
self."

SHE, forcibly. "And it is her business which takes you out to-night? "

HE, going toward the left-hand door. "I have to go across to the Bar Associa
tion to look up some points, and "

SHE, rising quickly. " And you can just send me a cab. I shall go to Mrs. Play-
fair's to rehearse again for the private theatricals."

HE, annoyed, coming back. "But I had asked you to give it up."

SHE, with growing excitement. "And I had almost determined to give it up, but
I have changed my mind. That's a woman's privilege, isn't it ? I am tired of spend
ing my evenings by myself."

HE. "Now be reasonable, Jenny; I must work."

SHE. " And I must play in the private theatricals."

HE. " But I don't like private theatricals."

SHE. "Don't you? I do."

HE. "And I particularly dislike amateur actors."

SHE. "Do you ? I don't. I like some of them very much; and some of them
like me, too."

HE. ' ' The deuce they do ! "

SHE. "Tom Thursby and Dick Carey and Harry Wylde were all disputing who
should make love to me."

HE. ' ' Make love to you ? "

SHE. "In the play in ' Husbands and Wives.' "

HE. " Do you mean to say that you are going to act on the stage with those brain
less idiots ? "

SHE, interrupting. "Do not call my friends names; it is in bad taste."

HE. " What will people say when they see my wife pawed and clawed by those
fellows ? "

SHE. " Let them say what they please. Do you think I care for the tittle-tattle
of the riffraff of society ? "

HE. "But, Jenny " Brusquely : "Confound it ! I have no patience with you ! "
SHE. " So I have discovered. But you need not lose your temper here, and swear.
Go outside and do it, and leave me alone, as 1 am every evening."

1861-88] BRANDER MATTHEWS. 33

HE. "You talk as if I ill-treated you."

SHE, sarcastically. "Do I ? That is very wicked of me, isn't it ? You take the
best possible care of me, you are ever thinking of me, and you never leave my side
for a moment. Oh no, you do not ill-treat me or abuse me or neglect me "
breaking down " or make me miserable. There is nothing the matter with me, of
course. But you never will believe I have a heart until you have broken it ! " Sink
ing on chair, C.

HE, crossing to her. " You are excited, I see; still, I must say this is a little too
much."

SHE, starting up. "Don't come near me!" Sarcastically: " Don't let me keep
you from your work " going to' door " and don't fail to send me a cab. At last
I revolt against your neglect."

HE, indignantly protesting. "My neglect ? Do you mean to say I neglect you ?
My conscience does not reproach me."

SHE, at the door. "That's because you haven't any! " Exit, slamming door.

HE, alone. "I never saw her go on that way before. What can be the matter
with her ? She is not like herself at all ; she is low-spirited and nervous. Now, I
never could see why women had any nerves. I wonder if she really thinks that I
neglect her ? I should be sorry, very sorry, if she did. I'll not go out to-night; I'll
stay at home and have a quiet evening at my own fireside." Sits in chair in the cen
tre. "I think that will bring her round. I'd like to know what lias made her act
like this. Has she been reading any sentimental trash, I wonder ? " Sees book in
work-basket. "Now, here's some yellow-covered literature." Takes it up. "Why,
it's that confounded play, ' Husbands and Wives.' Let me see the silly stuff. " Reads.
" 'My darling, one more embrace, one last, long, loving kiss '; and then he hugs
her and kisses her." Rising. "And she thinks I'll have her play a part like that ?
How should I look while that was going on ? Can't she find something else ? " At
work-table. "Here is another." Takes up second pamphlet. " No, it is a ' Guide
to the Passions.' I fear I need no guide to get into a passion. I doubt if there's as
much hugging and kissing in this as in the other one." Reads. " ' It is impossible
to describe all the effects of the various passions, but a few hints are here given as to
how the more important may be delineated.' " Spoken. "This is interesting. If
ever I have to delineate a passion I shall fall back on this guide." Reads. " ' Love
is a ' Reads hastily and unintelligibly. " ' When successful, love authorizes the
fervent embrace of the beloved! ' The deuce it does! And I find my wife getting
instruction from this Devil's text-book! A little more and I should be jealous."
Looks at book. "Ah, here is jealousy; now let's see how I ought to feel." Reads.
" ' Jealousy is a mixture of passions and ' " Reads hastily and unintelligibly.
"Not so bad ! I believe I could act up to these instructions." Jumping up. " And
I will! My wife wants acting; she shall have it! She complains of monotony; she
shall have variety ! ' Jealousy is a mixture of passions.' I'll be jealous ; I'll give her
a mixture of passions. I'll take a leaf out of her book, and I'll find a cure for these
nerves of hers. I'll learn my part at once ; we'll have some private theatricals to
order." Walks up and down studying book.
She reSnters, with bonnet on and cloak over her arm, and stands in surprise, watching him.

SHE. " You here still ?"

HE. "Yes."

SHE. " Have you ordered a cab for me ? "

HE. "No."

SHE. "And why not?"

HE, aside. "Now's my chance. Mixture of passions I'll try suspicion first."
Aloud : ' ' Because I do not approve of the people you are going to meet these
Thursbys and Careys and Wyldes."

g4 BRANDER MATTHEWS. [1861-88

SHE, calmly sitting on sofa. "Perhaps you would like to revise my visiting-list,
and tell the servant whom I am to receive."

HE. "You may see what ladies you please "

SHE, interrupting. "Thank you; still, I do not please to see Mrs. Lightfoot."

HE, annoyed. " I say nothing of her."

SHE. "Oh dear, no! I dare say you keep it as secret as you can."

HE, aside. "Simple suspicion is useless. What's next?" Glances in pamphlet.
" 'Peevish personalities.' I will pass on to peevish personalities." Aloud: "Now,
these men, these fellows w r ho strut about the stage for an idle hour, who are they ?
This Tom Thursby, who wanted to make love to you who is he ? "

SHE. ' ' Are you going to ask many questions ? Is this catechism a long one ? If
it is, I may as well lay aside my shawl."

HE. " Who is he, I say; I insist upon knowing."

SHE. " He's a good enough fellow in his way."

HE, sternly. " He had best beware how he gets in my way."

SHE, aside. " There's a great change in his manner. I do not understand it."

HE. "And this Dick Carey who is he ? " Stalking toward her.

SHE, starting up and crossing. ' ' Are you trying to frighten me by this violence ? "

HE, aside. " It is producing an effect."

SHE. ' ' But I am not afraid of you, if I am a weak woman and you are a strong
man."

HE, aside. " It is going all right." Aloud, fiercely: " Answer me at once ! Is
this Carey married ? "

SHE. " I believe he is."

HE. "You believe! Don't you know? Does his wife act with these strollers ?
Have you not seen her ? "

SHE. " I have never seen her. She and her husband are like the two buckets in a
well ; they never turn up together. They meet only to clash, and one is always
throwing cold water on the other."

HE. "And Harry Wylde! Is he married ?"

SHE. " Yes; and his wife is always keeping him in hot water."

HE. " And so he comes to you for consolation ? "

SHE, laughing. "He needs no consoling; he has always such a flow of spirits."

HE. " I've heard the fellow drank."

SHE, surprised, aside. " Can Jack be jealous ? I wish I could think so, for then
I might hope he still loved me."

HE. " And do you suppose I can allow you to associate with these fellows, who
all want to make love to you ? "

SHE, aside, joyfully. " He is jealous! The dear boy! "

HE, fiercely. "Do you think I can permit this, madam ? "

SHE, aside. " ' Madam I ' I could hug him for loving me enough to call me ' mad
am' like that. But I must not give in too soon."

HE. " Have you nothing to say for yourself ? Can you find no words to defend
yourself, woman ? "

SHE, aside. " 'Woman!' He calls me 'woman'! I can forgive him anythiug-
now."

HE. " Are you dumb, woman ? Have you naught to say ? "

SHE, gleefully, aside. "I had no idea I had married an Othello! " She sees the
pillow on the sofa, and, crossing to it quietly, hides the pillow behind the sofa.

HE, aside. "What did she mean by that?" Aloud, fiercely: "Do you intend to
deny "

SHE, interrupting. " I have nothing to deny; I have nothing to conceal."

HE. " Do you deny that you confessed these fellows sought to make love to you ? "

1861-88] BBANDER MATTHEWS. 35

SHE. " I do not deny that." Mischievously. "But I never thought you would
worry about such trifles."

HE. "Trifles! madam? Trifles, indeed !" Glances in book and quoting:

" ' Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.' "

SHE, surprised, aside. " Where did he get his blank verse ? "
HE, aside. " That seemed to tell. I'll give her some more." Glancing in pam
phlet, and quoting:

" ' But, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow, unmoving finger at ! ' "

SHE, aside, jumping up with indignation. " Why, it is ' Othello ' he is quoting! He
is acting ! He is positively playing a part ! It is shameful of him ! It's not real jeal
ousy; it's a sham. Oh, the wretch! But I'll pay him back! I'll make him jealous
without any make-believe."

HE, aside. "I'm getting on capitally. I'm making a strong impression; lam
rousing her out of her nervousness. I doubt if she will want any more private the
atricals now. I don't think I shall have to repeat the lesson. This ' Guide to the
Passions' is a first-rate book; I'll keep one in the house all the time."

SHE. aside. "If he plays Othello, I can play lago. I'll give his jealousy some
thing to feed on. I have no blank verse for him, but I'll make him blank enough
before I am done with him. Oh, the villain! "

HE, aside. "Now let me try threatening." Glancing in book. " 'Pity the sor
rows of a poor old man ' I've got the wrong place. That's not threatening that's
senility." Turning over page. " Ah, here it is."

SHE, aside. "And he thinks he can jest with a woman's heart and not be pun
ished ? Oh, the wickedness of man ! " Forcibly: " Oh, if mamma were only here,
now ! "

HE, threateningly. "Who are these fellows ? This Tom, Dick and Harry are
are they " hesitates, and glances in pamphlet " are they ' framed to make women
false ' ? "

SHE, aside. " Why, he's got a book! It's my ' Guide to the Passions.' The wretch
has actually been copying his jealousy out of my own book." Aloud, with pre
tended emotion: "Dear me, Jack, you never before objected to my little flirta
tions." Aside, watching him: " How will he like that ? "

HE, aside, puzzled. "' Little flirtations !' I don't like that I don't like it at
all."

SHE. " They have all been attentive, of course "

HE, aside. " ' Of course! ' I don't like that, either."

SHE. "But I did not think you would so take to heart a few innocent endear
ments."

HE, starting. " 'Innocent endearments!' Do you mean to say that they offer
you any ' innocent endearments ' ? "

SHE, quietly. " Don't be so boisterous, Jack; you will crush my book."

HE, looking at pamphlet crushed in his hand, and throwing it from him. Aside:
"Confound the book! I do not need any prompting now." Aloud: "Which of
these men has dared to offer you any ' innocent endearments ' ? "

SHE, hesitatingly. "Well I don't know that I ought to tell you since you take
things so queerly. But Tom "

HE, forcibly. "Tom?"

36 BRANDER MATTHEWS. [1861-88

SHE. "Mr. Thursby, I mean. He and I are very old friends, you know I be
lieve we are third cousins or so and of course I don't stand on ceremony with
him."

HE. " And he does not stand on ceremony with you, I suppose ?"

SHE. "Oh, no. In fact, we are first-rate friends. Indeed, when Dick Carey
wanted to make love to me, he was quite jealous."

HE. "Oh, Tie was jealous, was he ? The fellow's impudence is amazing! When
I meet him I'll give him a piece of my mind."

SHE, demurely. ' ' Are you sure you can spare it ! "

HE. "Don't irritate me too far, Jenny; I've a temper of my own."

SHE. " You seem to have lost it now."

HE. " Do you not see that I am in a heat about this thing ? How can you sit
there so calmly ? You keep cool like a" hesitates " like a "

SHE, interrupting. " Like a burning-glass, I keep cool myself while setting you
on fire ? Exactly so, and I suppose you would prefer me to be a looking-glass in
which you could see only yourself ? "

HE. "A wife should reflect her husband's image, and not that of a pack of fools. "

SHE. "Come, come, Jack, you are not jealous ?"

HE. " 'Jealous! ' Of course I am not jealous, but I am very much annoyed."

SHE. "I am glad that you are not jealous, for I have always heard that a jealous
man has a very poor opinion of himself." Aside: " There's one for him."

HE. " I am not jealous, but I will probe this thing to the bottom; I must know
the truth."

SHE, aside. "He is jealous now; and this is real; I am sure it is."

HE. " Go on, tell me more; I must get at the bottom facts. There's nothing like
truth."

SHE, aside. " There is nothing like it in what he's learning."

HE, aside. " This Carey is harmless enough, and he can't help talking. He's a
he's a telescope; you have only to draw him out, and anybody can see through him.
I'll get hold of him, draw him out, and then shut him up! " Crossing excitedly.

SHE, aside. "How much more his real jealousy moves me than his pretence of itl
He seems very much affected. No man could be as jealous as he is unless he was very
much in love."

HE, with affected coolness. " You have told me about Tom and Dick; pray, have
you nothing to say about Harry ? "

SHE. "Mr. Wylde ? " Enthusiastically: "He is a man after my own heart! "

HE. " So he is after it ? " Savagely : " Just let me get after him ! "

SHE, coolly. " Well, if you do not like his attentions, you can take him apart and
tell him so."

HE, vindictively. " If I took him apart he'd never get put together again!"

SHE. " Mr. Wylde is very much afraid of his wife, but when she is not there he-
is more devoted than either of the others."

HE. " ' More devoted ! ' What else shall I hear, I wonder ? "

SHE. " It was he who had to kiss me."

HE, startled. "What?"

SHE. " I told him not to do it. I knew I should blush if he kissed me. I always
do."

HE, in great agitation. ' ' You always do ? Has this man ever " Breaking
down. "Oh, Jenny! Jenny! you do not know what you are doing. I do not
blame you it is not your fault; it is mine. I did not know how much I loved you,
and I find it put now, when it is perhaps too late."

SHE, aside. "How I have longed for a few words of love like these! and they
have come at last ! "

1861-88] BRANDER MATTHEWS. gf

HE. " I have been too selfish; I have thought too much of my work and too lit
tle of your happiness. I see now what a mistake I have made."

SHE, aside. " I cannot sit still here and see him waste his love in the air like this."

HE. "I shall turn over a new leaf. If you will let me, I shall devote myself to
you, taking care of you and making you happy."

SHE, aside. " If he had only spoken like that before! "

HE. " I will try to win you away from these associates. I am sure that in your
heart you do not care for them." Crossing to her. " You know that I love you;
can I not hope to win you back to me ? "

SHE, aside. " Once before he spoke to me of his love. I can remember every tone
of his voice, every word he said."

HE. "Jenny, is my task hopeless ? "

SHE, quietly crossing to arm-chair. " The task is easy, Jack." Smiling. "Per
haps you think too much of these associates. Perhaps you think a good deal more
of them than I do. In fact, I am sure that to-night you were the one who took to
private theatricals first. By the way, where's my ' Guide to the Passions' ? Have
you seen it lately ?"

HE, half comprehending. "Your ' Guide to the Passions '? A book with a yellow
cover ? I think I have seen it."

SHE. " I saw it last in your hand just after you had been quoting ' Othello.' "

HE. " ' Othello ' ? Oh, then you know "

SHE, smiling. "Yes, I know. I saw, I understood, and I retaliated on the spot."

HE. " You retaliated ?"

SHE. "I paid you off in your own coin counterfeit, like yours."

HE, joyfully. " Then Tom did not make love to you ? "

SHE. "Oh, yes he did in the play."

HE. " And Dick is not devoted ? "

SHE. "Yes, he is in the play."

HE. "And Harry did not try to kiss you ? "

SHE. " Indeed he did in the play."

HE. " Then you have been playing a part ? "

SHE. " Haven't you ?"

HE. "Haven't I? Certainly not. At least well, at least I will say nothing
more about Tom or Dick or Harry."

SHE. "And I will say nothing more of Mrs. Lightfoot."

HE, dropping in chair to her right. "Mrs. Lightfoot is a fine woman, my dear "
she looks up "but she is not my style at all. Besides, you know, it was only as
a matter of business, for the sake of our future prospects, that I took her part."

SHE, throwing him a skein of wool. "And it is only for the sake of our future
happiness that I have been playing mine."

He, holds the wool and she winds the ball, and the curtain falls, leaving them in the same
position in which its rising discovered them.

THE NOVEL AND THE DRAMA.
[The Dramatization of Novels. Longman's Magazine. 1889.]

, I take it, is one of the chief characteristics of the true dramatist
- that he sees at once when a form is outworn, and lets the dead past bury
its dead ; that he utilizes all the latest devices of the stage while recognizing

88 BRANDER MATTHEWS. [1861-88

frankly and fully the limitations imposed by the physical conditions of the
theatre. As I have already suggested, these limitations forbid not a few of
the effects permissible to the novelist. No dramatist may open his story with
a solitary horseman, as was once the fashion of fiction ; nor can he show the
hero casually rescuing the heroine from a prairie on fire, or from a slip into
the rapids of Niagara ; and he finds it impossible to get rid of the villain by
throwing him under the wheels of a locomotive. Not only is the utilization
of the forces of nature very difficult on the stage, and extremely doubtful,
but the description of nature herself is out of place ; and however expert the
scene-painter, he cannot hope to vie with Victor Hugo or Hawthorne in call
ing up before the eye the grandeur or the picturesqueness of the scene where
the action of the story comes to its climax.

Time was when the drama was first, and prose-fiction limped a long way
after ; time was when the novelists, even the greatest of them, began as play
wrights. Cervantes, Le Sage, Fielding, all studied the art of character-draw
ing on the boards of a theatre, although no one of their plays keeps the stage
to-day, while we still read with un diminished zest the humorous record of the
adventures and misadventures of ''Don Quixote/' "Gil Bias," and "Tom
Jones." Scott was, perhaps, the first great novelist who did not learn his
trade behind the scenes. It seemed to Mr. Lowell, that before Fielding "real
life formed rather the scenic background than the substance, and that the
characters are, after all, merely players who represent certain types rather
than the living types themselves." It may be suggested that the earlier novels
reflected the easy expedients and artificial manners of the theatre, much as
the writers may have employed the processes of the stage. Since Fielding
and Scott the novel has been expanding, until it seeks to overshadow its elder
brother. The old inter-dependence of the drama and prose-fiction has ceased ;
nowadays the novel and the play are independent, each with its own aims and
with its own methods. The advocates of the one are as boastful as the par
tisans of the other are intolerant, and each is as self-assertive as the young
actress who so her enterprising advance agent in his advertisement declared
" has appeared in all the countries of the world, and has been pronounced
the greatest of them all ! "

While on the one hand there are not lacking those who see in the modern
novel but a bastard epic in low prose, so there are not wanting others, novel
ists and critics of literature, chiefly in France, where the principles of dra
matic art are better understood than elsewhere, who are so impressed by the
number and magnitude of the restrictions which bind the dramatist, that
they are inclined to declare the drama itself to be an outworn form. They
think that the limitations imposed on the dramatist are so rigid that first-rate
literary workmen will not accept them, and that first-rate literary work can
not be hoped for. These critics are on the verge of hinting that nowadays
the drama is little more than a polite-amusement, just as others might call
oratory now little more than the art of making after-dinner speeches. They
suggest that the play is sadly primitive when compared with the perfected
novel of the nineteenth century. They remark that the drama can show but
a corner of life, while prose-fiction may reveal almost the whole of it. They

1861-88] BRANDER MATTHEWS. 9

assert boldly that the drama is no longer the form of literature best suited to
the treatment of the subjects in which the thinking people of to-day are in
terested. They declare that the novelist may grapple resolutely with a topic
of the times, though the dramatist dare not scorch his fingers with a burn
ing question. The Goucourts, in the preface of their undramatic play,
" La Patrie en Danger," announced that " the drama of to-day is not litera
ture."

It is well to mass these criticisms together that they may be met once and
for all. It is true that the taste for analysis which dominates the prose-fiction
of our time has affected the drama but little ; and it is not easy to say whether
or not the formulas of the theatre can be so enlarged, modified, and made
more delicate that the dramatist can really rival the novelist in psychologic sub
tlety. Of course, if the novel continues to develop in one direction in accord
ance with a general current of literature, and if the drama does not develop
along the same lines, then the drama will be left behind, and it will become
a mere sport, an empty spectacle, a toy for children, spoonmeat for babes.

A book, however fine or peculiar, delicate or spiritual, goes in time to the
hundred or the thousand congenial spirits for whom it was intended ; it may
not get to its address at once or even in its author's lifetime ; but sooner or
later its message is delivered to all who are ready to receive it. A play can
have no such fate ; and for it there is no redemption, if once it is damned. It
cannot live by pleasing a few only ; to earn the right to exist, it must please
the many. And this is at the bottom of all dislike for the dramatic form
that it appeals to the crowd, to the broad public, to all classes alike, rich and
poor, learned and ignorant, rough and refined. And this is to me the great
merit of the drama, that it cannot be dilettante, finikin, precious, narrow. It
must handle broad themes broadly. It must deal with the common facts of
humanity. It is the democrat of literature. Theophile Gautier, who disliked
the theatre, said that an idea never found its way on the stage until it was
worn threadbare in newspapers and in novels. And he was not far out. As
the drama appeals to the public at large, it must consider seriously only those
su bjects which the public at large can understand and are interested in. There
are exceptions, no doubt, now and again, when an adroit dramatist succeeds
in captivating the public with a theme still in debate. M. Sardou, for exam
ple, wrote " Daniel Rochat" ten years before Mrs. Ward wrote "Robert Els-
mere," and the Frenchman's play was acted in New York for more than a
hundred nights. M. Alexandre Dumas^/??s has again and again discussed on
the stage marriage and divorce and other problems that vex mankind to-day.
And in Scandinavia Henrik Ibsen, a dramatist of exceeding technical skill
and abundant ethical vigor, has brought out a series of dramas (many of
them successful on the stage), of which the most important is the " Genga-
nere," the " Spectres," wherein he considers with awful moral force the doc
trine of heredity, proving by example that the sins of the fathers are visited
on the children. With instances like these in our memories, we may suggest
that the literary deficiencies of the drama are not in the form, but in the in-
expertness or inertness of the dramatists of the day. There are few of the
corner-stone facts of human life, and there are none of the crucible-tried pas-

90 ROBERT GRANT. [1861-88

sions of human character, which the drama cannot discuss quite as well as the
novel.

Indeed, the drama is really the noblest form of literature, because it is the
most direct. It calls forth the highest of literary faculties in the highest de
gree the creation of character, standing firm on its own feet, and speaking
for itself. The persons in a play must be and do, and the spectator must see
what he is, and what he does, and why. There is no narrator standing by to
act as chorus, and there needs none. If the dramatist knows his trade, if he
has the gift of the born playwright, if his play is well made, then there is
no call for explanation or analysis, no necessity of dissecting or refining, no
demand for comment or sermon, no desire that any one palliate or denounce
what all have seen. Actions speak louder than words. That this direct dra
matic method is fine enough for the most abstruse intellectual self-question
ing when the subject calls for this, and that in the mighty hand of genius it
is capable of throwing light in the darkest corners and crannies of the tortured
and tortuous human soul, ought not to be denied by any one who may have
seen on the stage the "(Edipus" of Sophocles, the " Hamlet" of Shake
speare, the " Misanthrope " of Moliere, or the "Faust " of Goethe.

Robert detank

BORN in Boston, Mass., 1852.

ONE GIRL OF THE PERIOD.

[The Knave of Hearts. 1886.]

" T DON'T know what I shall do without you, Blanche," said the slim

-L young lady.

" You must write to me, Emily, very often."

The porter had placed the bag, which I noticed was marked with the letters
B. L., beside the vacant chair across the aisle ; and as the ladies were grouped
in very close quarters I delicately left my seat, with the hope that one of them
would occupy it until the departure of the train. At this moment I observed
Emily, under whose demure air a spice of mischief lurked, whisper something
to her friend, who blushed and tittered slightly.

" What nonsense, Emily ! He won't do anything of the kind."

" You just wait and see, dear."

The speaker pressed her face against the window-pane, as if she expected
to catch a glimpse of some one outside. Blanche stood at her elbow, and tried,
by giggling protestations, to interrupt this action, though I fancied she was
far from displeased thereby.

I wandered out to the platform of the car and lighted a cigarette. After a
few pensive puffs I drew from my pocket a small note-book, the virgin page
of which I inscribed as follows :

1861-88] ROBERT GRANT. 9j[

No. 1. Blanche L .

Residence, New York (probably).

Blonde; superb physique; fine animal spirits; giggles.

Memoranda.

Has been visiting in Boston and has received attentions. Expects admirer at depot. Will
be disappointed if he does not bring flowers.
Verb. sap.

Alighting from the car, I began to walk up and down with my hands be
hind my back. A few minutes must still elapse before the departure of the
train. Just then I saw a window open and Emily's delicate face peep out ex
pectantly. I could almost feel the sympathetic squeeze of the hand she doubt
less gave Blanche, who leaned upon her shoulder. They plainly were begin
ning to fear that the tardy admirer was not coming. But I was by no means
of their opinion. I felt certain he would arrive. In all probability the florist
had disappointed him, and he was ransacking the town for roses.

The gate through which passengers obtained admission to the train was in
the rear of the last car, and practically out of range from the Pullman. I
sauntered thither. A queue of people filed past me with movements of haste.
It lacked but two minutes of the hour. I stepped beyond the wicket into the
area of the depot. All was confusion. Passengers were scurrying hither and
thither, for there were several other trains in process of arrival and departure.
I looked searchingly among the crowd, but there was no sign of the missing
youth.

A bell in the office struck warningly. I stood with my watch in hand.
Blanche was right. He was not coming. And yet such deliberate desertion
struck me as so inartistic as to render me incredulous even at this late moment.

As I replaced my watch in my fob I perceived a figure describing a rapid
course through the crowd in the station. By the fashionable cut of his clothes
and the green pasteboard box he carried, I recognized the tardy lover. I
started toward him with some impetuosity and we came into collision.

" I beg your pardon, sir ! " I exclaimed, with the courtesy at my command
on all occasions.

The young man, who was almost breathless with hurry, looked as if he
could have strangled me on the spot, but with the self-control of good breed
ing swallowed his wrath, and somewhat fiercely demanded which was the
New York train.

" It is there/' I cried, pointing to one at the opposite corner of the platform.

He sped like a deer in the direction indicated, and I just had time to pass
through the wicket before it closed sharply. I ran forward and caught the
railing of my car, which was already in motion. The buxom Blanche stood
upon the platform waving her handkerchief to her two friends, who followed
the advancing train with similar snowy signals of farewell. There was a rue
ful expression upon the face of Miss Emily, as if she harbored sympathy for
the other's disappointment. The victim looked back smilingly, however.

" Be sure and write soon."

" Yes, dear ; and Fm certain there's some mistake," cried Emily, throw
ing a kiss as a last greeting.

9 ROBERT GRANT. [1861-88

I took my seat, and for nearly an hour interested myself by looking out at
the scenery. The fortunate course of events had swathed my soul in a sort of
glamour, so that the houses and fields and hills and valleys flying past in swift
succession served as a background for the play of my imagination. I found
an exquisite pleasure in giving the rein to fancy, and indulging in that adu
lation of feminality frequent with me even when propinquity furnished no
cause ; for I had ever cherished an ideal in regard to the gentler sex. I had a
limitless faith in woman, and yearned to encounter the spirit in whose com
panionship my every aspiration would find content.

Here she was perhaps close at hand. I stole a glance at my neighbor across
the aisle, who was sitting twirling the fringe of her sack with a thoughtful
air. The memory of her sibilant giggle haunted my ear as the rhythm of a
cool mountain brook recalled in the passages of a fever. She was a splendid
piece of flesh and blood, whom a pensive brow no more became than a dull
sky the laughing stream. -A wealth of curling tow-colored hair flowed from
under the arch of her bonnet, and dimples nestled in the curves of her fresh-
hued cheeks. Instinct told me that the life which even now bubbled upon
the margin of those red lips would soon reassert itself and dissipate her dis
appointment. Take vitality and pique together, and you will have the mate
rial for a runaway.

I was in the course of transferring this epigram to my note-book when the
news-agent passed through the car with a collection of the literature of the
day. I stealthily took note that the two novels he placed upon the lap of my
fair companion bore severally the titles of " True to the Last " and "A Lass
of Spirit." She examined the first of these with a pensive interest, but, though
she sighed once or twice in the course of turning the pages, she ended by se
lecting the other.

There is an old adage in regard to the danger of letting a hot iron cool,
which came to my mind at this juncture. I felt the necessity of bestirring
myself instantly. The delicacy of my nature had prompted me to leave
Blanche to her own reflections until now, but I must confess I began to f ear
that in my consideration for her feelings I might have prejudiced my own in
terests. Her recovery from her discomfiture had been more rapid than my
estimate of feminine character gave me reason to expect. The wound not
only had time to smart, but to begin to heal.

An opportunity was not long lacking. The volume purchased proved to
be one the pages of which were uncut, and as she was wavering between the
alternative of employing her index finger and laying the book aside, I hast
ened to offer her an ivory paper-cutter which belonged to my travelling-bag.
It was a plain but tasteful affair, with my monogram blazoned upon the
handle.

She expressed her thanks by a smiling but ladylike inclination of the head;
and I noticed, as she made use of the instrument, a faint blush suffuse her
cheek and creep upward to the roots of her hair.

A quarter of an hour later I aided her to raise a window which resisted her
(as I decided) half-hearted pressure, and when the train stopped ten minutes
for refreshments, asked her to permit me to get her something to eat. Her

1861-88] ROBERT GRANT. 93

refusal was expected, for I felt morally certain that her reticule contained a
supply of sandwiches ; but the opportunity was not one to be neglected.

Nor was I mistaken, for when we emerged from the dimness of the way-
station she produced a packet of chicken and bread wrapped in a snowy doily.
I was not conscious of hinting, by any expression of countenance, a desire to
share her repast, but perhaps it was my having no luncheon of my own that
led her to ask timidly if I would not take a sandwich. After proper hesita
tion I accepted her offer, and the opportune removal to the smoking-car of a
gentleman who occupied the chair next to hers gave me a chance to establish
myself at her side and venture a few remarks.

Our conversation was necessarily very formal for the first few minutes, but
the discovery of mutual friends in both New York and Boston broke the ice
and established a bond of sympathy between us. The enthusiasm of her man
ner completely charmed me, and she made use of very extravagant adjectives
to express satisfaction regarding trivial matters.

I was altogether happy. She appeared to me the most fascinating person
I had ever met. Her fresh beauty filled me with admiration, for under the
influence of excitement her eyes seemed lakes of liquid blue. I tried my best
to be agreeable, and having come to the conclusion that she preferred to
laugh, drew largely on my stock of stories and witticisms. Whenever I es
sayed any topic of a more serious nature a sort of embarrassment clothed her
strict attention, as if implying that my quasipedantry was alarming. In re
sponse to queries regarding her opinions on the Irish question and a recent
publication, she responded, "Oh, yes," and became unnaturally grave.
Clearly she would consider me very uninteresting were I to continue in this
fashion.

So, when I had come to the end of the tales and conundrums at my com
mand, I showed her one or two tricks with coins that could be performed
without attracting too much attention in the car. She was sure she could
imitate them, and her fruitless efforts at success kept us in continuous mirth.
I propounded to her that venerable query the answer to which is " the little
boy lied," and was amply rewarded for my pains, since it appealed extraordi
narily to her risibility, though she declared with a shake of her shoulders, by
way of feigned anger, that I was "awfully unkind" to make sport of her.
The innocent device of knotting my handkerchief until it bore some resem
blance to a rabbit, and causing it to jump spasmodically in imitation of that
creature, fairly convulsed my lovely companion, and strengthened our friend
ship. The strictly impersonal, however, does not long satisfy any woman.
So my natural instinct warned me, and I turned by degrees the course of con
versation into a more interesting channel. A few direct and simple questions
were necessary for the acquirement of one or two facts in regard to herself,
but I avoided abandoning more than momentarily the jester's part. Any
thing in the nature of abstract discussion, which I knew to be an artistic and
convenient veil for sentiment, would, in the case of Blanche, be out of place.
Badinage was the only available method of paying tribute to her fascinations
or interesting her in one's own.

I found that compliments, when couched in a not too serious tone of voice,

ROBERT GRANT. [1861-88

pleased her greatly. The more delicate ones were not so effective as those
easily understood. She pretended to think these laudatory speeches very ridic
ulous, and accused me of being foolish. Leaning slightly over the back of
her chair, I would whisper some still more extravagant bit of flattery as a re
ply, to be' greeted very likely with a declaration that she would have nothing
more to do with me. By way of carrying out her threat she would look fixedly
in the opposite direction.

" Miss Lombard," said I (I had discovered her name to be Blanche Lom
bard), " do you dot your eyes ? "

My query concealed a society inanity I had heard exploded not long before.

Her head was turned the other way, and she seemed deaf to my utterance.

"At least you might answer a civil question/' I continued.

There was no response. I thought I could detect a muffled giggle.

"You make a great mistake if you do, for they are capital eyes."

" How absurd ! What nonsense you do talk ! "

She looked still more fixedly away from me, and twisted her shoulders so
as to exclude all view of her face.

" But it is true, Miss Lombard. I am only speaking the truth. If you do
not believe me, judge for yourself. Here is the opportunity." So saying, I
drew from my pocket one of those round, flat pin-cushions carried by men,
the back of which contained a mirror.

She turned her head a little in her curiosity to see what this was, but im
mediately looked the other way again. While in this position she put out her
hand suddenly and took the pin-cushion from me.

" Philopena ! " I cried.

We had formed an agreement not five minutes before that whoever of us
should first receive anything from the hand of the other should pay a forfeit.
In the event of my losing, her prize was to be five pounds of bonbons. If I
won, she was to make me a tobacco-pouch.

The moment I uttered the fatal word Blanche made an exclamation that
would doubtless have been a little shriek had the surroundings permitted.

" Oh ! " she cried, with an indignant writhe of her whole figure, "you hor
rid thing ! I never will speak to you again."

The excitement of her manner, which found a partial vent in the intensity
of these expressions, caused me a thrill of sweet satisfaction. She seemed to
me positively an angel, and I was conscious that the epithet, "you horrid
thing/' embodied the highest note in her gamut. The quintessence of enrap
tured vitality was condensed therein, and I was the fortunate being who had
evoked it.

From this culmination of the climax the conversation gradually declined
in interest, and I shortly had the tact to withdraw and leave my companion
to her own meditations. I sought the smoking-car, and, lighting another
cigarette, gave myself up to a revery which would have been wholly delicious
but for the lurking doubt as to my chances for success. I did not question
that I had made an impression on my fellow-traveller; but would she regard
me as other than a mere incident of the journey, a transient influence, which
would cease to operate upon the morrow ? Was she still free, or were there a

1861-88] ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER. 95

score of lovers at her feet ? What was the true footing upon which the swain
stood whose flowers I had so lately anticipated ? He might, for aught I could
tell, be on the eve of conquest, and I the plaything of an hour. I loved I
realized the condition well deeply and passionately, and all the tortures of
a doubting spirit were mine. In the fulness of my infatuation I drew out my
note-book once more and wrote as follows:

" You horrid thing ! I never will speak to you again."

This shibboleth, still pregnant with the timbre of her voice, floated through
the chambers of my brain.

As I completed the last word, I perceived that we had almost reached our
destination. I returned to Miss Lombard's side in time to take charge of her
wraps, and before consigning her to the care of her father, a florid, full-faced
man with mutton-chop whiskers, who was waiting her arrival at the depot, I
had obtained her permission to call.- In truth, she declared she would never
forgive me if I did not.

BORN in Wakefield, R. I.

EVENING MEETING AT UNCLE 'BIAS'S.

[South-County Neighbors. 1887.]

AT the height of the melody a newly arrived group of women attracted the
~L\.. hospitable attention of Uncle 'Sias.

" This way," he hoarsely whispered, beckoning from the door of the parlor-
bedroom to the sisters, who evidently could see but little beyond the range of
their imprisoning sunbonnets ; and as they hesitated at noticing the seated
occupants of the room, he added, explanatorily, "seats on the edge o' the
bed." This somnolent invitation was gratefully accepted, and the log-cabin
sunbonnets filed in, and took up their places among the stuffy pillows, just as
the singers in the outer room were raising the tune

" Shell /be kerried toe the skies
On flowery beds of ease ? "

The bed had not been unoccupied through the evening. For twenty years,
or for half her life, it had been the habitat of Uncle 'Sias's unhappy daugh
ter, Luce. Jilted, or, as her people said, "shabbed," bythe young man whom
she was to have married, she never held up her head again after the shock of
this misfortune, and took her bed, which she had never since left, living
there " as if it belonged to her organism," and finally sinking into such a hap
less state that for years past her mental obituary might have been read in that
line of the thoughtful poet of rustic life

"She slowly withered, an imbecile mind."

By one of those coincidences that cease to surprise us by the time that mid-

gg ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER. [1861-88

die age has shown us how often they recur in obedience to some mysterious
law, the company of that night happened to include another of the weak-
hearted cravens in life's warfare a man of mature years, who had never
been heard to speak since the blow fell that crushed the pride, the hopes, and
the affections of his early manhood. No force of entreaties, taunts, or pro
vocations could drag him from the refuge of silence, which he had sought
with a sternness of purpose that, like the woman's pitiful cowering away from
human eyes, testified to the narrow conditions and imperfect development of
lives that went to wreck in the first storm of disaster by which they were
overtaken.

The meeting was conducted in the usual way. The customary appeals were
made from the leaders to the more timid sisters, and to the young converts,
to rise and speak ; and the responses from each class were, in most instances,
of an inaudible brevity. The maturer standard-bearers rose and delivered the
set speeches with which they always graced these occasions ; their several
styles being marked by the repetition of certain texts to which they had ac
quired a well-defined right sacred quotations that, as was said of Emerson's
prose "'tis," became almost a personal possession. For instance, the trade
mark distinguishing Aunt Booty, the gatherer and compounder of simples,
the Medea of savory and medicinal drinks, was the text, " Oh, taste and see
how good the Lord is !" which she dwelt upon with a sort of professional unc
tion, as though she were offering some ptisan of sovereign virtue. And Miss
Experience, or 'Speedy Goodspeed, known for her painful and halting utter
ance, never failed to wind up her remarks with the query, " What shall be
done unto thee, thou false tongue ?" Then there was the usual burst of
gratitude from the "skinching" or miserly Deacon Handy, who piously
thanked the Lord that he had been saved from dead works, and whose hopes
of justification must indeed, according to the testimony of his neighbors,
have rested upon faith alone. The usual element of comedy was furnished
by the flighty speaker, a sister of infirm wits but pious intentions, much
given to raising her voice in a high, cracked tone, and detailing her domestic
trials with injudicious frankness, closing with the application of her favorite
"varse" to her house-mates, "And five of them were foolish." Her example
encouraged "Eelly Dick," the feeble-minded pauper, whose board the town
had let out to Uncle 'Sias as the lowest bidder, to make his first appearance
on any religious platform getting slightly astray in his attempted citation,
" A woman took a maysure of oil, and hid it in a maysure of wheat, until the
whole was leavened," but meeting the Elder's frown with a manly independ
ence, by the declaration, " I may not repeat it as verbatim as some, but it is
not for this one, nor that one, nor the other one to say what I shall say in the
great congregation!" The Elder urged, warned, and exhorted, addressing
the doubters and inquirers, reminding them that Satan desired to have them,
and was there among them ; that the spiritual eye might plainly discern him
ght down there by the stove ; and that all concerned should make haste to
leave so dangerous a vicinity for the haven of the anxious-seats. A pause en
sued, of appalling length, after which a sister rose, and with the pious inten
tion of rubbing in the Elder's persuasions, quoted her own experience at a

1861-88] ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER. gf

similar crisis, when she "felt as if glue couldn't begin to hold her down half
so fast as Satan did ; but she broke away from all her bad feelings, and got up
and spoke, and felt quite a good deal better for spiting old Satan. "

Perhaps these appeals might have met with the desired response if the at
tention of the young people had not been divided between ghostly warnings
and skyey threatenings. The rain, which had been so long gathering in force,
was now preluded by keen flashes of lightning and ominous mutterings of
thunder. Seeing that no movement was made by the objects of the recent ex
hortations, Uncle 'Sias rose, just to occupy the time^ as he explained. " Alas,
alas/' he began, with his highest aim at a conventional style, "there was a
time of blessed news, when the Lord did marvels amongst us, and we should
rej'ice, yea, and did rej'ice. But, alas, the gold is become dim, and the most
fine gold is changed. Although I hope the' is some movings on the minds of
some few, yit the saints air not so zeelous f'r the Lord's cause an' the good o'
souls ez they was in times past. Sin doth greedily abound amongst us, and
the love of many waxes cold, for which the Lord is angered with a great anger.
Now is plantin' time, in a worldly way o' speakin', but ef we fare ez we de-
sarve, what sorter harvest shell we hev? Brethring, it'll be ez it was in times
I knowed when I lived up to Westfield, on Widder Bacon's farm, when the
Lord sent his armies o' worms to cut off the fruits o' the airth. Thet season
it come 'round so thet they ez expected fifty bushels didn't get sca'cely one.
Seth Beebe was one of our gret farmers up thet way. He sowed f o'teen acres o'
new ground, an' anticipated on a gret crop. Wai, he ploughed it up, an' planted
it with corn. Oh, thet we, ez a people, rememberin' these jedgments o' times
past, should beware lest they be let loose in the land agin. Oh, my young
frien's, we'm all a lookiii' ter you. Oh, think o' the famine in Egypt; think o'
the plagues o' the land ; think o' the good-will o' the burnin' bush ; think"

But here the worthy man's words were lost in the fierce rush of the gust,
the roll of the thunder, and the maddened lashing of the rain. Hysterical
women, whose twitching shoulders and quivering chins had for the lust quar
ter of an hour betrayed their nervous agitation, covered their faces before the
blue, blinding lights that glared pitilessly in at the great uncurtained win
dows of the old farmhouse, and sobbed in the abject misery of terror. Stout
hearted Aunt Freelove was heard declaring, "Kind of an onseasonable sorter
thunder-tempest, but I guess I c'n weather it tell the sullar walls ketches
fire." But Brandy wine Spears, who had hitherto sat in the seat of the scorn-
ers, beside the open house door, now hastily joined the inner circle, a pallid
and crestfallen Mephistopheles, as the racking peals shook the giant timbers
of the room, and the furious beating of the rain on the roof was like the tramp
of a charging host, while a long, lurid dazzle, a roar that seemed to fill the
sky, and the sickening sound of a rending, tearing concussion proclaimed
that one of the trees of the surrounding forest had fallen. Suddenly, at this
crisis of awe, the mood of the people passed at once from the ecstasy of fear to
the ecstasy of devotion ; a change effected by the sign and voice of one among
them who now assumed the place of a leader. At the signal of this strange,
tall hermit figure, known as the solitary dweller in the centre of the haunted
Carr's Plain, they rose by one impulse to their feet, and poured out their
VOL. xi. 7

ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER. [1861-88

swelling hearts in a wild burst of sacred song, their voices mounting high in
the passionate cry of the triumphant refrain

" Oh, Moses smote the waters,
And the seas gave way ! "

With the singing of the hymn the tempest somewhat abated, as if to the
clang of mediaeval bells. Angry black clouds still rose fast from the ocean,
but the lightning glanced harmlessly through the protecting veil of falling
waters, and the house seemed an ark of safety in the midst of the raging
floods. All looks now turned upon the new guide of the evening's devotions,
as he remained standing in his place, with the abstracted look of a solitary,
and yet as if charged with the burden of a word that must make its way to
utterance! Unknown and almost nameless as he was to the listening crowd,
there was a power in his presence, in the suggestions of his emaciated coun
tenance and the spectral glitter of his eye, which pointed to a reality in the
vague background of rumor which had given him, at his coming to live in
their community, the repute of a seer of strange visions, and of a fearless'host
to such ghostly visitants as the inhabitants of the haunted territory which he
had chosen to make his dwelling-place. But if a suspicion of something un
hallowed had at first clung to his mysterious personality, it disappeared with
that fuller knowledge of his brooding enthusiasm, his meditative insight,
and his recondite learning which had gained him his common title of " The
Preacher/' though his voice had never yet been heard in these seasons of wor
ship. A lonely settler in strange places, like the spiritual fathers of Khode
Island "Williams, Blackstoue, and Gorton it was rumored that he, too,
claimed to be a witness to a special interpretation of sacred truths, and, like
those historic pioneers, had been separated by the stress of conflicting opin
ions from his earlier associates, or, as it was more darkly hinted, had, at the
Divine pleasure, as made known to him in a dream, left home and family and
friends to dedicate himself to the contemplative life.

Such were the confused ideas prevailing among the congregation concern
ing the strange recluse who now spoke to them, wearing a far-away, intro
verted look, which presently quickened and glowed, as his low and quiet tones
grew in intensity with the development of his theme.

"It is written," he said, without preamble or address, "in the Word of
God that in the last days He will pour out his spirit upon his servants and
handmaidens, and old men shall dream dreams, and young men shall see
visions. I had been writing a letter to a friend at a distance, and being weak
and feeble, I lay down on my bed, with my face toward the wall, to take re
pose, and soon fell into a sound sleep. Methought I cast my eyes toward
heaven, and saw the blue vault of heaven split asunder, through which, I
thought, I saw a stream of light and love proceeding from the throne of God,
clear as crystal. As the rays of the sun in the firmament, at its first rising,
shine into a door or window, so that the stream through the whole house will
be lighter than anywhere else, so the whole stream of light from heaven to
where I stood shined with light and love."

The storm was subsiding, and the flashes of lightning were few and distant.

1861-88] ESTHER BERNON CARPENTER. 99

faintly illuminating the horizon. The dreaming glances of the speaker wan
dered out upon the night, and returned kindled with a deeper light, as he
offered a newly-suggested image to his rapt listeners.

"Never did I see anything so straight, and on either side the stream was
decked with thousands of little rays of light, all pointing one way, even toward
heaven. I thought that every drop of light and love that God bestows is to be
returned to him again ; and while I stood wondering at the sight, I thought
I saw the fiery chariot of God's love come through the gap that was in the
vault, coming through the midst of the stream, a hundred times swifter than
I ever saw an eagle fly. I thought it was all over glorious, and in color like to
a rainbow, and was carried on wings of love. In a few moments it was just by
where I stood, and turned short about, with the fire part toward heaven, and
rested on its wings, keeping its wings in a slow motion to bear it up, and wait
ing for me to come in. I thought my soul was transported ; I thought I stood
with my heart and hands extended to heaven, crying, Glory, glory in the
highest! and just as I was about to mount into the chariot I turned to a great
multitude, crying, Glory, glory, I am going to glory in the fiery chariot of
his love! and with these words on my lips I awoke out of sleep. Oh, cried I,
in tears, that I had been suffered to take my flight! Oh, thought I, in the
bitter disappointment of those waking moments, if one view of glory and love
will fill a soul with such joy, even in a dream, what will the open vision and
full fruition be in glory?"

The preacher's voice broke and failed, the light died out of his wan face,
his Dantean vision was told, his mission was ended. The message that he had
delivered was in a tone of fervor and power so far above the usual spiritual
ministrations received by the flock that a confused sense of wonder sat upon
all the faces. But the Elder, or exhorter of the evening, catching something
of the enthusiast's emotion, dismissed them with the genuine dignity of a
pastoral guide.

" Brethren/' said he, " our brother has spoke to us in the word of power.
As we go to our homes, and lay us down to rest, let us meditate well there
upon; and let each one commune with his own heart, and be still." And he
gave, and the congregation received, a blessing, with a new sense of reverence.

As the people disappeared on their homeward ways the sky was still ob
scured by drifting fog, through which glimpses of the clear heavens, set with
star-points, promised a further April change to fair weather. But the atmos
phere of storm and cloud and mist has ever since hung so heavily over the
story of that night that it has finally come to wear the shadowy shape of a
legend of the South County.

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN. [1861-88

10Q

Charles

BORN iu Austin, Texas, 1852.

THE BUILDING OP ARACHNE.

[Contributed to The Argonaut. 1889.]

A CITY OF THE FUTURE.

IN the year 2029 the leading Vanderbilt of his time came into his fortune.
He had received a remarkable education, and one which the nineteenth
century would have considered impossible. Without going into details, young
Vanderbilt was evenly developed physically, mentally and morally. He had
been so educated that he found happiness in the full and constant use of his
money and his brains forthe good of humanity. But he was preeminently prac
tical a purified and perfected type of one of the industrial kings of the nine
teenth century. He lived in a cottage in the hills, and he thought out his
plans in long walks under his trees. He was the richest man in America, and
yet he had as much freedom as any plain farmer. To sum it all up, he had be
come, without knowing it, the most unselfish, and at the same time the most
patient and persistent of living men.

The friends he had were not numerous, but each one of them was capable
of great things. And he and his wife understood each other in that complete
way which happens once in a thousand or so. Remember, I am not trying to
tell you how it all came about, because that would make a volume. Briefly,
Vanderbilt wished to build a city, more pleasant and better to live in than any
the world had yet seen. He wanted to see whether such a city could be estab
lished under new conditions of social and industrial life, and in such a way
that the enormous capital he proposed to invest could be restored unimpaired
at the end of a term of years.

The site which was chosen for the city of Arachne was in a sheltered and
fertile part of the great valley-plain of California which extends from Shasta
to Tehachapi. The floor of the valley at this point was a sloping plain, look
ing west, with tree-clad foothills east, and hundreds of great oaks scattered
here and there, like the ancestral oaks in the heart of England. The region
was chiefly occupied by large wheat farms. Vanderbilt was able to purchase,
through agents, a tract of land nearly twenty miles square. Then he sent for
his engineers.

" What I want," he said, " is a city capable of indefinite extension. The
plan is to be based on the web of the geometric spider. Streets, sewerage,
water, light, transportation, and the other requirements of this Utopia are to
be perfected as far as the science of the day will permit."

The engineers made their report. It was a wonderful situation, they said.
There was natural gas underlying the valley ; water could be brought from
the Sierras ; railroads from all parts of the continent could centre in the
heart of the city ; commerce could occupy miles of wharves if only people
chose to come and live in Arachne.

1861-88] CHARLES HOWARD 8HINN. 101

Then Vanderbilt sent for several great landscape-gardeners to work with the
engineers, and he and his wife went with them over the valley, the golden
foothills, and the sea-green tule lowlands by the sloughs. As the work went
on, so broad and beautiful were the plans developed, so magnificent the scale
of operations, that the interest of the country was aroused, and many persons
wished to buy and live in the as yet unbuilt city ; but the reply sent out was :
" Not yet ; wait until we are ready."

The landscape-gardeners said : " With this soil and climate every home can
have its garden and every street can be an avenue of shade and fragrance. All
the trees of the temperate zones, and many of the tropics, can thrive here, so
we will have no street less than a hundred feet wide, and some of our great
avenues shall even be a hundred and fifty feet across, and planted with date-
palms and magnolias, for twenty miles into the country. We shall lay out
public squares on every street, and two great parks, one on the lowlands by the
river, another on the foothills which look down on the city. We shall so ar
range our squares as to preserve the best of the oaks, sycamores, and other trees
of the valley. And, when the city is built, one of its officers shall be a city for
ester, educated and efficient, to preserve and develop all this beauty of streets,
squares, and parks." And that winter they planted miles of avenues and hun
dreds of acres of forests. There were four hundred specimens of deciduous
trees, forty-eight species of broad-leaved evergreens, and one hundred of con
ifers chosen to plant on the streets ; some streets had one row of trees down
the centre, others had two rows near the sidewalks. The great parks were
to be not only pleasure-grounds, but also arboretums. A belt of forest, a mile
wide, across the valley, was planted to protect the city from the occasional
northers.

The engineers arranged to have all the sewers of the city unite at the edge
of a tule marsh, by the river, five miles beyond the city's possible extension,
and. there their contents were to be heated in vast furnaces, dried, ground to
powder, and sold for fertilizers to farmers the world over. They arranged for
water and natural gas for cooking and lighting, to be piped into every house,
free to the consumer. They arranged for cable-cars up and down every street
and avenue, all managed by one system. They laid out the city so that every
lot, besides fronting on a street, ran back to a twenty-five-foot alley, and they
arranged for a freight cable-system on all these alleyways. They arranged for
telegraph, telephone, and phonograph connections throughout the entire sys
tem. Eailroad men in those days had come to run cars without smoke or
noise, by electricity, and it was easy to arrange for the approach of all trains
by two broad, sunken avenues, one north, the other south, over which the
streets crossed. These avenues led to the centre of the city, where a union de
pot, the great public buildings, and the offices of all the departments of public
works were situated.

It would be too long a story to explain further the physical details of the
system of organization, in which beauty and utility were joined in. perfect
union. When the time came, there appeared one morning in every newspa
per in the United States an announcement:

" Lots for sale in Arachne, to actual settlers. Two hundred and fifty mil-

CHARLES HOWARD 8HINN. [1861-88

lion dollars have already been invested here, and sales will be so conducted as
merely to restore this capital intact, at the end of twenty years, to the origi
nal investor. The object of this experiment is not money-making. Those
who cannot read and write had better not come to Arachne, as the charter
which it is hoped will be adopted does not allow such to vote at city elections.
Copies of the proposed charter mailed to all applicants."

Within a year Arachne was a city. Vanderbilt and his friends succeeded
in obtaining their charter, which could not be altered except by a three-
fourths vote of the citizens. This charter was the most important part of
Arachne, and so I will give a synopsis of some of its provisions. As Vander
bilt stated, at the public meetings of the twenty or thirty thousand voters who-
finally adopted it, almost as it was written: " It is intended, in this charter,
to give intelligence, thrift, and honesty the controlling power in Arachne.
Some things the people can do unitedly: some must forever be left to the in
dividual. Arachne will probably contain both rich and poor, weak and strong,
wise and foolish, to the end of time, but we hope it will contain less crime,
less unhappiness, and fewer failures than any other city in the world. The
charter of Arachne will suit neither nationalists nor Silurians, but it is worth
trying, nevertheless."

The charter provided for the absolute equality of men and women before
the law, and for non-sectarian free schools in a chain from the primary grades
through the university, with schools of the arts and industries.

Then came the qualifications for voters : " City elections shall be conducted
separately from all other elections. Voters at city elections must be able to
read and write, and must be freeholders owning one ' unit of real estate.'

" The ' unit of real estate ' is a lot of fifty feet frontage and not less than one
hundred feet in depth, extending to a rear alley. This unit cannot be sub
divided, though it may be held in several undivided interests. If used for
residence, only one house can be built on such a lot, and it must have at least
five full feet of space left on each side, ten feet in front, and twenty-five feet
in the rear. If used for business, the plans of the building must conform to
the general ordinances of the board of building commissioners."

The sections relating to " qualifications of officers " were remarkably sim
ple: "All candidates for offices in the gift of the people shall have passed
through at least the grammar grade of the public-school system. Heads of
departments shall have passed through at least the high-school grade."

The system of voting provided for was unique. Voters were registered by
residence. Besides telephonic and phonographic apparatus, and pneumatic
tubes for receiving and sendingmail, every house contained a " voting-tube, "'
connected with the city hall. At night, between the hours of 6 and 9, every
voter sent from his own house or room, to the central voting-office, his vote,
recorded on a phonographic piece of metal, which passed at once without any
human agency into a mechanical contrivance which counted and recorded the
entire vote, and preserved the cylinders and tallies intact for twenty-five years.
This gigantic machine was mathematically perfect, and had heen tested in
every possible way. The entire vote of the city was announced within an hour
after the closing of the polls. The introduction of a single unregistered vote, or

1861-88] CHARLES HOWARD SHINN. 1Q3

of a vote from the wrong place, would cause the machine to throw out the en
tire vote of that house or room. Any voter could give his number at any time
within twenty-five years, and hear his own vote read off by the machine.
The city had printed on its ballots the names of all persons nominated by fifty
or more freeholders. The voter merely read off the names of those he wished
to vote for, and his phonograph recorded it. The voting-tubes and the ma
chine were securely closed at all other times of the year except during the
three voting-hours. The register of the city was posted, page by page, in
many prominent places, for weeks before the election, and the city had a
standing offer of a reward for the discovery of any fraudulent entry.

After a few years it became evident that machinery had triumphed and
hopelessly broken up all the political machines. Voters staid at home, after
dinner, long enough to vote, and then went to the theatres, libraries, or art
galleries, returning in time to hear their phonographs report the results of
the election.

The organization of the city was said by the charter "to be for the purpose
of carrying on, as cheaply and efficiently as possible, the business of the city."
The officers were expected to give their entire time to the city's service, and
all were salaried.

The head of the government was called "the city president," answering
in some respects to the mayor, but with greater powers. He sent all nomi
nations for heads of certain departments to the legislative body, which con
sisted of twenty-seven members, nine of whom were chosen once in every two
years. They were elected not from districts, but at large, and were termed
" the city legislature."

The officials nominated by the president, and elected by the legislature,
were those belonging to what was termed the " industrial group of the city
departments" the chief forester, the sanitary engineer, the city architect,
the chief railroad engineer, and the heads of the water supplies, the gas wells,
and the sewage furnaces. These were all trained and educated specialists, for
each department worked up to within certain test limits of error, just as the
United States mints now do.

The heads of the "governing group" of officers the city attorney, the
school superintendent and directors, the chief librarian, the head of the art
schools, the insurance, banking, and fire commissioners, head of the tax de
partment, chief of police, and similar officers were elected by the people.

The judiciary were twice elected, once by the people and once by the presi
dent, legislature, and other elected officers assembled in council on the follow
ing day. Usually they ratified the choice of the people, but there were many
notable instances where they had reversed that decision. This being a veto
power required a two-thirds vote. In that case the people presented new can
didates.

Taxes were arranged on the basis of the "unit of real estate." This unit
was taxed at a fixed rate, whether improved or unimproved. A fixed amount
of water and gas was furnished free to each house, this amount being rated as
"sufficient for the use of one family"; everything above this amount was
charged at cost of production. The sewage furnaces turned in a large annual

IE WIN RUSSELL. [1861-88

revenue to the city. The transportation department, which included all the
freight and passenger traffic, had rates of charges fixed from time to time by
the city legislature. The income from this source, added to the revenues of
the sewage department and the small fixed tax on the unit of real estate, was
sufficient to pay all the expenses of the city government. The city had en
abled its citizens to escape most of the indirect taxes of the cities of the nine
teenth century, and the result was most astonishing in the tax department.
It was not necessary to put a dollar of tax on the great buildings, for, as the
city grew, the added transportation, at rates that lessened each year, paid all
the expenses.

The legislature had the right to raise the tax-rate on the unit of real estate,
and even to levy a graduated tax on all buildings which cost more than five
thousand dollars, but this was a right which it never exercised. The other
sources of income were sufficient.

As Arachne grew from a population of fifty thousand to one of half a mil
lion, and, before the close of its first century, to more than two millions, the
wisdom of its founders became more and more manifest. It was a city of
homes, of health, of happiness. Individuality had its proper play, competi
tion had healthful activity, but the sense of brotherhood was cultivated, and,
as the powers and duties of the city grew, the service of the city increased in
honor and responsibility, and the organization of public life became more
perfect.

The evils of cities like London and New York never existed in Arachne;
there were no slums, no tenement-houses, no pestilence-haunted rookeries,
no dives and dance-cellars and saloons, for the spirit of the community did
not tolerate these things.

BORN in Port Gibson, Miss., 1853. DIED in New Orleans, La., 1879.

THE BANJO.
[Poems. Collective Edition. 1888.]

/"^ O 'way, fiddle ! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'.
^*" Keep silence fur yo' betters! don't you heah de banjo talkm'?
About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter ladies, listen !
About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin' :

" Bar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn-
Fur Noah tuk de "Herald," and he read de ribber column
An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches,
An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez.

01' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin' ;
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin' ;
But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen :
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

1861-88] IB WIN RUSSELL.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle

An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soou's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee ;

De people all wuz drownded out 'cep' Noah an' de critters,

An' men he'd hired to wuk de boat ait' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an 1 a-sailin' ;

De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin' ;

De sarpints hissed ; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin ,

You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'rouu' an' cussin'.

Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket;
An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,
An' soon he had a banjo made de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin;

An' fitted in a proper neck 'twuz berry long an' tap'rin' ;

He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwiue to string it ?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ;
De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong, des fit fur banjo-stringin' ;
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces;
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'm little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 'twuz "Nebber min' de wedder,"
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder;
Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers;
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time it's mighty strange dere's not de slightes' showin'

Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ;

An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em

Fur whar you finds de nigger dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!

NEBUCHADNEZZAR.

YOU, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah! Look heah, mule! Better min' out;

Whar is you tryin' to go, sah ? Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out

I'd nab you fur to know, sah, How quick I'll wear dis line out

Ps a-holdin' ob de lines. On yo' ugly, stubbo'n back.

You better stop dat prancin' ; You needn't try to steal up

You's pow'ful fond ob dancin', An' lif dat precious heel up;

But I'll bet my yeah's advancin' You's got to plough dis fiel' up,
Dat I'll cure you ob yo' shines. You has, sah, fur a fac'.

106

THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

[1861-88

Dar, daffs de way to do it!
He's comin' right down to it ;
Jes' watch him ploughin' troo it !

Dis uigger ain't no fool.
Some folks dey would 'a' beat him ;
Now, dat would only heat him
I know jes' how to treat him :

You mus' reason wid a mule.

He minds me like a nigger.
If he wuz only bigger
He'd fotch a mighty figger,
He would, I tell you ! Yes, sah !

See how he keeps a-clickin'!
He's as gentle as a chickin,
An' nebber thinks o' kickin'
Whoa dar ! Nebuchadnezsah !

Is dis heah me, or not me ?
Or is de debbil got me ?
Wuz dat a cannon shot me ?

Hab I laid heah more'n a week
Dat mule do kick amazin'!
De beast wuz sp'iled in raisin'
But now I 'spect he's grazin'

On de oder side de creek.

NELLY.

NOT long ago perhaps not long
My soul heard no discordant tone,
For love and youth's sweet matin song
It hearkened to, and that alone ;

But now the song is hushed, it hears
Strange music, in a harsher key,

For every sound a dirge appears
Since Nelly died, who lived for me.

The summer of my life is past ;
Eternal winter reigns instead ;

For how, for me, could summer last,
When she, my only rose, is dead ?

Sweet Nelly! would thou couldst be yet,
As once, my day, my only light!

But thou art gone the sun has set
And every day, to me, is night.

Yet, be the darkness e'er so deep,
Let no more suns arise for me :

For night can soothe my heart to sleep,
And, Nelly, then I'll dream of thee !

BOKN at " Oakland," Hanover Co., Va., 1853.

FROM "MARSE CHAN."
[Marse Chan. In Ole Virginia. 1887.]

N"E night Marse Chan come back from de offis wid a telegram dat say,
' Come at once/ so he wuz to start nex' mawnin'. He uniform wuz all
ready, gray wid yaller trimmin's, an' mine wuz ready too, an' he had ole mars-
ter's sword, whar de State gi' 'im in de Mexikin war; an' he trunks wuz all
packed wid ev'rything in 'em, an' my chist wuz packed too, an' Jim Rasher
he druv 'em over to de depo' in de waggin','an' we wuz to start nex' mawnin'
'bout light. Dis wuz 'bout de las' o' spring, yo' know. Dat night ole missis

1861-88] THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

made Marse Chan dress up in he uniform, an' he sut'n'y did look splendid,
wid he long mustache an' he wavin' hyar an' he tall figger.

" Arfter supper he come down an' sez: * Sam, I wan' you to tek dis note an*
kyar it over to Cun'l Chahmb'lin's, an' gi' it to Miss Anne wid yo' own han's,
an' bring me wud what she sez. Don' let any one know 'bout it, or know why
you've gone.' ' Yes, seh,' sez I.

" Yo' see, I knowed Miss Anne's maid over at ole Cun'l Chahmb'lin's dat
wuz Judy whar is my wife now an' I knowed I could wuk it. So I tuk de
roan an' rid over, an' tied 'im down de hill in de cedars, an' I wen' 'roun' to
de back yard. 'Twuz a right blowy sort o' night; de moon wuz jes' risin', but
de clouds wuz so big it didn' shine 'cep' th'oo a crack now an' den. I soon
foun' my gal, an' arfter tellin' her two or three lies 'bout herse'f, I got her to
go in an' ax Miss Anne to come to de do'. When she come, I gi' her de note,
an' arfter a little while she bro't me anurr, an' I tole her good-by, an' she gi'
me a dollar, an' I come home an' gi' de letter to Marse Chan. He read it, an'
tole me to have de bosses ready at twenty minits to twelve at de corner of de
garden. An' jes' befo' dat he come out ez ef he wuz gwine to bed, but instid
he come, an' we all struck out to'ds Cun'l Chahmb'lin's. When we got mos*
to de gate, de hosses got sort o' skeered, an' I see dey wuz some'n or somebody
stan'in' jes' inside; an' Marse Chan he jump' off de sorrel an' flung me de
bridle and lie walked up.

" She spoke fust ('twuz Miss Anne had done come out dyah to meet Marse
Chan), an' she sez, jes' ez cold ez a chill, ' Well, seh, I granted your favor. I
wished to relieve myse'f of de obligations you placed me under a few months
ago, when you made me a present of my father, whom you fust insulted an'
then prevented from gittiu' satisfaction.'

" Marse Chan he didn' speak fur a minit, an' den he said: 'Who is with
you?' (Dat wuz ev'y wud.)

'"No one,' sez she; ' I came alone.'

" ' My God ! ' sez he, 'you didn' come all through those woods by yourse'f
at this time o' night ? '

" ' Yes, I'm not afraid,' sez she. (An' heah dis nigger ! I don' b'lieve she
wuz.)

"De moon come out, an' I cotch sight o' her stan'in' dyah in her white
dress, wid de cloak she had wrapped herse'f up in drapped off on de groun',
an' she didn' look like she wuz 'feared o' nuthin'. She wuz mons'us purty ez
she stood dyah wid de green bushes behine her, an' she hed jes' a few flowers
in her breas' right hyah and some leaves in her sorrel hyar; an' de moon
come out an' shined down on her hyar an' her frock, an' 'peared like de light
wuz jes' stan'in' off it ez she stood dyah lookin' at Marse Chan wid her head
tho'd back, jes' like dat mawnin' when she pahss Marse Chan in de road wid-
out speakin' to 'im, an' sez to me, ' Good mawnin', Sam.'

" Marse Chan, he den tole her he hed come to say good-by to her, ez he wuz
gwine 'way to de war nex' mawnin'. I wuz watchin' on her, an' I tho't, when
Marse Chan tole her dat, she sort o' started an' looked up at 'im like she wuz
mighty sorry, an' 'peared like she didn' stan' quite so straight arfter dat.
Den Marse Chan he went on talkin' right fars' to her; an' he tole her how he

108 THOMAS NELSON PAGE. [1861-88

bad loved her ever sence she wuz a little bit o' baby mos', an' how he nuver
'membered de time when he hedn' 'spected to marry her. He tole her it wuz
his love for her dat bed made 'im stau' fust at school an' collige, an' lied kep'
'im good an' pure; an' now he wuz gwine 'way, wouldn' she let it be like 'twuz
in ole times, an' ef he come back from de war wouldn' she try to think on him
ez she use' to do when she wuz a little guirl ?

" Marse Chan he had done been talkin' so serious, he hed done tuk Miss
Anne's ban', an' wuz lookin' down in her face like he wuz list'nin' wid his
eyes.

" Arfter a minit Miss Anne she said somethin', an' Marse Chan he cotch
her urr han' an' sez:

" ' But if you love me, Anne ? '

" When he said dat, she tu'ned her head 'way from 'im, an' wait' a minit,
an' den she said right clear:

" 'But I don' love yo'.' (Jes'dem th'ee wuds !) De wuds fall right slow
like dirt falls out a spade on a coffin when yo's buryin' anybody, an' sez,
'Uth to uth.' Marse Chan he jes' let her hand drap, an' he stiddy hisse'f
'g'inst de gate-pos', an' he didn' speak torekly. When he did speak, all he sez
wuz:

" ' I mus' see you home safe.'

" I 'clar, marster, I didn' know 'twuz Marse Chan's voice tell I look at 'im
right good. Well, she wouldn' let 'im go wid her. She jes' wrap' her cloak
'roun' her shoulders, an' wen' 'long back by herse'f, widout doin' rnore'n jes'
look up once at Marse Chan leanin' dyah "g'inst de gate-pos' in he sodger
clo's, wid he eyes on de groun'. She said ' Good- by ' sort o' sorf, an' Marse
Chan, widout lookin' up, shake han's wid her, an' she wuz done gone down
de road. Soon ez she got 'mos' 'roun' de curve, Marse Chan he followed her,
keepin' under de trees so ez not to be seen, an' I led de bosses on down de
road behine 'im. He kep' 'long behine her tell she wuz safe in de house, an'
den he come an' got on he hoss, an' we all come home.

'' Nex' mawnin' we all come off to j'ine de army. An' dey wuz a-drillin' an'
a-drillin' all 'bout for a while an' dey went 'long wid all de res' o' de army, an'
I went wid Marse Chan an' clean he boots, an' look arfter de tent, an' tek
keer o' him an' de bosses. An' Marse Chan, he wan' a bit like he use' to be.
He wuz so solum an' moanful all de time, at leas' 'cep' when dyah wuz gwine
to be a fight. Den he'd peartin' up, an' he alwuz rode at de head o' de com
pany, 'cause he wuz tall; an' hit wan' on'y in battles whar all bis company
wuz dat he went, but he use' to volunteer whenever de cun'l wanted anybody
to fine out anythin', an' 'twuz so dangersome be didn' like to mek one man
go no sooner'n anurr, yo' know, an' ax'd who'd volunteer. He 'peared to like
to go prowlin' aroun' 'mong dem Yankees, an' he use' to tek me wid 'im when
ever be could. Yes, seh, he sut'n'y wuz a good sodger ! He didn' mine bul
lets no more'n he did so many draps o' rain. But I use' to be pow'f ul skeered
sometimes. It jes' use' to 'pear like fun to Mm. In camp he use' to be so sor-
rerful he'd hardly open he mouf. You'd 'a' tho't he wuz seekin', he used to
look so moanful; but jes' le' 'im git into danger, an' he use' to be like ole times
jolly an' laughiu' like when he wuz a boy.

1861-88] THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

" When Cap'n Gordon got he leg shot off, dey mek Marse Chan cap'n on
de spot,'cause one o' de lieutenants got kilt de same day, an' turr one (named
Mr. Eonny) wan' no 'count, an' all de company said Marse Chan wuz de man.

"An' Marse Chan he wuz jes' de same. He didn' nuver mention Miss
Anne's name, but I knowed he wuz thinkin' on her constant. One night he
wuz settin' by de fire in camp, an' Mr. Konny he wuz de secon' lieutenant
got to talkin' 'bout ladies, an' he say all sorts o' things 'bout 'em, an' I see
Marse Chan kinder lookin' mad; an' de lieutenant mention Miss Anne's
name. He hed been courtin' Miss Anne 'bout de time Marse Chan fit de duil
wid her pa, an' Miss Anne hed kicked 'im, dough he wuz mighty rich, 'cause
he warn' nuthin' but a half-strainer, an' 'cause she like Marse Chan, I believe,
dough she didn' speak to 'im; an' Mr. Ronuy he got drunk, an' 'cause Cun'l
Chahmb'lin tole 'im not to come dyah no more, he got mighty mad. An' dat
evenin'I'se tellin'yo"bout, he wuz talkin', an' he mention' Miss Anne's name.
I see Marse Chan tu'n he eye 'roun' on 'im an' keep it on he face, and pres'n'y
Mr. Eonny said he wuz gwtne hey some fun dyah yit. He didn' mention her
name dat time; but he said dey wuz all on 'em a parecel of stuck-up 'risti-
crats, an' her pa wan' no gent'man anyway, an' I don' know what he wuz
gwine say (he nuver said it), fur ez he got dat far Marse Chan riz up an' hit
'im a crack, an' he fall like he hed been hit wid a fence-rail. He challenged
Marse Chan to fight a duil, an' Marse Chan he excepted de challenge, an' dey
wuz gwine fight; but some on 'em tole 'im Marse Chan wan' gwine mek a
present o' him to his fam'ly, an' he got somebody to bre'k up de duil; twan'
nuthin' dough, but he wuz 'fred to fight Marse Chan. An' purty soon he lef
de comp'ny.

" "Well, I got one o' de gent'mens to write Judy a letter for me, an' I tole
her all 'bout de fight, an' how Marse Chan knock Mr. Eonny over fur speakin'
disconternptuous o' Cun'l Chahmb'lin, an' I tole her how Marse Chan wuz
a-dyin' fur love o' Miss Anne. An' Judy she gits Miss Anne to read de letter
fur her. Den Miss Anne she tells her pa, an' you mine, Judy tells me all
dis arfterwards, an' she say when Cun'l Chahmb'lin hear 'bout it, he wuz set-
tin' on de poach, an' he set still a good while, an' den he sey to hisse'f :

" < Well, he earn' he'p bein' a Whig.'

" An' den he gits up an' walks up to Miss Anne an' looks at her right hard;
an' Miss Anne she hed done tu'n away her haid an' wuz makin' out she wuz
fixin' a rose-bush 'g'inst de poach; an' when her pa kep' lookin' at her, her
face got jes' de color o' de roses on de bush, and pres'n'y her pa sez:

"'Anne!'

" An' she tu'ued roun', an' he sez:

" ' Do yo' want 'im ? '

" An' she sez, ' Yes,' an' put her head on he shoulder an' begin to cry; an*
he sez :

" ' Well, I won' stan' between yo' no longer. Write to 'im an' say so.'

" We didn' know nuthin' 'bout dis den. We wuz a-fightin' an' a-fightin*
all dat time; an' come one day a letter to Marse Chan, an' I see 'im start to
read it in his tent, an' he face hit look so cu'ious, an' he han's trembled so I
couldn' mek out what wuz de matter wid 'im. An' he fol' de letter up an' wen'

THOMAS NELSON PAGE. [1861-88

out an' wen' way down 'hine de camp, an' stayed dyah 'bout nigh an hour.
Well, seh, I wuz on de lookout for 'im when he come back, an', fo' Gord, ef
he face didn' shine like a angel's ! I say to myse'f, 'Urn'm ! ef de glory o'
Gord ain' done shine on 'im ! ' An' what yo' 'spose 'twuz ?

"He tuk me wid 'im dat evenin', an' he tell me he hed done git a letter
from Miss Anne, an' Marse Chan he eyes look like gre't big stars, an' he face
wuz jes' like 'twuz dat mawnin' when de sun riz up over de low groun', an' I
see 'im stan'in' dyah wid de pistil in he ban', lookin' at it, an' not knowin'
but what it mout be de lars' time, an' he done mek up he mine not to shoot
ole Cun'l Chahmb'lin fur Miss Anne's sake, what writ 'im de letter.

" He fol' de letter wha' was in his ban' up, an' put it in he inside pocket
right dyah on de lef side; an' den he tole me he tho't mebbe we wuz gwine
hev some warm wuk in de nex' two or th'ee days, an' arfter dat ef Gord
speared 'im he'd git a leave o' absence fur a few days, an' we'd go home.

" Well, dat night de orders come, an' we all hed to git over to'ds Romney;
an' we rid all night till 'bout light ; an' we halted right on a little creek, an'
we stayed dyah till mos' breakfas' time, an' I see Marse Chan set down on de
groun' 'hine a bush an' read dat letter over an' over. I watch Mm, an' de bat
tle wuz a-goin' on, but we had orders to stay 'hine de hill, an' ev'y now an'
den de bullets would cut de limbs o' de trees right over us, an' one o' dem big
shells what goes 'Awhar awliar awhar!' would fall right 'mong us; but
Marse Chan he didn' mine it no mo'n nuthin' ! Den it 'peared to git closer an'
thicker, and Marse Chan he calls me, an' I crep' up, an' he sez:

" ' Sam, we'se goin' to win in dis battle, an' den we'll go home an' git mar
ried; an' I'se goin' home wid a star on my collar.' An' den he sez, ' Ef I'm
wounded, kyar me home, yo' hear ?' An' I sez, ' Yes, Marse Chan.'

" Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted; an' de or
ders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's comp'ny wuz de secon', an'
when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de wust place ever dis
nigger got in. An' dey said, ' Charge 'em ! ' an' my king ! ef ever you see bul
lets fly, dey did dat day. Hit wuz jes' like hail; an' we wen' down de slope (I
long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong
dyah (dey hed a whole rigi ment o' infintrys layi n' down dyah onder de cannons)
our lines sort o' broke an' stop; de cun'l was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz jes'
'bout to bre'k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' cotch hoi' de fleg an'
hollers, ' Foller me ! ' an' rid strainin' up de hill 'mong de cannons. I seen 'im
when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'y urr hoss, jes' like he
use' to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole rigiment right arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuver
hear thunder ! Fust thing I knowed, de roan roll' head over heels an' flung
me up 'g'inst de bank, like yo' chuck a nubbin over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn
pile. An' dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt, I 'specks. Judy she say she
think 'twuz Providence, but I think 'twuz de bank. 0' co'se, Providence put
de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan ? When I
look' 'roun', de roan wuz layin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball
gone 'mos' th'oo him, an' our men hed done swep' dem on t'urr side from de
top o' de hill. 'Twan' mo'n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his
mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one side to his knee. ' Dyah ! ' sez

1861-88] THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

I, ' fo' Gord ! I 'specks dey done kill Marse Chan, an' I promised to tek care
on him.'

" I jumped up an' run over de bank, an' dyah, wid a whole lot o' dead men,
an' some not dead yit, onder one o' de guns wid de fleg still in he han', an' a
bullet right th'oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n 'im over an' call 'im,
* Marse Chan ! ' but 'twan' no use, he wuz done gone home, sho' 'nuff. I pick'
'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he han's, an' toted 'im back jes' like I
did dat day when he wuz a baby, an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my arms,
an' sez he could trus' me, an' tell me to tek keer on 'im long ez he lived. 1
kyar'd 'im 'way off de battlefiel' out de way o' de balls, an' I laid 'im down
onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch de sorrel for me. He wuz
cotched arfter awhile, an' I bed some money, so I got some pine plank an' made
a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body up in de fleg, an' put 'im in
de coffin; but I didn' nail de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan'
see 'im; an' I got a' ambulance an' set out for home dat night. We reached
dyah de nex' evein', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day.

" Hit 'peared like somethin' bed tole ole missis we wuz comin' so; for when
we got home she wuz waitin' for us done drest up in her best Sunday-clo'es,
an' stan'iu' at de head o' de big steps, an' ole marster settin' in his big cheer
ez we druv up de hill to'ds de house, I drivin' de ambulance ah' de sorrel lead-
in' 'long behine wid de stirrups crost over de saddle.

" She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de coffin out de ambulance
an' kyar'd it right into de big parlor wid de pictures in it, whar dey use' to
dance in ole times when Marse Chan wuz a school-boy, an' Miss Anne Chahm-
b'lin use' to come over, an' go wid ole missis into her chamber an' tek her
things off. In dyah we laid de coffin on two o' de cheers, an' ole missis nuver
said a wud; she jes' looked so ole an' white.

" When I bed tell 'em all 'bout it, I tu'ned right 'roun' an' rid over to Cun'l
Chahmb'lin's, 'cause I knowed dat wuz what Marse Chan he'd V wanted me
to do. I didn' tell nobody whar I wuz gwine, 'cause yo' know none on 'em
hadn' nuver speak to Miss Anne, not sence de duil, an' dey didn' know 'bout
de letter.

"When I rid up in de yard, dyah wuz Miss Anne a-sfcan'in' on de poach
watchin' me ez I rid up. I tied my hoss to de fence, an' walked up de parf.
She knowed by de way I walked dyah wuz somethin' de motter, an' she wuz
mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on de een' o' de steps an' went up. She
nuver opened her mouf ; jes' stan' right still an' keep her eyes on my face.
Fust, I couldn' speak; den I cotch my voice, an' I say, ' Marse Chan, he done
got he furlough.'

" Her face was mighty ashy, an' she sort o' shook, but she didn' fall. She
tu'ned rouu' an' said, ' Git me de ker'ige ! ' Dat wuz all.

" When de ker'ige come 'roun', she hed put on her bonnet, an' wuz ready.
Ez she got in, she sey to me, 'Hev yo' brought him home ?' an' we drove
'long, I ridin' behine.

" When we got home, she got out, an' walked up de big walk up to de
poach by herse'f. Ole missis hed done fin' de letter in Marse Chan's pocket,
wid de love in it, while I wuz 'way, an' she wuz a-waitin' on de poach. Dey

H2 THOMAS NELSON PAGE. [1861-88

sey dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry when she find de letter, an' dat she
sut'n'y did cry over it, pintedly.

" "Well, seh, Miss Anne she walks right up de steps, mos' up to ole missis
stan'in' dyah on de poach, an' jes' falls right down mos' to her, on her knees
fust, an' den flat on her face right on de flo', ketchin' at ole missis' dress wid
her two han's so.

" Ole missis stood for 'bout a minit lookin' down at her, an' den she drapt
down on de flo' by her, an' took her in bofe her arms.

" I couldn' see, I wuz cryin' so myse'f, an' ev'ybody wuz cryin'. But dey
went in arfter a while in de parlor, an' shet de do'; an' I heahd 'em say, Miss
Anne she tuk de coffin in her arms an' kissed it, an' kissed Marse Chan, an'
call' 'im by his name, an' her darlin', an' ole missis lef her cryin' in dyah tell
some on 'em went in, an' found her done faint on de flo'.

" Judy (she's my wife) she tell me she heah Miss Anne when she axed ole
missis mout she wear mo'nin' fur 'im. I don' know how dat is; but when we
buried 'im nex' day, she wuz de one whar walked arfter de coffin, holdin' ole
marster, an' ole missis she walked next to 'em.

"Well, we buried Marse Chan dyah in de ole grabeyard, wid de fleg wrapped
roun' 'im, an' he face lookin' like it did dat mawnin' down in de low groun's,
wid de new sun shinin' on it so peaceful.

" Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat; she stay wid ole mars
ter an' ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn' so mighty long, 'cause ole
marster he died dat fall, when dey wuz fallerin' fur wheat I had jes' married
Judy den an' ole missis she warn' long behine him. We buried her by him
next summer. Miss Anne she went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis
died; an' jes' fo' Richmond fell she come home sick wid de fever. Yo' nnver
would 'a' knowed her fur de same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a piece o'
peth, an' so white, 'cep' her eyes an' her sorrel hyar, an' she kep' on gittin'
whiter an' weaker. Judy she sut'n'y did nuss her faithful. But she nuver got
no betterment ! De fever an' Marse Chan's bein' kilt hed done strain her, an'
she died jes' f o' de folks wuz sot free.

"So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in a place whar ole missis
hed tole us to leave, an' dey's bofe on 'em sleep side by side over in de ole grabe
yard at home.

" An' will yo' please tell me, marster ? Dey tells me dat de Bible sey dyar
won' be marryin' nor givin' in marriage in heaven, but I don' b'lieve it signi
fies dat does you ? "

I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some other interpretation,
together with several spare " eighteen-pences," as he called them, for which he
seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode away I heard him calling across the
fence to his wife, who was standing in the door of a small whitewashed cabin,
near which we had been standing for some time:

"Judy, have Marse Chan's dawg got home ? "

1861-88] EATHERINE ELEANOR CON WAT.

fcattyerine Cleanor

BORN in Rochester, N. Y.

SATURNINUS.

HE might have won the highest guerdon that heaven to earth can give,
For whoso falleth for justice dying, he yet shall live.

He might have left us his memory to flame as a beacon light,

When clouds of the false world's raising shut the stars of heaven from sight.

He might have left us his name to ring in our triumph song

When we stand, as we'll stand at to-morrow's dawn, by the grave of a world-old
wrong.

For he gave thee, O mother of valiant sons thou fair, and sore oppressed,
The love of his youth and his manhood's choice first-fruits of his life, and best.

Thine were throb of his heart and thought of his brain and toil of his strong right

hand ;
For thee he braved scorn and reviling and loss of gold and land,

Threat and lure and false-hearted friend, and blight of a broken word
Terrors of night and delay of light prison and rack and sword.

For thee he bade death defiance till the heavens opened wide,

And his face grew bright with reflex of light from the face of the Crucified.

And his crown was in sight and his palm in reach and his glory all but won,
And then he failed God help us! with the worst of dying done.

Only to die on the treacherous down by the hands of the tempters spread
Nay, nay make way for the strangers ! we have no right in the dead.

But oh, for the beacon quenched, that we dreamed would kindle and flame !
And oh, for the standard smirched and shamed, and the name we dare not name I

Over the lonesome grave the shadows gather fast;

Only the mother, like God, forgives, and comforts her heart with the past.

The Boston Pilot. 1885.

"STAR OF MY DYING-TIME."

" Pray for us now, and at the hour of our death."

[On the Sunrise Slope. 1881.]

MOTHER, the skies are dim, Weary am I and weak,

The air is cold, And sore afraid;

And forms of terror grim O Virgin, pure and meek

The mists unfold. Sweet Mother aid!
VOL. xi. 8

WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON. [1861-88

If I could see thy face O for one bright hour more
'Twere almost Heaven, Of strength supreme,

A sign of pitying grace Like those I wasted o'er
And sin forgiven. My life's long dream !

But O this awful gloom But Mother if thou plead
Within, without, With thy dear Son

The fiends of wrath and doom, In this, my woful need,
Despair and. doubt! My Heaven is won!

militant Cranston Latoton*

BOKN in New Bedford, Mass., 1853.

THE DELPHIC ORACLE.
[Delphi : the Locality and its Legends. The Atlantic Monthly. 1889.]

HE priestesses were originally young maidens; but when one of them had
proved susceptible to other influences than Apollo's inspiration, a widow
over fifty years of age was always selected. In the early time, and again after
the power of the oracle decayed, there was one Pythia only. In the height of
Delphi's fame, three held the office simultaneously. At first, responses were
given only on " Apollo's birthday," in the early spring; the natural time for
seeking augury concerning crops, the opening of campaigns, plans for col
onizing, etc. Later, the favorable days were more frequent.

Before mounting the tripod, the Pythia chewed leaves of the sacred laurel
and drank from the holy spring, to put herself more fully under the divine
influence. No doubt she, as well as those seeking the aid of divination, was
further excited by the strange, rich odors, perhaps incense, of which we hear,
and by music. If her responses were too incoherent or unpoetical, they were
reduced to writing and to hexameter verse by the attendant priests, and de
livered, either orally or upon a sealed tablet, to the questioner.

Our chief authorities for the period when the oracle's influence was at its
height are men who sincerely believed in Apollo, and in his guidance of hu
man affairs through the mouth of the inspired Pythia. The attitude of Hero-
dotos, for instance, whose volume is the best mirror of the age and interpreter
of its f ai th, is that of reverent but intelligent belief. He is aware that the priest-
ess has sometimes been corrupted by bribes or other influences; but such sins
were detected and severely punished. Some oracles, he also knows, have been
forged after the event; but that again only shows how much assistance the
supposed sanction of the god gave to the actions of men. He " does not ques
tion, and cannot suffer others to question," the genuineness of Apollo's in
spiration on many occasions.

Thoughtful students of the history of mysticism, ancient or modern, will
at least agree that the utterances recorded are not to be hastily ascribed to a
systematic cool-blooded scheme of deception. In the earlier days, at least,

1861-88] WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON.

the priestess appears usually to have been in the condition perhaps best de
scribed as a trance. Nor have we the slightest right to doubt the sincerity
and good faith even of the attendant priests who caught and interpreted her
excited, half-articulate words. They were probably informed beforehand, it
may be through something resembling a confessional, of the questioner's own
hopes and desires. Often they knew that the nature of the response obtained
might vitally affect the credit and prosperity of the temple and their corpo
ration. Their human judgment, to use modern terms, doubtless influenced
more or less consciously their priestly functions. But all this is not saying
that the oracle was a mere machine, shrewdly worked to secure personal ad
vantage from the credulity of mankind. It is essential to the comprehension
of any religion to start with the assumption of sincerity on the part of priest
no less than of people.

"Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias wrought ;
Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle.
The litanies of nations came
Like the volcano's tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below."

Even reduced to its crudest form, it is true that' successful delusion almost
always begins in self-delusion.

I am appealing for the moment merely to those who assume as self-evident
that the ancient oracles were in no sense inspired; but we have, of course,
always the happier alternative, of believing that man has never in any age
or land been wholly cut off from consultation, in the hour of his need, with
the Rulers of life. Again Emerson's glowing lines will best utter our thought
for us :

"The word by seers or sibyls told,

In groves of oak or fanes of gold,

Still floats upon the morning wind,

Still whispers to the willing mind.

One accent of the Holy Ghost

The heedless world hath never lost."

For those, doubtless the overwhelming majority, who view the question
with utterly incredulous eyes, who would deny the Pythia and the priests any
claim to inspiration or even to self-deception, it may be added that they will
find much amusement and confirmation of their own opinions in Lucian's
account of Alexander. This " false prophet " organized a private oracle for
revenue only, with all the machinery of deceit. There was no doubt what
ever about the fraud in that case. Lucian fully exposed it, at the imminent
risk of his own life. . . - , .

Just how far the political movements among the Greeks were controlled
from Apollo's mountain sanctuary is indeed still subject of debate. There is
no doubt that the great German historian Ernst Curtius, trusting to his sym
pathetic insight into the spirit of Hellenic institutions and character, has
sometimes overstepped the broken and uncertain lines of our classic author
ities. It is clear, however, that the Delphians enjoyed for many generations

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON. [1861-88

the confidence of all Greeks. Thither every republic and monarch turned for
guidance in the great crises of their existence. To the servants of Apollo the
secret deeds and plans of each must have been truthfully confessed. The in
formation thus gathered by the chapter was undoubtedly transmitted from
generation to generation, and formed the basis of an enlightened and patri
otic policy in the treatment of Hellenic affairs generally.

We know that inquiries were often answered at once, without recourse to
the god. It may be, indeed, that the decision of the oracle was avowedly only
invoked in matters of especial difficulty and doubt: as when the guardians of
the temple themselves asked Apollo if they should bury or carry away his
treasures, to save them from the advancing forces of Xerxes, and received the
lofty reply that the god would defend his own. Perhaps we cannot close this
inquiry more instructively than with a quotation from the Memorabilia of
Xenophon. We must remember that one of the most devout of the Greek
writers is recording words which repeatedly fell from the lips of Socrates, his
teacher and friend, who in Delphi, at any rate, fell under no suspicion of
heresy, but on the contrary had been declared by the oracle to be the wisest
of men.

" But he said they were mad who consulted the oracle as to matters which

the gods permit men to decide by the use of reason He asserted

that it was our duty to discover for ourselves so much as the gods allow us to
find out; but whatever is not made plain for men, that we should endeavor to
learn from the gods through divination : for he declared the gods made revela
tion to those men toward whom they were gracious."

Robert

BORN in Washington, D. C., 1853.

NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
{The Century Magazine. 1883-89.1

WHAT is diviner than the peace of foes!
He conquers not who does not conquer hate,
Or thinks the shining wheels of heaven wait
On his forgiving. Dimmer the laurel shows
On brows that darken ; and war-won repose
Is but a truce when heroes abdicate
To Huns unfabling those of elder date
Whose every corse a fiercer warrior rose.
O ye that saved the land ! Ah yes, and ye
That bless its saving! Neither need forget

The price our destiny did of both demand
Toil, want, wounds, prison, and the lonely sea
Of tears at home. Oh, look on these. And yet
Before the human fail you quick! your hand!

1861-88]

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.

117

IN THE DARK.

AT dusk, when Slumber's gentle wand
-"- Beckons to quiet fields my boy,
And day, whose welcome was so fond,

Is slighted like a rivalled toy,

When fain to follow, fain to stay,
Toward night's dim border-line he
peers,

We say he fears the fading day :
Is it the inner dark he fears ?

His deep eyes, made for wonder, keep
Their gaze upon some land unknown,

The while the crowding questions leap
That show his ignorance my own.

For he would go he knows not where,
And I I hardly know the more ;

Yet what is dark and what is fail-
He would to-night with me explore.

Upon the shoals of my poor creed
His plummet falls, but cannot rest ;

To sound the soundless is his need,
To find the primal soul, his quest.

In vain these bird-like flutterings,

As when through cages sighs the wind :

My clearest answer only brings

New depths of mystery to his mind,

Vague thoughts, by crude surmise beset,
And groping doubts that loom and pass

Like April clouds that, shifting, fret
With tides of shade the sun-wooed
grass.

O lonely soul within the crowd
Of souls ! O language-seeking cry !

How black were noon without a cloud
To vision only of the eye !

Sleep, child ! while healing Nature breaks
Her ointment on the wounds of

Thought;

Joy, that anew with morning wakes,
Shall bring you sight it ne'er has
brought.

Lord, if there be, as wise men spake,
No Death, but only Fear of Death,

And when Thy temple seems to shake
'Tis but the shaking of our breath,

Whether by day or night we see

Clouds where Thy winds have driven
none,

Let unto us as unto Thee

The darkness and the light be one.

ON A GREAT POET'S OBSCURITY.

WHAT means his line ? You say none knows ?
Yet one perhaps may learn in time:
For, sure, could life be told in prose
There were no need at all for rhyme.

Alike two waters blunt the sight

The muddy shallow and the sea;
Here every current leads aright

To deeps where lucent wonders be.

WILLIAM HENRY Rl DEING. [1861-88

A SEPTEMBER VIOLET.

FOR days the peaks wore hoods of Then, as a happy dream comes true,

cloud, Or as a poet finds his rhyme
The slopes were veiled in chilly rain;

We said : It is the Summer's shroud, Half wondered at, half unbelieved

And with the brooks we moaned aloud, l found thee > friendliest of the flowers I

Will sunshine never come again ? Then Summer's joys came back, green-
leaved,

At last the west wind brought us one And its doomed dead, awhile reprieved,

Serene, warm, cloudless, crystal day, First learned how truly they were

As though September, having blown ours.
A blast of tempest, now had thrown

A gauntlet to the favored May. Dear violet! Did the Autumn bring

Thee vernal dreams, till thou, like me r

Backward to Spring our fancies flew, Didst climb to thy imagining?

And, careless of the course of Time, Or was it that the thoughtful Spring

The bloomy days began anew. Did come again, in search of thee ?

BORN in Liverpool, England, 1853.

A PERSON OF "LITERARY TASTES."
[A Little Upstart. 1885.]

IF it had been worth looking for, the key to Amelia Bailey's character would
have been found in a reckless ambition frustrated by the lack of any ster
ling ability. A future of intellectual honors had been predicted for her, and
she had been flattered and spoiled in her girlhood by the people of her native
village. She had always been opinionated and domineering, and at this period
of her life she had not found much resistance in arrogating to herself the
leadership of the young folks in Ashville Centre.

She was fortified in her assumption, moreover, by what her friends called
her " literary tastes." To possess " literary tastes " is, in some parts of New
England, a consecration which compels obeisance in a people who, however
narrow their own education may be, however small their capabilities, revere
intellectuality, and willingly bend the knee before the fetich they make of
literature. Amelia Bailey had " literary tastes," and the endowment in
creased her authority and influence; for in the eyes of her friends she was a
participant in the sanctification of letters.

She always had a book in her hands or tucked under her arm, and she read
with a rapidity which soon exhausted the contents of the village library.
How superficial and unretentive her reading was, her acquaintances never
suspected. The frequent quotations which she made in her conversation and
in her correspondence were taken as evidence of the opulence of her mind; but

1861-88] WILLIAM HENRT RIDEINO.

in truth they were, in her case, what they are with many a pretender, the
makeshifts and subterfuges of her mental sterility.

No shyness restrained this young lady; she had no scruples about letting
her light shine, but magnified it, and intensified it with catoptric reflectors.
When the local newspapers printed her verses, she at once enclosed copies of
them, with artful little notes, to every poet of eminence in the land. She
described herself as a little girl who had caught the gift of song from the per
son whom she addressed; she adopted the same method with them all, and
now she made the poet of Amesbury her involuntary sponsor, then the author
of "Evangeline."

Poets may shut their doors against other bores, but they are always kind
with little girls who claim to be learning songs from them; and Amelia insin
uated herself into an epistolary intimacy with some very distinguished per
sons. Long after her frocks had been lengthened above and below in the
precautionary manner that denotes the transition from girlhood to woman
hood, she still left her correspondents to infer that she was a child. But she
did not mean to let the intimacy be simply epistolary; she had a desire to
shine, and she was resolved that if her own rays failed to dazzle the world,
she would become one of those satellites of fame which in some conditions of
the atmosphere appear to be the great star itself.

She visited Boston to make the intimacy personal; and the first call she
made was on a poet who had written to say that if she presented herself at one
o'clock, he would be glad to have her join him at luncheon. He was a young
poet; and he was much embarrassed, in the absence of his wife, when he dis
covered that he had to entertain a gushing and voluptuous young woman of
eighteen instead of the child he had expected. The impropriety of the affair
filled him with uneasiness, and he was infinitely relieved when, having occu
pied a precious afternoon which he had reserved for work, she reluctantly
departed.

Her visit led to disaster. She endeavored to take every advantage of it ; but
her own personality did not prove as attractive to the patrons she sought as
the child-poet ambuscaded in a country town had been, and when she re
turned home the letters with distinguished signatures, which had enriched
her autograph album, came to her no more.

The bitterness of defeat was in her cup; bold as her attempts were, she had
made no strides. The magazines rejected her contributions, and the local
newspaper, which in her heart she despised, was the only medium of publica
tion she could find. All this would have been pitiful if her motives had been
worthy, if it had been the failure of honest and modest endeavor; but her in
centive was the bubble reputation, and she cultivated literature as a heathen
would propitiate his idol, for the benefits it has to bestow, and not for the
love of it.

While she was still smarting from the rebuffs she had received, her mind
sought a new diversion. . . . .

She thought of marriage, of course; but marriage is not ordinarily a sen
sational proceeding, and the young men who had done conjugal duty in the
domestic dramas which she had imagined for herself were not persons with

120 WILLIAM HENRT RIDEING. [1861-88

whom anything very startling could be accomplished. One of them was more
sentimental than the rest, and she divined that with some tuition he might be
led to propose an elopement. She had visions of Gretna Green in her mind,
and of runaway couples flying wildly to the Scottish border and reaching it
just in time to escape the pursuing fathers. She pined for days less prosaic
than our own; but her sense of humor was not so deficient that she could not
see that as Gretna Green and post-chaises had gone out of fashion, there
would be nothing romantic in having her kind-hearted and indulgent father
following her by the Shore Line express from Providence, and gently remon
strating with her in the ladies' parlor of the Astor House. A theatrical life
would have suited her; but the stage, viewed from Ashville Centre, was too
precarious, too daring a venture even for her. Her desire to excite curiosity
and to be discussed was consuming her; and anything, no matter how absurd
or scandalous, was preferable in her mind to the privacy and obscurity of a
humdrum life at home.

She fully appreciated the value of the unexpected in stirring up the inter
est of yawning mankind, and an unlooked-for opportunity came to exemplify
it. It was abruptly announced that she was going to be married, not six,
seven, or eight months later, not to the sentimental youth whom she had
been encouraging and prompting for some time past, but to Palmyra Phelps,
the elderly widower, her father's friend, who was spending a few weeks at
Ashville to console himself for the recent loss of his wife. Palmyra Phelps
had been one of the Argonauts of '49, and had, it was said, amassed a very
handsome fortune in California. San Francisco, with a house on Eincon Hill,
was the new prospect which opened before Amelia; and she breathed freer as
she thought of its gayety and the latitudinarian tolerance of its society.

Mr. Phelps was already prepared for the return journey, and calling to say
good-by to her parents, he found Amelia alone. While he waited for them
she sat with him in the low-studded parlor of their house, which abutted
from behind a screen of chestnuts on the main street of Ashville. She picked
up a scrap-book, and was rustling the pages, when after a silence of embar
rassed duration she exclaimed: " Oh, Mr. Phelps, what should we be without
our poets? Don't you remember what Wordsworth says?

' Blessings be -with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares,
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! ' "

" That's so," he said; "poetry is elegant; I admire it. What have you got?
Got some of it there? "

" Oh, nothing, nothing to speak of; only some nonsensical little songs of
my own."

" Go ahead; read some! Your ma told me you were lit'ry. Strange, too,
because she ain't, nor your pa. Go ahead ! "

She still resisted, but after a little more urging read a sonnet beginning
with the line "Ah, Love! with bitter tears bedewed; " and he applauded this
with so much vehemence, slapping his knee and crying, " Good! " that she

1861-88] WILLIAM HENRT RIDEING. 121

discarded her affected reserve and eagerly read to him every verse she had
ever written.

" Why don't you get them out in a book? " he inquired.

" Is it possible that you think that my poor little verses are worthy of being
enshrined in a volume? Oh, Mr. Phelps, how you natter! " She had been so
often and so definitely assured by the publishers to whom she had applied that
they were not worthy of perpetuation of any kind, that a contrary opinion
from any source was comforting.

"That's what I say: get them out in a volume. I'll pay for it. I guess
there'll be no difficulty about that," he said, with the confident emphasis of a
man who was not used to having any of his pecuniary obligations called into
question.

She glowed with pleasure; she knew that there were publishers who would
be quite willing to issue her book if they could be guaranteed against loss.

" Oh, how good of you! It's too kind. But if they are published in a book
how absurd it sounds! Me, a little country girl, publishing a book! The
idea! If they are published in a book I'll dedicate it to you."

" Well, I don't know as I've got any objection to that," he replied, with
some suspicious forethought.

He sat staring at her mutely for some minutes after this. She was comely
to his eye; her figure was large and pulpy, her complexion pink and white,
her hair yellow and abundant. Her exterior made a favorable impression
upon him, and then, too, she was "lit'ry." Though he had travelled and
shaken off many of the superstitions of Ashville, Palmyra Phelps still clung to
his native faith in the exaltation of literature, and Amelia was enhanced in
his estimation by her connection with that sacred calling.

His life had not been ornamental. His late wife had been a plain New Eng
land woman to the end of her days, and he had been quite satisfied with her;
but now that he had all the money he wanted, it seemed to him that he might
venture to " put on some style," and what better start could he make in that
direction than by taking a young wife of attractive appearance and " lit'ry "
tastes?

She was not silent while he sat observing her cogitatively; her mind was
filled with radiant visions of the glory her book was to bring her. When it
was published and the world was echoing its praises, those former friends of
hers who had dropped her would repent and wish they had been sharp enough
to discern the budding genius they once spurned; and the thought of their
repentance at too late an hour for their salvation was delicious.

The transitions of her manner, which have* been already noticed, were the
result of affectation. She was naturally effusive and loquacious, but at times
she assumed a pensive languor, which she regarded as a becoming expression
of the bruised and lacerated condition of the poetic heart. She had begun
the conversation on stilts, but had been brought to her feet by the offer Mr.
Phelps had made, and then she babbled with the inconsequential rapidity of
which we have had some examples. He paid little heed to her, however, and
she had no suspicion of the drift his thoughts were taking.

" Abner Bailey and me were boys together," he said by and by, referring to

122 WILLIAM HENRT RIDEING. [1861-88

her father, who had not been mentioned before; " but," he added, with ex
treme solemnity, "there ain't a man in this village to-day as feels younger
than I do."

" I'm sure you look young very young," Amelia affirmed.

She saw that he was constrained, as if feeling his way to some avowal of
which he was afraid, and she waited for him to proceed, while she still rustled
the pages of her scrap-book. Ordinarily he was brisk and self-assertive, but
now he was very sheepish.

" How would you like to go to California?" he said, at last, blurting the
words out with visible relief.

"I? Oh, Mr. Phelps, what do you mean?" Her uncertainty was un
feigned. " Do you mean for a visit? " she continued, when she had recovered
her breath.

"No, not I! I don't mean nothing of the sort," he replied, with restored
composure. " You understand, Amelia. As Mrs. Phelps is what I mean."

She was dazed only for an instant by the suddenness of the proposal, and
then she expertly sifted it and weighed it in her mind. This was not what
she had hoped for, and yet i t was not odious nor unfeasible to her. She glanced
at him critically; his face was ruddy, and his eyes had a youthful sparkle; his
wealth was irresistibly in his favor. But, curiously enough, the most pleas
ing part of the prospect to her was the gossip there would be when what had
happened was transmitted to the neighbors; it would not be ephemeral, but
would have something of historic permanence in the annals of Ashville.

" But you don't mean at once? " she inquired.

"I'll give you till the day after to-morrow," he said.

"To decide?"

" No, to start. That's plenty of time. We rush things out in California."

When on their return her father and mother were informed of what had
happened, they were bewildered; but they were so accustomed to the state of
subjection in which an only child can keep her parents in America that they
were easily overborne. Amelia's desire to do something astonishing was thus
gratified; in two days she had become the wife of a man as old as her father,
and in three days she had started for San Francisco via Panama. A month
later she was installed as mistress of a resplendently frescoed house on Rincon
Hill.

The life she now entered on was a reparation for the past. For a time it
seemed to her that she was both shining and making a noise. The news
papers noticed her arrival, and one of them published a whole column about
it. "The Hon. Pal. Phelps arrived home yesterday, "it said, "bringing with
him a young and beautiful wife, who will receive a hearty welcome from the
society of this coast. Mrs. Phelps, nee Bailey, is a stately blonde of the Anglo-
Saxon type; and she is not only a lady of great beauty, but a distinguished
poetess, who has been prominent in the literary circles of Boston and Con
cord since her infancy. It may be said of her, as Pope said of himself, she
'lisped in numbers,' and we understand that she now has a volume in press,
'With Bitter Tears Bedewed, and Other Poems/ which will be looked for
with deep interest. The Hon. Pal. is to be congratulated, and the East had

1861-88] CHARLES HENRT PHELPS. 123

better recognize the stubborn fact that the Pacific coast is gradually absorb
ing the culture of America.'' She read this with hysterical elation, and mur
mured, melodramatically, ' ' At last ! At last ! The door is open ! " Then she
added, musingly, " But I do wish they wouldn't call him Pal."

" With Bitter Tears Bedewed, and Other Poems," made its appearance,
and her name became familiar to the readers of newspaper gossip, usually in
connection with "personals" concerning the receptions she had given to
some peripatetic lecturer or musician. She counted much on her receptions,
and watched from afar, with the predatory vigilance of a Bedouin, for ap
proaching travellers. When they arrived she made Palmyra call on them and
invite them to the house on Riucon Hill; but if they consulted their friends
before accepting they never came, or if they came they never repeated the
visit. She repelled them by her insincerities and tactless extravagances. She
was too palpably shallow, too restlessly vain.

The guests who filled her parlor or her salon, as she preferred to have it
called were Bohemians of wasted character and debatable talents, and a few
friends of her husband, who attended, feeling, as they did when they went to
church, that it was not the pleasaiitest way of spending an hour, but that it
was a sign of respectability to mingle with the intellectual society which Mrs.
Phelps, according to the " San Francisco Tattler," always had about her. In
her anxiety to shine, Amelia even deceived herself as to the character of her
guests; she tried to believe that the dingy impostors actually were distin
guished, and that their presence in her house was a proof of her elevation to
the peerage of art and letters; the illusion satisfied her for a year or two, but
after that the truth gradually forced itself upon her, combat it as she would,
and the spurious honors yielded her no more pleasure. She shone, but it was
with the diamonds her husband had bought; she made a noise, but it was the
blare of vulgar ostentation, not the reverberations of Fame. Fame had not
heeded her call, nor dropped one chapleton her brow; and though a door had
been opened, it had not admitted her to the place she yearned for.

BORN in Stockton, Cal., 1853.

THE MAID OF ST. HELENA.
[Californian Verses. 1882.]

A CROSS the long, vine-covered land While northward rose, through golden
-jL She gazed, with lifted, shading mist,

hand. St. Helen's mount of amethyst.

Behind were hillsides, purple, brown; But forest, vine, and mountain height
Before were vineyards sloping down ; Were less divinely benedight

124

CHARLES HENRY PHELPS.

[1861-88

Than she who so serenely stood

To gaze on mountain, vine, and wood.

Her presence breatlied in sweet excess
The fragrance of rare loveliness

A simple beauty in her face,
And in her form a simple grace.

She was so perfect and so fair,
So like a vision, and so rare,

The air that touched her seemed to me
To thrill with trembling ecstasy.

Spell-bound, for fear she might not stay,
I stood afar in sweet dismay.

At last, she sang some olden song.
I did not know its tale of wrong ;

I only knew the oriole's note
Grew garrulous within its throat

It seemed so shameful birds should sing
To silence so divine a thing.

She faded, singing, from my sight,
A dream of beauty and delight:

And I, witli unconsenting will,
Retraced my footsteps down the hill.

RARE MOMENTS.

EACH of us is like Balboa : once in all our lives do we,
Gazing from some tropic summit, look upon an unknown sea :

But upon the dreary morrow, every way our footsteps seek,
Rank and tangled vine and jungle block our pathway to the peak.

HEARING THE NEWS IN IDAHO.

A TRAIL, cut through the banks of
* snow,

Winds up and o'er the mountain chain
To where the pines of Idaho

Stand guard upon the Coeur d'Alene;
A thousand feet above the clouds,

A thousand feet below the stars,
The narrow path just rims the shrouds

That wrap the warlike form of Mars.
On Eagle and on Pritchard Creeks,

In Dream Gulch and at Murrayville,
The camp-fires play their ruddy freaks,
Redden the snow with lurid streaks,

And melt, perchance, on every hill,
The nuggets which the miner seeks.

One night in camp the game ran high ;

Desperate some and reckless more;
In every canon revelry ;
And boisterous songs went rolling by

With rugged jokes and lusty roar

When, all at once, a sudden hush
Passed like a whisper through the

pines ;
The chorus ceased its noisy rush,

The gamblers broke their eager lines,
And many bared a shaggy head,
And some upon that silent air
Breathed forth a rude, unpractised

prayer;

The sick moaned on his hemlock bed;
For, down the peaks of Idaho,
Across the trail cut through the snow,
Had come this message :

" Grant is dead!"

Then men, who knew each other not,
Gathered, and talked in undertone.

And one said : "I have not forgot
How he led us at Donelson."

And one, who spoke his name to bless,

Said : "I was in the Wilderness."

1861-88]

MATBURT FLEMING.

125

And one: "I was in Mexico."

And still another, old and scarred,
And weather- bronzed and battle-

marred,

Broke down with this one word :
" Shiloh."

Then, by the firelight's fitful blaze,
With broken voice, beneath
trees,

One read of those last painful days,
And of his calm soul's victories,

So like his old heroic ways.

the

Touched to the heart, they did not seek
To hide the love of many years,

But down each rough and furrowed cheek
Crept manly, unaccustomed tears.

Ah! not upon this younger sod

Shall dew more grateful ever fall ;
And never lips to Freedom's God

In prayer more fervently shall call.
And thou, calm Spirit, in what path

Thy dauntless footsteps ever tread,
No blessing kindlier meaning hath

Than brave men speak above their dead.

BORN in Boston, Mass., 1853.

TO SLEEP.
[tfncollected Poems. 1884-88.]

SWEET wooded way in life, forgetful Sleep!
Dim, drowsy realm where restful shadows fall,
And where the world's glare enters not at all
Or in soft glimmer making rest more deep;
Where sound comes not, or else like brooks that keep
The world's noise out, as by a slumberous wall
Of gentlest murmur; where still whispers call
To smileless gladness those that waking weep ;
Beneath the dense veil of thy stirless leaves,
Where no air is except the calm of space,

Vexed souls of men have grateful widowhood
Of tedious sense ; there thoughts are bound in sheaves
By viewless hands as silent as the place;
And man, unsinning, finds all nature good.

UPON A WINTER MORNING.

"TTTHEN hoary frost doth shroud the

* * grass,

And bare death sitteth in the trees,
And life is come to sorry pass,

And morning lacketh drowsy bees

Then think I of my lady's mouth,
And of the violets in her eyes;

So, roses warm the wintry drouth,
And death, by thinking of
dies.

her,

126 HOWARD PTLE. [1861-88

THE NEW YEAR.

SHES of oak Are there no more No trees left? Let the old year go,

trees ? And the old years go, with their bloom

What if the Yule-log whiten and die and blight ;

Blaze and redden and die what then ? Sated with joy and drunk with pain,

Are there no more trees ? Let the old year go.

Fallen from pride and gray with fire, Ended at last and to come, more trees,

Slain by it, never to glow again Leaf and pleasure and ay, and grief.

But life is more than ashes and night ; Over dead ashes light new fire

In it lies new fire. Are there no more trees '{

J^otoarD

BORN in Wilmington, Del., 1853.

HOW BAROX CONRAD HELD THE BRIDGE.
[Otto of the Silver Hand. 1888.]

ALI,'' cried the Baron, suddenly, and drew rein.

The others stood bewildered. What did he mean to do? He turned
to Hans and his blue eyes shone like steel.

" Hans/' said he, in his deep voice, " thou hast served me long and truly;
wilt thou for this one last time do my bidding?"

" Ay/' said Hans, briefly.

" Swear it/' said the Baron.

"I swear it," said Hans, and he drew the sign of the cross upon his heart.

" That is good," said the Baron, grimly. " Then take thou this child, and
with the others ride with all the speed that thou canst to St. Michaelsburg.
Give the child into the charge of the Abbot Otto. Tell him how that I have
sworn fealty to the Emperor, and what I have gained thereby my castle
burnt, my people slain, and this poor, simple child, my only son, mutilated
by my enemy."

"And thou, my Lord Baron?" said Hans.

" I will stay here," said the Baron, quietly, "and keep back those who fol
low as long as God will give me grace so to do."

A murmur of remonstrance rose among the faithful few who were with
him, two of whom were near of kin. But Conrad of Drachenhausen turned
fiercely upon them. '' How now," said he, " have I fallen so low in my trou
bles that even ye dare to raise your voices against me? By the good Heaven,
I will begin my work here by slaying the first man who dares to raise word
against my bidding." Then he turned from them. "Here, Hans," said he,
" take the boy; and remember, knave, what thou hast sworn."

1861-88] HOWARD PTLE. 127

He pressed Otto close to his breast in one last embrace. " My little child,"
he murmured, "try not to hate thy father when thou thinkest of him here
after, even though he be hard and bloody as thou knowest."

But with his suffering and weakness, little Otto knew nothing of what was
passing ; it was only as in a faint nickering dream that he lived in what was
done around him.

"Farewell, Otto/' said the Baron, but Otto's lips only moved faintly in
answer. His father kissed him upon either cheek. " Come, Hans," said he,
hastily, "take him hence" ; and he loosed Otto's arms from about his neck.

Hans took Otto upon the saddle in front of him.

" Oh! my dear Lord Baron," said he, and then stopped with a gulp, and
turned his grotesquely twitching face aside.

" Go," said the Baron, harshly, "there is no time to lose in woman's tears. "

"Farewell, Conrad! farewell, Conrad!" said his two kinsmen, and com
ing forward they kissed him upon the cheek; then they turned and rode away
after Hans, and Baron Conrad was left alone to face his mortal foe.

As the last of his followers swept around the curving road and was lost
to sight, Baron Conrad gave himself a shake, as though to drive away the
thoughts that lay upon him. Then he rode slowly forward to the middle of
the bridge, where he wheeled his horse so as to face his coming enemies. He
lowered the visor of his helmet and bolted it to its place, and then saw that
sword and dagger were loose in the scabbard and easy to draw when the need
for drawing should arise.

Down the steep path from the hill above swept the pursuing horsemen.
Down the steep path to the bridge-head, and there drew rein; for in the mid
dle of the narrow way sat the motionless, steel-clad figure upon the great war-
horse, with wide, red, panting nostrils, and body streaked with sweat and
flecked with patches of foam.

One side of the roadway of the bridge was guarded by a low stone wall; the
other side was naked and open and bare to the deep, slow-moving water be
neath. It was a dangerous place to attack a desperate man clad in armor of
proof.

" Forward ! " cried Baron Henry, but not a soul stirred in answer, and still
the iron-clad figure sat motionless and erect upon the panting horse.

" How," cried the Baron Henry, "are ye afraid of one man ? Then follow
me!" and he spurred forward to the bridge-head. But still no one moved in
answer, and the Lord of Trutz-Drachen reined back his horse again. He
wheeled his horse and glared round upon the stolid faces of his followers,
until his eyes seemed fairly to blaze with passion beneath the bars of the
visor.

Baron Conrad gave a roar of laughter. "How now!" he cried; "are ye
all afraid of one man? Is there none among ye that dares come forward and
meet me? I know thee, Baron Henry! thou art not afraid to cut off the hand
of a little child. Hast thou not now the courage to face the father? "

Baron Henry gnashed his teeth with rage as he glared around upon the
faces of his men-at-arms. Suddenly his eye lit upon one of them. "Ha!
Carl Spigler," he cried, "thou hast thy cross-bow with thee; shoot me

128 HOWARD PYLE. [1861-88-

down yonder dog! Nay," he said, "thou canst do him no harm under his
armor; shoot the horse upon which he sits."

Baron Conrad heard the speech. " Oh! thou coward villain!" he cried,
" stay; do not shoot the good horse. I will dismount and fight ye upon foot."
Thereupon, armed as he was, he leaped clashing from his horse and, turning
the animal's head, gave it a slap upon the flank. The good horse first trotted
and then walked to the farther end of the bridge, where it stopped and began
cropping at the grass that grew beside the road.

"Now then!" cried Baron Henry, fiercely, " now then, ye cannot fear him,
villains! Down with him! forward!"

Slowly the troopers spurred their horses forward upon the bridge and
toward that one figure that, grasping tightly the great two-handed sword,
stood there alone guarding the passage.

Then Baron Conrad whirled the great blade above his head, until it caught
the sunlight and flashed again. He did not wait for the attack, but when the
first of the advancing horsemen had come within a few feet of him, he leaped
with a shout upon them. The fellow thrust at him with his lance, and the
Baron went staggering a few feet back, but instantly he recovered himself
and again leaped forward. The great sword flashed in the air, whistling; it
fell, and the nearest man dropped his lance, clattering, and with a loud, in
articulate cry, grasped the mane of his horse with both hands. Again the
blade whistled in the air, and this time it was stained with red. Again it fell,
and with another shrill cry the man toppled headlong beneath the horse's
feet. The next instant they were upon him, each striving to strike at the one
figure, to ride him down, or to thrust him down with their lances. There
was no room now to swing the long blade, but, holding the hilt in both hands,
Baron Conrad thrust with it as though it were a lance, stabbing at horse or
man, it mattered not. Crowded upon the narrow roadway of the bridge, those
who attacked had not only to guard themselves against the dreadful strokes
of that terrible sword, but to keep their wounded horses (rearing and mad
with fright) from toppling bodily over with them into the water beneath.

Presently the cry was raised, "Back! back!" And those nearest the Baron
began reining in their horses. "Forward!" roared Baron Henry, from the
midst of the crowd; but in spite of his command, and even the blows that he
gave, those behind were borne back by those in front, struggling and shout
ing, and the bridge was cleared again excepting for three figures that lay mo
tionless upon the roadway, and that one who, with the brightness of his
armor dimmed and stained, leaned panting against the wall of the bridge.

The Baron Henry raged like a madman. Gnashing his teeth together, he
rode back a little way; then turning and couching his lance, he suddenly
clapped spurs to his horse, and the next instant came thundering down upon
his solitary enemy.

Baron Conrad whirled his sword in the air, as he saw the other coming like
a thunderbolt upon him; he leaped aside, and the lance passed close to him.
As it passed he struck, and the iron point flew from the shaft of the spear at
the blow, and fell clattering upon the stone roadway of the bridge.

Baron Henry drew i n bis horse until it rested upon its haunches, then slowly

1861-88] HOWARD PTLE. 129

reined it backward down the bridge, still facing his foe and still holding the
wooden stump of the lance in his hand. At the bridge-head he flung it from
him.

"Another lance!'' he cried, hoarsely. One was silently reached to him
and he took it, his hand trembling with rage. Again he rode to a little dis
tance and wheeled his horse; then, driving his steel spurs into its quivering
side, he came again thundering down upon the other. Once more the terri
ble sword whirled in the air and fell, but this time the lance was snatched to
one side and the blow fell harmlessly. The next instant, and with a twitch
of the bridle-rein, the horse struck full and fair against the man. Conrad of
Drachenhausen was whirled backward and downward, and the cruel iron
hoofs crashed over his prostrate body, as horse and man passed with a rush be
yond him and to the bridge-head beyond. A shout went up from those who
stood watching. The next moment the prostrate figure rose and staggered
blindly to the side of the bridge, and stood leaning against the stone wall.

At the farther end of the bridge Baron Henry had wheeled his horse. Once
again he couched lance, and again he drove down upon his bruised and
wounded enemy. This time the lance struck full and fair, and those who
watched saw the steel point pierce the iron breast-plate and then snap short,
leaving the barbed point within the wound.

Baron Conrad sunk to his knees, and the Roderburg, looming upon his
horse above him, unsheathed his sword to finish the work he had begun.

Then those who stood looking on saw a wondrous thing happen : the
wounded man rose suddenly to his feet, and before his enemy could strike he
leaped, with a great and bitter cry of agony and despair, upon him as he sat
in the saddle above.

Henry of Trutz-Drachen grasped at his horse's mane, but the attack was
so fierce, so sudden, and so unexpected that before he could save himself he
was dragged to one side and fell crashing in his armor upon the stone road
way of the bridge.

"The dragon! the dragon!" roared Baron Conrad, in a voice of thunder,
and with the energy of despair he dragged his prostrate foe toward the open
side of the bridge.

"Forward!" cried the chief of the Trutz-Drachen men, and down they
rode upon the struggling knights to the rescue of their master in this new
danger. But they were too late.

There was a pause at the edge of the bridge, for Baron Henry had gained
his feet and, stunned and bewildered as he was by the suddenness of his fall,
he was now struggling fiercely, desperately. For a moment they stood sway
ing backward and forward, clasped in one another's arms, the blood from the
wounded man's breast staining the armor of both. The moment passed and
then, with a shower of stones and mortar from beneath their iron-shod heels,
they toppled and fell ; there was a thunderous splash in the water below, and
as the men-at-arms came hurrying up and peered with awe-struck faces over
the parapet of the bridge, they saw the whirling eddies sweep down with the
current of the stream, a few bubbles rise to the surface of the water, arid then
nothing ; for the smooth river flowed onward as silently as ever.
VOL. xi. 9

130 JAMES WHITCOMB EILEY. [1861-88

31ameg Cfttyitcomb Etle^

BORN in Greenfield, Ind., 1853.

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN.

[The Old Swimming-Hole, and 'Leven More Poems. By Benj. F. Johnson, of

Soone. 1883.]

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence ;
O it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risiu' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock.
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kind o' harty-like about the atmosphere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here.
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-bircls and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkiu and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries kind o' louesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed ;
The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover overhead!
O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the puukin and the fodder's in the shock !

THE ELF CHILD.
[The Boss Girl, and Other Sketches. 1886.]

T ITTLE Orphant Allie's come to our house to stay
-L^ An' wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep ;
An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'niu' to the witch tales 'at Allie tells about,
An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you

Ef you
Don't

Watch
Out!

1861-88] JAMES WHITCOMB RILET.

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs
Aii' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess,
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout !
An' the gobble-uns '11 git you

Ef you
Don't

Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,

An' make fun of ever' one an' all her blood-an'-kin,

An' onc't when they was " company," an' ole folks was there,

She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care !

An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,

They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,

An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!

An' the gobble-uns '11 git you

Ef you
Don't

Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear.
An' churish 'em 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the gobble-uns '11 git you

Ef you
Don't

Watch
Out!

GRIGGSBY'S STATION.

[Afterwhiles. 1888.]

"DAP'S got his patent-right, and rich as all creation ;
-L But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before ?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore !

The likes of us a-livin' here ! It's jest a mortal pity
To see us in this great big house, witli cyarpets on the stairs,

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. [1861-88

And the pump right in the kitchen ! And the city ! city ! city !
And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,

And never see a robin, nor a beech or elluni tree !
And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,

And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see !

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station

Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door,

And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore !

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin',

A driviu' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through;

And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin'
Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin' ;

And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand,
And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin',

Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his laud.

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station,

Back where they's nothin' aggervating any more,
Shet away safe in the woods around the old location

Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore !

I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',
And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone,

And stand up with Einanuel to show me how he's growin',
And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' on.

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,
Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried for

His own sake and Katy's, and I want to cry with Katy
As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

What's in all this grand life and high situation,
And nary a pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door ?

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore !

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE.

HHELL you what I like the best Orchard's where I'd ruther be

*- 'Long about knee-deep in June, Needn't fence it in f er me !

'Bout the time strawberries melts Jes' the whole sky overhead,

On the vine, some afternoon And the whole airth underneath

Like to jes' git out and rest, Sorto' so's a man kin breathe

And not work at nothiu' else ! Like he ort, and kind o' has

1861-88]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILET.

133

Elbow-room to keerlessly

Sprawl out len'thways on the grass

Where the shadders thick and soft
As the kivvers on the bed
Mother fixes in the loft
Allus, when they's company !

Jes' a sort o' lazein' there
S' lazy, 'at you peek and peer
Through the wavin' leaves above,
Like a feller 'at's in love
And don't know it, ner don't keer!
Ever'thing you hear and see
Got some sort o' interest
Maybe find a bluebird's nest
Tucked up there conveenently
Fer the boys 'at's apt to be
Up some other apple-tree!
"Watch the swallers skootin' past
'Bout as peert as you could ast ;
Er the Bobwhite raise and whiz
Where some other's whistle is.

Ketch a shadder down below,
And look up to find the crow;
Er a hawk away up there,
'Pearautly froze in the air!

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat

Over every chick she's got,
Suddent-like! And she knows where

That-air hawk is, well as you!

You jes' bet yer life she do!
Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,
Waitin' till he makes a pass !

Pee-wees' singin', to express

My opinion, 's second class,
Yit you'll hear 'em more or less;

Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
Weedin' out the lonesomeness;

Mr. Blue jay, full o' sass,

In them base-ball clothes o' his,
Sportin' 'round the orchard jes'
Like he owned the premises!

Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
But flat on yer back, I guess,

In the shade's where glory is!

That's jes' what I'd like to do
Stiddy fer a year er two !

Plague! ef they ain't sompiu' in
Work 'at kind o' goes ag'in
My convictions ! 'long about
Here in June especially !
Under some old apple-tree,

Jes' a-restin' through and through,
I could git along without
Nothin' else at all to do
Only jes' a-wishin' you
Was a-gittiu' there like me,
And June was eternity !

Lay out there and try to see
Jes' how lazy you kin be!

Tumble round and souse your head
In the clover-bloom, er pull

Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes,
And peek through it at the skies,
Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,

Maybe smilin' back at you
In betwixt the beautiful

Clouds o' gold and white and blue!
Month a man kin railly love
June, you know, I'm talkin'of !

March aiut never nothin' new !
April's altogether too

Brash fer me! and May I jes'

'Bomiuate its promises,
Little hints o' sunshine and
Green around the timber-land
A few blossoms, and a few
Chip-birds, and a sprout er two
Drap asleep, and it turns in
'Fore daylight and snows ag'in !

But when June comes Clear my throat

With wild honey! Rench my hair
In the dew! and hold my coat!

Whoop out loud ! and throw my hat !
June wants me, and I'm to spare !
Spread them shadders anywhere,
I'll git down and waller there,
And obleeged to you at that!

134

JAMES WHITCOMB RILET.

[1861-88

A LIZ-TOWN HUMORIST.

SETTIN' round the stove, last night,
Down at Wess's store, was me,
And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White,

And Doc Bills, and two er three
Fellers of the Mudsock tribe
No use tryin' to describe !

And says Doc, he says, says he,
" Talkin' 'bout good things to eat,
Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat ! "

I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed
Wortermillou beat the mush.
"Red," he says, " and juicy Hush!

I'll jes' leave it to the crowd ! "
Then a Mudsock chap, says he,
"Punkin's good enough fer me

Punkin pies, I mean," he says,

"Them beats millons! What say,
Wess?"

I chawed on. And Wess says, "Well,
You jes' fetch that wife of mine
All yer wortermillou-rin,

And she'll bile it down a spell
In with sorgum, I suppose,
And what else, Lord only knows !

But I'm here to tell all hands,

Them p'serves meets my demands ! "

I chawed on. And White he says,
"Well, I'll jes' stand in with Wess
I'm no hog!" And Tunk says, "I
Guess I'll pastur' out on pie
With the Mudsock boys ! " says he ;
"Now what's yourn ?" he says to me;
I chawed on fer quite a spell

Then I speaks up, slow and dry,

"Jes' tobacker! " I-says-I.
And you'd orto' heerd 'em yell !

THE OLD MAN AND JIM.

OLD man never had much to say
'Ceptin' to Jim
And Jim was the wildest boy he had,

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him !
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life, aud first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months.
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away,
"Well; good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f ! "

'Peared like he was more satisfied

Jes' lookin' at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see ?

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim;
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say,

"Well; good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f! "

Never was nothin' about the farm
Distiug'ished Jim ;

1861-88] JAMES WHITCOMB RILET.

Neighbors all ust to wonder why

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him :
But when Cap. Higgler, he writ back
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black,
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,
The old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said, " Tell Jim
Good-bye ;

And take keer of hisse'f ! "

Jim come back jes' long enough

To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him !
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised
And f oil e red him over to Camp Ben Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watcliin' Jim on dress parade ;
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man say,

''Well; good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f ! "

Tuk the papers, the old man did,

A-watchin' fer Jim,
Fully believin' he'd make his mark

Some way jes' wrapped up in him !
And many a time the word 'u'd come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum :
At Petersburg, fer instance, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in gray,
As they skooted fer timber, and on and on
Jim a Lieutenant and one arm gone,
And the old man's words in his mind all day,

"Well; good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f ! "

Think of a private, now, perhaps,

We'll say like Jim,
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim
And the old man, bendiu' over him

136 HARRY STILL WELL EDWARDS. [1861-88

The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his ears,
"Well; good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f ! "

The Century Magazine. 1888.

^tilltoell

BORN in Macon, Ga., 1854.

"MINC" A PLOT.
[Two Runaways, and Other Stories. 1889.]

THE trim little steamboat that plies Lake Harris, the loveliest of all Flor
ida waters, emerged from the picturesque avenue of cypress and trailing
moss called Dead Eiver, which leads out of Eustis, and glided as a shadow
betwixt sea and sky toward its harbor, fourteen miles away. It had been the
perfection of a May day, and the excursionists, wearied at last of sight-seeing,
were gathered upon the forward deck. The water-slopes of the highlands on
the right, with their dark lines of orange-trees and their nestling cottages,
lay restful in the evening shadow fast stretching out toward the boat, for the
sun was dipping below the horizon, with the stately pines in silhouette upon
his broad red face. ''Home, Sweet Home/' "Old Kentucky Home," and
"Old Folks at Home" had been rendered by the singers of the party with
that queer mixture of pathos and bathos so inseparably connected with ex
cursion songs, and a species of nothing-else-to-be-done silence settled over the
group, broken only by the soft throb of the engine and the swish of dividing
waters. Presently some one began a dissertation upon negro songs, and by
easy stages the conversation drifted to negro stories. Among the excursion
ists sat a gray-haired, tall, soldierly looking gentleman whom everyone called
" Colonel/' and whose kindly eyes beamed out from under his soft felt hat in
paternal friendliness upon all.

" It is somewhat singular/' he said at length, when there had come a lull
in the conversation, " that none of the story-writers have ever dealt with the
negro as a resident of two continents. "Why could not a good story be written,
the scene laid partly in Africa and partly in tbe South? I am not familiar
enough with the literature of this kind and the romances that have been
written about our darkies to say positively that it has not been already done,
but it seems to me that the opportunity to develop a character from the sav
age to the civilized state is very fine and would take well. Victor Hugo has
a negro in one of his West India romances whose name I forget now the
story used to be familiar "

1861-88] HARRY STILL WELL EDWARDS. 13 7

"Bug-Jargal," suggested some one.

" So it was. But in this reference is made only to the man's ancestry; and
I never thought the character true to life. Hugo did not know the negro. "

" But, Colonel, is it not true that these people were the veriest savages, and
would it not be too great a strain upon the realistic ideas of the day to ven
ture into Africa for a hero, especially since Eider Haggard has idealized it?"

"I don't think so. "VVe have no way of ascertaining just how much the
imported slaves really knew, but it is a fact that a few were remarkable for
some kind of skill and intelligence. They were not communicative, and soon
drifted into the dialect of their new neighbors, forgetting their own. I had a
negro on my plantation who undoubtedly came from Africa. I was present
when my father bought him upon the streets of Savannah, becoming inter
ested in bis story soon after he was landed. His mother was described as a
sort of priestess or, as we say, a Voodoo in her native land, which was near
the western coast of Africa, some twelve hundred miles north of Cape of Good
Hope. Her influence for evil, it seems, was so remarkable that as soon as
possible she was separated from the cargo and sent on to one of the Gulf ports.
This fellow was then probably about thirty years old a little jet-black man
with small, bright eyes of remarkable brilliancy. He seemed very glad to go
with us, and, I may add, never at any time afterward did he ever give trouble,
but did readily what was required of him. He seemed to take a fancy to me
from the first, and his love I say love, for I believe it was genuine affection
gradually extended to all white children. For children of his own color
I won't say race, for in many respects he differed from the ordinary negro
he entertained the liveliest disgust. Now, a story- writer could take that slave
and with the help I might give him his life with us, his peculiarities, powers,
certain singular coincidences, and the manner of his death weave a very in
teresting romance."

" Colonel, do tell us the story!" The appeal came in the shape of a
chorus from the ladies present, and was at once reenforced by the others. A
pair of sweethearts who had been leaning over the bow came slowly back on
hearing it, and added their solicitations. The genial old gentleman laughed
and looked out upon the waters.

"I did not know I was spreading a net for my own feet," he said. " The
story of this fellow would require half a night, even were I able to put it in
shape, but I can give a rough outline of some features of it. ' Mine,' as he
was called, though his name as near as I can imitate his pronunciation was
' Meeng'r, ' Mine was for a long time a sort of elephant on the family's hands.
My mother was a little afraid of him, I think, and the negroes themselves
never did entirely overcome their respect for him enough to treat him exactly
as one of them, although, as I have intimated, he was perfectly harmless.

" Mine, however, one day exhibited a strange power over animals which is
even now a mystery to me. He could take a drove of hogs and by a series of
queer little sounds, half grunts, half groans, reduce them to submission and
drive them where he would. Gradually, as the rules for feeding and taking
care of them became known to him, he was given charge of the plantation
hogs, of which there were five or six hundred, and no small responsibility it

HARRY STILL WELL EDWARDS. [1861-88

was. I remember he at once fashioned him a little instrument from the
horn of a yearling; with this he could go into the swamp and by a few notes
thereon call them up on the run. That one horn lasted him all his life, and
he was with us thirty-odd years. He used to wear it hung round his neck by
a string, and it was the one possession that the children could not get away
from him for even a moment. I think that probably some superstition re
strained him.

"Another queer power possessed by Mine was in connection with grass
hoppers. I have seen him hundreds of times go into the orchard where the
crab-grass was tall, and standing perfectly still give forth from his chest a
musical humming sound. If there were any big brown grasshoppers within
hearing they would fly up, dart about, and light upon him. Sometimes he
would let me stand by him, and then the grasshoppers would come to me also;
but Mine could catch them without any trouble, while any movement from
my hand drove them off. Mine/' continued the speaker, laughing softly,
" used to eat the things," exclamations from the ladies, " and I am told
that certain tribes in Africa are very fond of them."

"Boiled in a bag and eaten with salt they are not bad,' 1 said a young gen
tleman with the reputation of having been everywhere. " I have eaten what
was probably the same insect, though under the name of locusts.'' (More ex
clamations. ) " Why not? " he added in defense. " Can anything be worse to
look upon than shrimps?"

" Well," continued the Colonel, " I soon broke Mine of eating them. The
grasshoppers were my favorite bait for fish, and Mine developed into a most
successful angler, quite abandoning his cane spear though, by the way, he
was as certain of a victim when he struck as was a fish-hawk. I think the
plantation rations also had something to do with his change of diet.

" Well, as Mine's queer powers came to be known he was not greatly sought
after by the other negroes. They are slow to speak of their superstitions, but
it soon developed that they regarded him as being in league with spirits. He
lived in a little cabin down on the creek apart from the others, and there was
my favorite haunt, for I was more than delighted with Mine's accomplish
ments, and Mine was rapidly learning from me the use of many words, which
gave me a sort of proprietary interest in him. In time he came to speak as
well as the average negro, but he had a way of running his words together
when excited that made him all but unintelligible. I never did get much in
formation from him concerning his former life. He didn't seem to be able
to convert terms well enough to express himself. He had lived near great
swamps, ate fish, was familiar with the hog this much I gleaned; and from
time to time he would recognize birds and animals and excitedly give me
what were evidently their names in his own country. Of course this all came
to me at odd times from year to year, and did not make a great impression.
I remember, though, that reference to his capture had always a depressing
effect upon him, and at such times he would go off about his work. I suppose
the memory of his mother was the cause of this; and I soon found that to
speak to him of the matter would cost me Mine's company, and so I quit
bringing up the subject.

1861-88] HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS.

" The things in connection with Mine that puzzled me more were his super
stitions. Doubtless they were taught him by his mother, and the first inti
mation of them I had was when he caught a gopher, and with a bit of wire
ground to an exceedingly fine point cut on its shell a number of curious signs,
or hieroglyphics, different from anything I had ever seen, except that there
was a pretty fair representation of the sun. He then took this gopher back
to where he found it and turned him loose at the eutrance of his burrow,
making gestures indicating that the gopher was going far down into the earth.
He did something of this kind for every gopher he caught. One day he suc
ceeded in snaring a green-head duck, and upon its broad bill he carved more
hieroglyphics. This done, to my astonishment, and probably to the duck's
also, he tossed the bird high in the air and laughed as it sped away. As the
years went by I saw him treat many birds after the same fashion. If there
was room for only one or two figures, he would put them on, and let the bird
go. But as he grew older Mine ate the large majority of his captures, just as
any other negro would.

"Well, many years passed away; I grew up and married. By this time
Mine was long since a feature of the plantation. My children in time took
my place with him, and mauy's the ride he gave them in his little two-wheel
cart behind the oxen. I should have said before that he used to haul corn to
the hogs when in distant fields, and wood for the house-fires on the way back.
The negroes no longer feared him, but the negro children would run past his
wagon as he plodded along and sing:

' Ole Unc' Mine
Under th' hill,
His eyes stick out
Like tater hill.
Juba dis and Juba dat,
Juba roun' de kitch'n fat,
Juba ketch er er '

" Oh, well, I forget how the rhyme ran; but Mine would stop every time
and hurl a string of words at them which no one could ever exactly translate;
and the little brats, delighted at having provoked the outburst, would kick
up their heels and scamper off. But along in the war," continued the Colonel,
after yielding a moment to a quiet shake of his sides over the recollections
trooping up, " Mine filled another office. It was found that by means of a
notched stick, scarcely two feet in length, he could keep books, so to say, as
well as anybody. I can't, and never will, I reckon, fathom the fellow's system.
He often tried to explain it; but when he had finished, you would know just
about what you knew at first and be a little confused as to that. But he never
was known to make a mistake. Sent into the fields, he would weigh cotton for
forty pickers all day and report at night just what each picked in the morn
ing and evening and the sum of all and all by means of his notches. I am
absolutely sure he brought the system from Africa, for no one ever was able
to understand it on the plantation, and Mine never lived a day off it. You
will see the relation these incidents bear to my first proposition as to imported
negroes being simply savages.

140 EARRT STILL WELL EDWARDS. [1861-88

" The death of Mine was tragic and surrounded by some remarkable cir
cumstances, and here again comes the story-writer's field. Two years before
his death Mine had caught and tamed a little cooter about twice the size of a
silver dollar. He would hum a queer little tune for his pet, and the thing
would walk around the floor for all the world as if he was trying to dance.
Then he would come when called, and was particularly fond of sleeping in
Mine's dark jacket-pocket, where I suspect he found crumbs. Mine would
sometimes throw him into the creek just in front of his cabin, but the little
thing would scramble out and get back to the hut again if Mine was in sight;
if not he staid in an eddy close by. You will understand directly why I speak
so particularly of this. As the cooter grew larger, Mine amused himself by
cutting hieroglyphics all over its back. Into these lines he rubbed dyes of his
own manufacture, and the result was a very variegated cooter. The old man
carried him almost continually in his pocket; partly, I think, because the
animal's antics always amused the children, and partly because he was the
cause of Mine's getting many a biscuit. He would frequently come to the
house, and sitting on the back porch make ' Teeta/ as he called the cooter, go
through with his tricks. These generally resulted in Mine's getting biscuit
or cake for Teeta, and in his lying down and letting the animal crawl into his
pocket after it, a feat that closed the performance.

" Well, one day Mine was missing. Everything about his cabin was in or
der, but he did not return. He never did return. Search was made, of course,
and he was finally given up. The negroes dragged the creek, but not with
much expectation of finding him, for I am afraid that some of them believed
that Old Nick had taken him bodily. But a month afterward my oldest boy
was hunting in the big swamp for the hogs, which had become badly scattered
since Mine's death, when in crossing a tree that had fallen over one of the
many lagoons thereabout, whom should he see sitting there but Teeta, watch
ing him with his keen little black eyes, the patch of sunlight he had chosen
bringing out the tattoo marks upon his shell. The next instant Teeta dived
off the log and disappeared. Tom came home and told of his adventure.
Taking a party of negroes, I returned with him and dragged the lagoon.
Just where the cooter had dived we found the body of poor old Mine. He
had fallen off the log, and becoming entangled in the sunken branches had
drowned. And in the rotting pocket of his old jacket we found the cooter hid
away. "

The Colonel raised his hand as exclamations broke from the party.

" No; you must let me finish. The finding of the cooter was not the most
singular thing connected with the death of Mine. Upon our return home one
of the superstitious negroes, greatly to my distress, cut off Teeta's head. He
wanted it to place it under his doorstep. This was to protect the place from old
Mine, of course; but I had the shell cleaned, and the children kept it as a
memento of the faithful old slave whom they had dearly loved.

" Relating this story once to an eminent traveller/' continued the Colonel,
"he suggested that I should send it to the British Museum with its history
written out; and going to New York soon after, I carried it with me. It lay
forgotten, however, in my trunk, and I did not notice it again until one day

1861-88] SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

I happened to be in New Orleans. There was then in that city an aged ne-
gress, claiming to be a Voodoo, and creating considerable stir among the
Northern attendants upon Mardi-Gras. I don't know what suggested it, but
it occurred to me one day that I would let her look at the shell. It was a
mere fancy, or impulse, if you will. I carried it to her. She was, indeed, an
old woman, small in stature, and bent nearly double. Without speaking a
word, I placed the shell in her hand. She gave one long, fixed look at it, and
straightened up as if casting off the weight of half a century. Her lips parted,
but she could not speak. Then her form resumed its crook again, and plac
ing her hand against the small of her back, she gasped for breath. With- her
bright black eyes fixed upon me she said at last, after a violent struggle,
' Meeng'r! ' It was a mere whisper. I spent an hour with the poor old creature,
and told her the story of her son's life, for it was undoubtedly he. I gleaned
from her that the hieroglyphics upon the shell were taught him by her, what
they signified she would not say, and that he had written them upon the
birds of the air, the beasts of the field, and the inhabitants of the water, that
they might be borne to her wherever hid. I never got my shell back : it would
have been like tearing the miniature of a dead child from its mother's bosom.
And the old woman, when I went to see her next day, had disappeared."
Here the old gentleman arose and went forward.

BORN in Tuskaloosa, Ala., 1854.

BESSIE BROWN, M. D.
{Cap and Bells. 1886.]

April when she came to town; The gallants viewed her feet and hands,

- The birds had come, the bees were And swore they never saw such wee

swarming. things ;

Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown : The gossips met in purring bands

I saw at once that she was charming. And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-
She took a cottage tinted green, things.

Where dewy roses loved to mingle ; The former drank the Doctor's health

And on the door, next day, was seen With clinking cups, the gay carousers;

A dainty little shingle. The latter watched her door by stealth,

Just like so many mousers.
Her hair was like an amber wreath;

Her hat was darker, to enhance it. But Doctor Bessie went her way

The violet eyes that glowed beneath Unmindful of the spiteful cronies,

Were brighter than her keenest lancet. And drove her buggy every day

The beauties of her glove and gown Behind a dashing pair of ponies.

The sweetest rhyme would fail to Her flower-like face so bright she bore,

utter. I hoped that time might never wilt her.

Ere she had been a day in town The way she tripped across the floor

The town was in a flutter. Was better than a philter.

142

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

[1861-88

Her patients thronged the village street;
Her snowy slate was always quite full.
Some said her bitters tasted sweet,
And some pronounced her pills delight
ful.
'Twas strange I knew not what it

meant

She seemed a nymph from Eldorado ;
Where'er she came, where'er she went,
Grief lost its gloomy shadow.

Like all the rest, I too grew ill;

My aching heart there was no quelling.
I tremble at my doctor's bill,

And lo! the items still are swelling.
The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to

hear !
They've quite enriched the fair con-

cocter,
And I'm a ruined man, I fear,

Unless I wed the Doctor!

MY LITTLE GIRL.

MY little girl is nested
Within her tiny bed,
With amber ringlets crested
Around her dainty head ;
She lies so calm and stilly,

She breathes so soft and low,
She calls to mind a lily
Half-hidden in the snow.

A weary little mortal

Has gone to slumberland ;

The Pixies at the portal
Have caught her by the hand ;

She dreams her broken dolly
Will soon be mended there,

That looks so melancholy
Upon the rocking-chair.

I kiss your wayward tresses,

My drowsy little queen ;
I know you have caresses

From floating forms unseen.
O, Angels, let me keep her

To kiss away my cares,
This darling little sleeper,

Who has my love and prayers!

THE CAPTAIN'S FEATHER.

rriHE dew is on the heather,
*- The moon is in the sky,
And the captain's waving feather

Proclaims the hour is nigh
When some upon their horses

Shall through the battle ride,
And some with bleeding corses

Must on the heather bide.

The dust is on the heather
The moon is in the sky,

And about the captain's feather
The bolts of battle fly;

But hark, what sudden wonder
Breaks forth upon the gloom ?

It is the cannon's thunder
It is the voice of doom !

The blood is on the heather,

The night is in the sky,
And the gallant captain's feather

Shall wave no more on high;
The grave and holy brother

To God is saying Mass,
But who shall tell his mother,

And who shall tell his lass ?

1861-88] FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 143

tfranctg -fttarion CratoforD*

BORN at the Baths of Lucca, Italy, 1854.

THE TRAGEDY OF GREIFENSTEIN.

[Greifenstein. 1889.]

IT is doubtful -v^hether Greifenstein would have recognized his brother, if
he had met him under any other circumstances. Forty years had passed
since they had met, and both were old men. The difference between their
ages was not great, for Greifenstein's father had died within the year of his
son's birth, and his mother had married again three years later. In her turn
she had died when both were young men, and from that time Greifenstein had
seen little of his half-brother, who had been brought up by his own father in a
different part of the country. Then young Rieseueck had entered the Prussian
service, and a few years later had been ruined by the consequences of his evil
deeds.

Greifenstein saw before him a tall man, with abundant white hair and a
snowy beard, of bronzed complexion, evidently strong in spite of his years,
chiefly remarkable for the heavy black eyebrows that shaded his small gray
eyes. The latter were placed too near together, and the eyelids slanted down
ward at the outer side, which gave the face an expression of intelligence and
great cunning. Deep lines furrowed the high forehead, and descended in
broad curves from beneath the eyes till they lost themselves in the beard.
Kuno von Rieseneck was evidently a man of strong feelings and passions, of
energetic temperament, clever, unscrupulous, but liable to go astray after
strange ideas, and possibly capable of something very like fanaticism. It was
indeed not credible that he should have done the deeds which had wrecked
his life out of cold calculation, and yet it was impossible to believe that he
could be wholly disinterested in anything he did. The whole effect of his per
sonality was disquieting.

He entered the room with slow steps, keeping his eyes fixed upon his brother.
The servant closed the door behind him, and the two men were alone. Riesen-
eck paused when he reached the middle of the apartment. For a moment his
features moved a little uneasily, and then he spoke.

'' Hugo, do you know me ? "

" Yes/' answered Greifenstein, "I know you very well. " He kept his hands
behind him and did not change his position as he stood before the fire.

" You got my letter ? " inquired the fugitive.

" Yes. I will do what you ask of me."

The answers came in a hard, contemptuous voice, for Greifenstein was al
most choking with rage at being thus forced to receive and protect a man
whom he both despised and hated. But Rieseneck did not expect any very
cordial welcome, and his expression did not vary.

" I thank you," he answered. " It is the only favor I ever asked of you,
and I give you my word it shall be the last."

144 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. [1861-88

Greifenstein's piercing eyes gleamed dangerously, and for an instant the
anger that burned in him glowed visibly in his face.

" Your ' He would have said "your word," throwing into the two syl
lables all the contempt he felt for one whose word had been so broken. But
he checked himself gallantly. In spite of all, Bieseneck was his guest and
had come to him for protection, and he would not insult him. "You shall
be safe to-morrow night," he said, controlling his tongue.

But Eieseneck had heard the first word, and knew what should have fol
lowed it. He turned a little pale, bronzed though he was, ^and he let his hand
rest upon the back of a chair beside him.

" I will not trouble you further," he said. " If you will show me a place
where I can sleep, I will be ready in the morning."

"No," answered Greifenstein. "That will not do. The servants know
that a visitor is in the house. They will expect to see you at dinner. Besides,
you are probably hungry."

Perhaps he regretted having shown his brother, even by the suggestion of
a phrase, what was really in his heart, and the feeling of the ancient guest-
right made him relent a little.

" Sit down, ' he added, as Rieseneck seemed to hesitate. " It will be neces
sary that you dine with us and meet my wife. We must not excite suspicion."

" You are married then ? " said Eieseneck. It was more like a thoughtful
reflection than a question. Though he had written to his brother more than
once, the latter's answers, when he vouchsafed any, had been curt and busi
nesslike in the extreme.

" I have been married five and twenty years," Greifenstein replied. It was
strange to be informing his brother of the fact.

Rieseneck sat down upon a high chair and rested his elbow upon the table.
Neither spoke for a long time, but Greifenstein resumed his seat, relighted
his pipe, and placed his feet upon the fender, taking precisely the attitude in
which he had been when his brother was announced. The situation was
almost intolerable, but his habits helped him to bear it.

"I was also married," said Rieseneck at last, in a low voice, as though
speaking to himself. "You never saw my wife?" he asked rather sud
denly.

"No."

"She died," continued the other. "It was very long ago more than
thirty years. "

" Indeed," said Greifenstein, as though he cared very little to hear more.

Again there was silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the
fir logs in the fire and by the ticking of the clock in its tall carved case in the
corner. A full hour must elapse before the evening meal, and Greifenstein
did not know what to do with his unwelcome guest. At last the latter took
out a black South American cigar and lit it. For a few moments he smoked
thoughtfully, and then, as though the fragrant fumes had the power to un
loose his tongue, he again began to talk.

" She died," he said. ' She ruined me. Yes; did you never hear how it
was ? And yet I loved her. She would not follow me. Then they sent me

1861-88] FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.

some of her hair and the boy. But for her, it might never have happened;
and yet I forgive her. You never heard how it all happened ? "

"I never inquired/' answered Greifenstein. "You say she ruined you.
How do you mean ? "

"She made me do it. She was an enthusiast for liberty and revolution.
She filled my mind with ideas of the people's sovereignty. She talked of
nothing else. She besought me on her knees to join her party, as she called
it. She flattered me with dreams of greatness in a great republic, she illu
minated crime iu the light of heroism, she pushed me into secret societies,
and laughed at me for my want of courage. I loved her, and she made a fool
of me, worse than a fool, a traitor, worse than a traitor, a murderer, for she
persuaded me to give the arms to the mob ; she made me an outlaw, an exile,
an object of hatred to my countrymen, a thing loathsome to all who knew
me. And yet I loved her, even when it was all o\ 7 er, and I would have given
my soul to have her with me."

G-reif en stein's face expressed unutterable contempt for this man who iu
the strength and pride of youth had laid down his honor for a woman's word,
not even for her love, since he had possessed that already.

" It seems to me," he said, " that there was one very simple remedy for
you."

" A little lead in the right place. I know. And yet I lived, and I live still.
Why ? I do not know. I believed iu the revolution, though she had forced
the belief upon me, and I continued to believe in it until long after I went to
South America. And when I had ceased to believe in it, no one cared whether
I lived or died. Then came this hope, and this blow. I could almost do it
now."

Greifenstein looked at him curiously for a moment, and then rose from his
place and went deliberately to a huge, dark piece of furniture that stood be
tween the windows. He brought back a polished mahogany case, unlocked
it, and set it beside his brother upon the table, under the light of the lamp.

Eieseneck knew what he meant well enough, but he did not wince. On the
contrary he opened the case and looked at the beautiful weapon, as it lay all
loaded and ready for use in its bed of green baize cloth. Then he laid it on
the table again, and pushed it a little away from him.

"Not now," he said quietly. "I am in your house. You would have to
declare my identity. It would make a scandal. I will not doit."

"You had better put it into your pocket," answered Greifenstein grimly,
but without a trace of unkindness in his voice. " You may like to have it
about you, you know."

Rieseneck looked at his brother in silence for a few seconds, and then took
the thing once more in his hands.

" Do you mean it as a gift ? " he asked. " You might not care to claim it
afterwards."

"Yes."

" I thank you." He took the revolver from the case, examined it attentive
ly, and then slipped it into his breast-pocket. " I thank you," he repeated.
" I do not possess one."

VOL. XI. 10

146 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. [1861-88

G-reifenstein wondered whether Kieseneck would have the courage to act
upon the suggestion. To him there was nothing horrible in the idea. He
was merely offering this despicable creature the means of escape from the
world's contempt. He himself, in such a case, would have taken his own life
long ago, and he could not understand that any man should hesitate when
the proper course lay so very clear before him. He went back to his seat as
if nothing unusual had happened. Then, as though to turn the conversation,
he began to speak of the plans for the morrow. He did not really believe in
his brother's intentions, but as an honorable man, according to his lights, he
considered that he had done his duty in giving the weapon.

" We can ride a long distance," he said, "and then we can walk. When
you are once at the lake, you can find a boat which will take you over. I warn
you that it is far."

" It will be enough if you show ine the way," answered Rieseneck absently.
" You are very kind."

"It is my interest," said Greifenstein, unwilling that his feelings should
be misinterpreted. Then he relapsed into silence. ....

When Clara heard that there was to be a guest at dinner, her first sensation
was one of extreme terror, but she was reassured by the information her maid
gave concerning the general appearance of Herr Brandt. The woman had
not seen him, but had of course heard at once a full description of his person
ality. He was described as a tall old gentleman, exceedingly well dressed,
though he had arrived on foot and without luggage. The maid supposed that
his effects would follow him, since he had chosen to walk. Beyond that, Clara
could ascertain nothing, but it was clear that she did not consider the details
she learned as descriptive of the person whose coming she feared. On the
contrary, the prospect of a little change from the usual monotony of the even
ing had the effect of exhilarating her spirits, and she bestowed even more at
tention than usual upon the adornment of her thin person. The nature of
the woman could not die. Her natural vanity was so extraordinary that it
might have been expected to survive death itself. She belonged to that strange
class of people who foresee even the effect they will produce when they are
dead, who leave elaborate directions for the disposal of their bodies in the
most becoming manner, and who build for themselves appropriate tombs
while they are alive, decorated in a style agreeable to their tastes. Clara ar
rayed herself in all her glory for the feast; she twisted the ringlets of her
abundant faded hair, until each covered at least one obnoxious line of fore
head and temples ; she laid the delicate color upon her sunken cheeks with
amazing precision, and shaded it artistically with the soft hare's foot, till it
was blended with the whiteness of the adjacent pearl powder; she touched
the colorless eyebrows with the pointed black stick of cosmetic that lay ready
to her hand in its small silver case, and made her yellow nails shine with pink
paste and doeskin rubbers till they reflected the candle-light like polished
horn. With the utmost care she adjusted the rare old lace to hide the sinewy
lines of her emaciated throat, and then, observing the effect as her maid held
a second mirror beside her face, she hastened to touch the shrivelled lobes of

1861-88] FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. 147

her ears with a delicate rose color that set off the brilliancy of the single dia
monds she wore as earrings. She opened and shut her eyelids quickly to make
her eyes brighter, and held up her hands so that the blood should leave the
raised network of the purple veins less swollen and apparent. The patient
tire-woman gave one last scrutinizing glance and adjusted the rich folds of
the silk gown with considerable art, although such taste as she possessed was
outraged at the effect of the pale straw-color when worn by such an aged
beauty. Another look into the tall mirror, and Clara von Greffenstein was
satisfied. She had done what she could do to beautify herself, to revive in
her own eyes some faint memory of that prettiness she had once seen reflected
in her glass, and she believed that she had not altogether failed. She even
smiled contentedly at her maid, before she left the chamber to go to the draw
ing-room. It was a satisfaction to show herself to some one, it was a relief
from the thoughts that had tormented her so long, it was a respite from her
husband's perpetual effort to amuse her by reading aloud. For a few hours
at least she was to hear the sound of an unfamiliar voice, to enjoy the refresh
ing effect of a slight motion in the stagnant pool of worn-out ideas that sur
rounded her little island of life.

She drew herself up and walked delicately as she went into the drawing-
room. She had judged that her entrance would be effective, and had timed
her coming so as to be sure that her husband and Herr Brandt should be there
before her. The room looked just as it usually did; it was luxurious, large,
warm, and softly lighted. Clara almost forgot her age so far as to wish that
there had been more lamps, though the shade was undeniably advantageous
to her looks. She came forward, and saw that the two men were standing to
gether before the fire. The door had moved noiselessly on its hinges, but the
rustle of the silk gown made Greifenstein and Eieseneck turn their heads
simultaneously. Clara's eyes rested on the stranger with some curiosity, and
she noticed with satisfaction that his gaze fixed itself upon her own face. He
was evidently impressed by her appearance, and her vain old heart fluttered
pleasantly.

" Permit me to present Herr Brandt," said Greifenstein, making a step
forward.

Clara inclined her head with an expression that was intended to be affable,
and Rieseneck bowed gravely. She sank into a chair, and, looking up, saw
that he was watching her with evident interest. It struck her that he was a
very pale man, and though she had at first been pleased by his stare, she
began to feel uncomfortable as it continued.

" You are old friends, I suppose ?" she remarked, glancing at her husband
with a smile.

Both men bent their heads in assent.

" I had the honor of knowing Herr von Greifenstein when we were both
very young, "said Eieseneck after a pause that had threatened to be awkward.

" Indeed ? And you have not met for a long time ! How very strange !
But life is full of such things, you know. " She laughed nervously.

While she was speaking, the intonations of Rieseneck's voice seemed to be
still ringing in her ears, and the vibrations touched a chord of her memory

148 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. [1861-88

very painfully, so that she forgot what she was saying and hid her confusion
in a laugh. Greifenstein was staring at the ceiling and did not see his brother
start and steady himself against the chimney-piece.

At that moment dinner was announced. Clara rose with an effort from her
seat, and stood still. She supposed that Herr Brandt would offer her his arm,
but he did not move from his place. Greifenstein said nothing. A violent
conflict arose in his mind and made him hesitate. He could not bear the idea
of seeing his wife touch even the sleeve of the man he so despised, and yet he
dreaded lest any exhibition of his feelings should make Clara suspicious.
The last consideration outweighed everything else.

" Will you give my wife your arm ?" he said, addressing Eieseneck very
coldly.

There was no choice, and the tall old man went to Clara's side, and led her
out of the room, while Greifenstein followed alone. They sat down to the
round table, which was laden with heavy plate and curious pieces of old Ger
man silver, and was illuminated by a hanging lamp. A hundred persons
might have dined in the room, and the shadows made the panelled walls seem
even further from the centre than they really were. Vast trophies of skulls
and antlers and boars' heads loomed up in the distance, indistinctly visible
through the dim shade, but lighted up occasionally by the sudden flare of the
logs from the wide hearth. The flashes of flame made the stags' skulls seem
to grin horribly and gleamed strangely upon the white tusks that protruded
from the black boars' heads, and reflected a deep-red glare from their arti
ficial eyes of colored glass. The servants stepped noiselessly upon the dark
carpet, while the three persons who shared the solemn banquet sat silently in
their places, pretending to partake of the food that was placed before them.

The meal was a horrible farce. There was something sombrely contemp
tible to each one in the idea of being forced into the pretence of eating for
the sake of the hired attendants who carried the dishes. For the first time in
his life Greifenstein's hardy nature was disgusted by the sight of food. Rie-
seneck sat erect in his chair, from time to time swallowing a glass of strong
wine, and looking from Clara's face to the fork he held in his hand. She her
self exercised a woman's privilege and refused everything, staring consist
ently at the monumental silver ornament in the midst of the table. When
she looked up, Rieseneck's white face scared her. She had no need to see it
now, for she knew who he was better than any one, better than Greifenstein
himself. That power whose presence she had once felt, when alone with her
husband, was not with her now. A deadly fear overcame every other instinct
save that of self-preservation. She struggled to maintain her place at the
table, to control the shriek of horror that was on her lips, as she had struggled
to produce that feigned laugh ten days ago, with all her might. But the pro
tracted strain was almost more than she could bear, and she felt that her ex
hausted nerves might leave her helpless at any moment. She had read in
books vivid descriptions of the agony of death, but she had never fancied that
it could be so horrible as this, so long drawn out, so overwhelmingly bitter.

In truth, a more fearful ordeal could not be imagined than was imposed
by a relentless destiny upon this miserable, painted, curled, and jewelled old

18G1-88J FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.

woman as she sat at the head of her own table. It would have been easier for
her had she known that she was to meet him. It would have been far less
hard if she had lived her life in the whirl of the world, where we are daily
forced to look our misdeeds in the face and to meet with smiling indifference
those who know our past and have themselves been a part of it. Even a quar
ter of an hour for preparation would have been better than this gradual rec
ognition, in which each minute made certainty more positive. There was but
one ray of consolation or hope for her, and she tried to make the most of it.
He had come because he had failed to obtain his pardon, and his brother was
helping him to leave the country quietly. She was as sure of it as though
she had been acquainted with all the details. To-morrow he would be gone,
and once gone he would never return, and her last years would be free from
fear. The fact that he came under a false name showed that she was right.
In an hour she could excuse herself and go to her room, never to see his face
again. Her hands grasped and crushed the damask of the cloth beneath the
table as she tried to steady her nerves by contemplating her near deliverance
from torture.

Greifenstein was the bravest of the three, as he had also the least cause for
anxiety. He saw that it was impossible to continue the meal in total silence,
and he made a tremendous effort to produce a show of conversation.

' There has been much snow this year, Herr Brandt," he said, raising his
head and addressing his brother.

Rieseneck did not understand, but he heard Greifenstein's voice, and slow
ly turned his ghastly face toward him.

" I beg your pardon," he said, " I did not quite hear."

" There has been much snow this year," Greifenstein repeated with forci
ble distinctness.

" Yes," replied his brother, " it seems so."

" After all, it is nearly Christmas," said Clara, trembling in every limb at
the sound of her own voice.

Only an hour more to bear, and she would be safe forever. Only another
effort, and Greifenstein would suspect nothing. Rieseneck looked mechani
cally at his brother, as though he were trying to find something to say. In
reality he was almost insensible, and he hardly knew why he did not fall from
his chair. A servant brought another dish, and Clara helped herself uncon
sciously. The man went on to Rieseneck, and waited patiently until the lat
ter should turn his head and see what was offered to him.

Clara saw an opportunity of speaking again. She could call his attention
by addressing him. One, two, three seconds passed, and then she spoke. It
would be enough to utter his name, so that he should look round and see the
attendant at his elbow. " Herr Brandt" the two syllables were short and
simple enough.

" Herr von Rieseneck," she said quietly.

In the extremity of her nervousness, her brain had become suddenly con
fused, and she was lost.

As the words escaped Clara's lips, Greifenstein started violently and made

150 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. [1861-8*

as though he would rise, laying his hands on the edge of the table and leaning
forward toward his wife. The echo of Kieseneck's name had not died away
when the unhappy woman realized what she had done. Rieseneck himself
turned suddenly toward her and the blood rushed to his pale face. Clara's
head fell forward and she covered her eyes with her hands, uttering a short,
sharp cry like that of an animal mortally wounded. The servant stood still
at Rieseneck's side, staring stupidly from one to the other. Fully ten seconds
elapsed before Greifensteiu recovered his presence of mind.

" You are ill, Clara," he said in a choking voice. " I will take you to your
room."

He did not understand the situation, and he could not guess how his wife
had learned that the visitor was not Herr Brandt but Kuno von Rieseneck.
But he was horrified by the thought that she should have made the discovery,
and his first idea was to get her away as soon as possible. He came to her side,
and saw that she was helpless, if not insensible. Then he lifted her from her
chair and carried her through the wide door and the small apartment beyond
into the drawing-room. Rieseneck followed at a distance.

" You can go/' said Greifenstein to the servant. " We shall not want any
more dinner to-night."

The man went out and left the three together. Clara lay upon a great divan,
her husband standing at her side, and Rieseneck at her feet. Her eyes were
open, but they were glassy with terror, though she was quite conscious.

" Clara are you better ? " asked Greifenstein anxiously.

She gasped for breath and seemed unable to speak. Greifenstein looked at
his brother.

" I cannot imagine how she knew your name," he said. " Did you know
her before ? "

Rieseneck had turned white again, and stood twisting his fingers as though
in some terrible distress. Greifenstein had not noticed his manner before,
and gazed at him now in considerable surprise. He fancied that Rieseueck
feared discovery and danger to himself.

"What is the matter?" he asked impatiently. "You are safe enough
yet"

While he spoke Clara endeavored to rise, supporting herself upon one hand,
and staring wildly at Rieseneck. The presentiment of a great unknown evil
came upon Greifenstein, and he laid his hand heavily upon his brother's
arm.

" What is the meaning of this ? " he asked sternly. " Do you know each
other ? "

The words roused Rieseneck. He drew back from his brother's touch and
answered in a broken voice :

" Let me go. Let me leave this house "

" No ! " exclaimed the other firmly. " You shall not go yet."

Again he grasped Rieseneck's arm, this time with no intention of relin
quishing his hold.

" Let him go, Huge ! " gasped Clara. She struggled to her feet and tried
to unloose the iron grip of her husband's fingers, straining her weak hands in

1861-88] FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD.

the useless attempt. "Let him go ! " she repeated frantically. " For God'a
sake, let him go ! "

" What is he to you ?" asked Greif en stein . Then, as though he guessed
some fearful answer to his question, he repeated it in a fiercer tone : " What
is he to you ? And what are you to her ? " he cried, facing his brother as he
shook him by the arm.

"You have cause to be angry/' said Rieseneck. "And so have I." He
fixed his eyes on Clara's, and something like a smile flitted over his feat
ures.

" Speak ! " commanded Greifenstein, to whom the suspense was becoming
unbearable.

Clara saw that Rieseneck was about to utter the fatal words, and with a
last remnant of energy she made a desperate attempt to cover his mouth with
her hand. But she was too late.

" This woman is my wife, not yours !" he cried in ringing tones.

In an instant Greifenstein thrust his brother from him, so that he reeled
back against the wall.

" Liar ! " he almost yelled.

Clara fell upon the floor between the two men, a shapeless heap of finery.
Rieseneck looked his brother in the face and answered the insult calmly.
From the moment when he had recognized Clara, he had felt that he must
see the whole horror of her fall with his own eyes in order to be avenged for
his wrongs.

" I told you my wife was dead," he said slowly. " I believed it. She is alive.
She has lived to ruin you as she ruined me. Clara von Rieseneck that is your
name stand upon your feet lift up your infamous face, and own vour law
ful husband!"

Even then Clara might have saved herself. One vigorous protest, and
Greifenstein would without doubt have slain his brother with his hands. But
she had not the strength left to speak the strong lie. She dragged herself to
her accuser's feet and threw her arms about his knees.

" Mercy ! " She could not utter any other word.

" You see," said Rieseneck. " She is alive ; she knows me ! "

"Mercy!" groaned the wretched creature, fawning upon him with her
wasted hands.

" Down, beast ! " answered the tall old man with savage contempt. "There
is no mercy for such as you."

Greifenstein had stood still for some seconds, overcome by the horror of his
shame. One glance told him that his brother had spoken the truth. He
turned away and stood facing the empty room. His face was convulsed, his
teeth ground upon each other, his hands were clenched as in the agony of
death. From his straining eyes great tears rolled down his gray cheeks, the
first and the last that he ever shed. And yet by that strange instinct of his
character which abhorred all manifestation of emotion, he stood erect and
motionless as a soldier on parade. The death-blow had struck him, but he
must die on his feet.

Then after a long pause, broken only by Clara's incoherent groans and sobs,

152 FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD. [1861-88

he heard Eieseneck's footstep behind him, and then his brother's voice, call
ing him by his name.

" Hugo what has this woman deserved ? "

"Death," answered Greifenstein solemnly.

" She helped to ruin me through my faults ; she has ruined you through no
fault of yours. She must die."

'' She must die," repeated Greifenstein.

" She has given you a son who is nameless. She cast off the son she bore to
me because through me his name was infamous. She must pay the penalty."

"She must die."

Greifenstein did not turn round even then. He crossed the room to the
chimney-piece and laid his two hands upon it. Still he heard his brother's
voice, though the words were no longer addressed to him.

" Clara von Eieseneck, your hour is come."

" Mercy, Kuno ! For God's sake "

" There is no mercy. Confess your crime. The time is short."

The wretched old woman tried to rise, but Eieseneck's hand kept her upon
her knees.

"You shall do me this justice before you go," he said. " Repeat your mis
deeds after me. You, Clara Kurtz, were married to me in the year eighteen
hundred and forty-seven."

" Yes it is true," answered the poor creature in broken tones.

" Say it ! You shall say the words ! "

Her teeth chattered. Transfixed by fear, her lips moved mechanically.

"I, Clara Kurtz, was married to you in the year eighteen hundred and
forty-seven. "

The woman's incredible vanity survived everything. Her voice sank to a
whisper at the two last words of the date, for Greifenstein had never known
her real age.

" You caused me to betray the arsenal," continued Eieseneck inexorably.

"I did."

" You abandoned me when I was in prison. When I escaped you refused
to follow me. You sent me false news of your death, with a lock of your hair
and the child."

Clara repeated each word, like a person hypnotized and subject to the will
of another.

" Then you must have changed your name."

" I changed my name."

" And you induced Hugo von Greifenstein to marry you, knowing that he
was my brother and that I was alive. I had often told you of him."

Clara made the statement in the words dictated.

" And now you are to die, and may the Lord have mercy upon your sinful
soul."

" And now I am to die. May the Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul."

Eeleased from the stern command of her judge, Clara uttered a low cry and
fell upon her face at his feet.

" You have heard," said Eieseneck to his brother. "It is time."

1861-88] EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

Greifenstein turned. He saw the tall old man's great figure standing flat
against the opposite wall, and he saw the ghastly face, half-hidden by the
snowy beard. He glanced down, and beheld a mass of straw-colored silk,
crumpled and disordered, and just beyond it a coil of faded hair adorned with
jewelled pins that reflected the soft light. He crossed the room, and his feat
ures were ashy pale, firmly set, and utterly relentless. He had heard her con
demnation from her own lips; he thought of his son, nameless through this
woman's crime, and his heart was hardened.

" It is time," he said. " Have you anything more to say ? "

He waited for an answer, but none came. Clara's hour had struck and she
knew it. There was deep silence in the room. Then the stillness was broken
by a gasp for breath and by a little rustling of the delicate silk. That was all.

When it was done, the two brothers stooped down again and lifted their
burden and bore it silently away, till they reached the room in which they had
first met. Then Greifenstein made sign that they should go further, and they
entered the chamber beyond, and upon the bed that was there they laid down
the dead woman, and covered her poor painted face decently with a sheet and
went away, closing the door softly behind them.

For a moment they stood looking at each other earnestly. Then Rieseneck
took from his pocket his brother's gift and laid it upon the table.

' ' It is time for us also," he said.

" Yes. I must write to Greif first. "

Half an hour later the short and terrible tragedy was completed, and of the
three persons who had sat together at the table, suffering each in his or her
own way as much as each could bear, not one was left alive to tell the tale.

Outside the house of death, the silent, spotless snow gleamed in the light
of the waning moon. Not a breath of wind sighed amongst the stately black
trees. Only, far below, the tumbling torrent roared through its half-frozen
bed, and high above, from the summit of the battlement that had sheltered
so many generations of Greifensteins from danger in war, and in peace from
the bitter north wind, the great horned owls sent forth their melancholy note
from time to time, and opened wide their cruel hungry eyes as the dismal
sound echoed away among the dark firs.

BORN in Chatham, Ohio, 1854.

SYRINX.

[A New Year's Masque, and Other Poems. 1885.]

COME forth, too timid spirit of the reed !
Leave thy plashed coverts and elusions shy,
And find delight at large in grove and mead.

154 EDITH MATILDA THOMAS [1861-8&

No ambushed harm, no wanton peering eye ;
The shepherd's uncouth god thou ueed'st not fear,
Pan has not passed this way for many a year.

'Tis but the vagrant wind that makes thee start,
The pleasure-loving south, the freshening west;

The willow's woven veil they softly part,
To fan the lily on the stream's warm breast:

No ruder stir, no footstep pressing near,

Pan has not passed this way for many a year.

Whether he lies in some mossed w 7 ood, asleep,
And heeds not how the acorns drop around,

Or in some shelly cavern near the deep,
Lulled by its pulses of eternal sound,

He wakes not, answers not our sylvan cheer,

Pan has been gone this many a silent year.

Else we had seen him, through the mists of morn,
To upland pasture lead his bleating charge:

There is no shag upon the stunted thorn,
No hoof-print on the river's silver marge ;

Nor broken branch of pine, nor ivied spear,

Pan has not passed that way for many a year.

tremulous elf, reach me a hollow r pipe,

The best and smoothest of thy mellow store !
Now I may blow till Time be hoary ripe,

And listening streams forsake the paths they wore:
Pan loved the sound, but now will never hear,
Pan has not trimmed a reed this many a year!

And so, come freely forth, and through the sedge

Lift up a dimpled, warm, Arcadian face,
As on that day when fear thy feet did fledge,

And thou didst safely win the breathless race

1 am deceived : nor Pan nor thou art here,
Pan has been gone this many a silent year!

SNOW.

[The Round Tear. 1886.]

HE first flakes of the year, how doubtful, wavering, tentative, as though
JL there were as yet no beaten path for them to follow in their journey from
the clouds to earth, or as though they were unwilling to desert the goodly
society of their kindred in the sky! The blades of tender autumnal grass
look very cold, lifted through the scant coverlet spread by a first snow; one
shivers seeing them, and wishes' that their retirement might be hastened.
The wanderings of the dead leaves are brought to an end by the snow, to which
they impart a stain from the coloring-matter not yet leached from their its-

*&& s^i

1861-88] EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

sues. By this circumstance the age of the season might be gauged, approx
imately; at least, the snows of the later winter suffer no such discoloration
from contact with the leaf-strewn ground.

When the snow is damp and clinging, as it not unf requently is at the begin
ning and end of the winter, a wonderful white spring-time comes upon the
earth. Behold, the orchards bloom again almost in the similitude of May;
the dry stalks in the garden undergo the miracle that befell the bishop's staff
in the legend, and deck themselves with beauty. Last summer's nests are
again tenanted, brooded by doves of peace descended from heaven. Every
cobweb which the wind has spared, under the eaves or in the porch, displays
a fluttering increment of snow. What a deal of wool-gathering there has
been! The rough bark of the trees, the roofs and clapboards of the houses,
are hung with soft shreds and tatters; the "finger of heaven" has put on a
white cot. If we walk abroad in this new creation, it shall seem that we have
been suddenly let into some magnified frost-picture; nor can we be quite sure
that AVC ourselves are not of the same frail, ethereal texture as the exquisite
work around us, and like it destined to glide into naught, under the arrows
of the sun. When such damp snow freezes upon the branches, and afterwards
falls in crusted fragments, the perforations made in the snow beneath resem
ble the tracks of many small, cushion-footed animals. One would like to
know what ^Esopian council, or palaver, was held under the dooryard trees
in the sly middle of the night. ....

On a stormy evening, when the air is thick with flying snow, I have received
charming suggestions from the village lights. Walls, roofs, bounding-lines
generally, are lost in the snowy obscurity; but the hospitable windows re
main, curtained, mellow-tinted panes, or curtainless pictures of fireside
comfort, framed, apparently, by mist and cloud. At a little distance it were
easy to imagine that these windows belonged to the ground-floor of heaven,
rather than to any houses made with hands.

Though the trumpets of the sky may have been blown in its van, the snow,
when it arrives on earth, abhors and annihilates all loud noise. How muffled
and remote are the sounds in a village during a great snow-fall all mutes
and subvocals. Stamping of feet in the porch across the way is reported dis
tantly sonorous, as though the noise had been made in a subterranean cham
ber. Across the high, smooth fields comes the faint pealing of a bell, myste
riously sweet. The bell hangs in the church of a neighboring village; I have
often heard it before, but not with the same impression as now. So might
have sounded the chimes in the buried church of the legend on a Christmas
morning.

The snow has a mediatorial character. Wherever this earth approaches
nearest to heaven, on all loftiest summits of the globe, there stands the white
altar, perpetually: nor is the religion to which the altar is reared one of pure
abstraction, colorless mysticism. Sunrise, sunset, and the winds, with the
snow, bring out on the tops of our Western mountains (if current descrip
tions do not exaggerate) such surprises of form and color, whirling column
and waving banner, as were never dreamed of in the pageants beheld by the
initiate of the Eleusinian Mysteries.

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS. [1861-88

A FLUTE.
[Lyrics and Sonnets. 1887.]

OW shall I liken thee, reed of my choice,
Spirit-like, fugitive, wavering voice ?"

" I am an oread lost to the hills,

Sick for the mountain wind tossing my rills ;

Sighing from memory snatches of song

Pine-trees have sung to me all the night long;

Shrouded they sang to me, mingling my dreams;

Down through their tapestries planets shot gleams.

Eagles on cliffs between heaven and me

Looked from their watch-towers, far on the sea."

" How wast thou taken, sweet, lost to the hills,
Footprints of thine no more seen by the rills ? "

" Quickly I answer thee: Sorrow came by,
Made me her foster-child, loving my cry ! "

THE QUIET PILGRIM.
Isaiah xxxviii. 15.

"TTTHEN on my soul in nakedness Whenso I come where Griefs convene,

V V His swift, avertless hand did press, And in my ear their voice is keen,

Then I stood still, nor cried aloud, They know me not, as on I glide,

Nor murmured low in ashes bowed; That with Arch Sorrow I abide.

And, since my woe is utterless, They haggard are, and drooped of mien,

To supreme quiet I am vowed ; And round their brows have cypress tied :

Afar from me be moan and tears, Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers,

I shall go softly all my years. I shall go softly all my years.

Wlienso my quick, light-sandalled feet Yea, softly ! heart of hearts unknown.

Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet, Silence hath speech that passeth moan,

I mingle with their throng at will; More piercing-keen than breathed cries

They know me not an alien still, To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.

Since neither words nor ways unsweet But save this voice without a tone,

Of stored bitterness I spill ; That runs before me to the skies,

Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears, And rings above thy ringing spheres,

For I go softly all my years. Lord, I go softly all my years!

1861-88] EDGAR WATSON HOWE.

MUSIC.

r~niIE god of music dwelleth out of doors.
-*- All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet,
Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet :
From organ-lofts in forests old lie pours
A solemn harmony: on leafy floors
To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet,
Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet
In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores.
Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream,
And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze ;
Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees,
Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme ;
Leave me the whispering shell on nereid shores:
The god of music dwelleth out of doors.

BORN in the present town of Treaty, Wabash Co., Ind., 1854.

A PRAIRIE TOWN.

[The Story of a Country Town. 1882. Revised Edition. 1884.]

IN Twin Mounds the citizens spent their idle time in religious discussions,
and although I lived there a great many years I do not remember that any
of the questions in dispute were ever settled. They never discussed politics
with any animation, and read but little, except in the Bible to find points to
dispute; but of religion they never tired, and many of them could quote the
sacred word by the page. No two of them ever exactly agreed in their ideas,
for men who thought alike on baptism violently quarrelled when the resur
rection was mentioned, and two of them who engaged a hell-redemptionist
one night would in all probability fail to agree themselves the next, on the
atonement. The merchants neglected their customers, when they had them,
to discuss points in the Bible which I used to think were not of the slightest
consequence, and in many instances the men who argued the most were those
who chased deer with hounds on Sunday, and ran horse-races, for they did
not seem to discuss the subject so much on account of its importance as be
cause of its fitness as a topic to quarrel about.

There was always a number of famous discussions going on, as between the
lawyer and the storekeeper, or the blacksmith and the druggist, or the doctor
and the carpenter, and whenever I saw a crowd gathering hurriedly in the
evening I knew that two of the disputants had got together again to renew
their old difficulty, which they kept up until a late hour, in the presence of
half the town.

158 EDGAR WATSON HOWE. [1861-88

There was a certain man who kept a drug-store, who was always in nervous
excitement from something a fat blacksmith had said to him in their discus
sions, and who had a habit of coming in on him suddenly in the middle of
the day; and whenever I went into the place of business of either one of them
I heard them telling those present how they had triumphed the night before,
or intended to triumph on a future occasion. Some of the greatest oaths I
have ever heard were uttered by these men while discussing religion, and fre
quently the little and nervous drug-store keeper had to be forcibly prevented
from jumping at his burly opponent and striking him. The drug-store was
not far away from the office where I worked, and whenever loud and boister
ous talking was heard in that direction a smile went round, for we knew the
blacksmith had suddenly come upon his enemy, and attacked him with
something he had thought up while at his work. I never knew exactly what
the trouble between them was, though I heard enough of it; but I remember
that it had some reference to a literal resurrection and a new body; and I
often thought it queer that each one was able to take the Bible and establish
his position so clearly. Whenever I heard the blacksmith talk I was sure that
the druggist was wrong, but when the druggist called upon the blacksmith
to stop right there, and began his argument, I became convinced that, after
all, there were two sides to the question.

These two men, as well as most of the others, were members of a church
known then as the Campbellite, for I do not remember that there was an in
fidel or unbeliever in the place. There were a great many backsliders, but
none of them ever questioned religion itself, though they could never agree
on doctrine. It has occurred to me since that if one of them had thought to
dispute the inspiration of the Bible, and argued about that, the people would
have been entirely happy, for the old discussions in time became very tire
some.

The people regarded religion as a struggle between the Campbellite church
and the Devil, and a sensation was developed one evening when my father re
marked to the druggist, in the presence of the usual crowd he happened to
be in the place on an errand, as he never engaged in the amusement of the
town that sprinkling answered every purpose of baptism. The druggist be
came very much excited immediately and prepared for a discussion, but rny
father only laughed at him and walked away. The next Sunday, however,
he preached a sermon on the subject in the court-house, and attacked the
town's religion with so much vigor that the excitement was very intense.

Most of the citizens of Twin Mounds came from the surrounding country,
and a favorite way of increasing the population was to elect the coun ty officers
from the country, but after their terms expired a new set moved in, for it was
thought they became so corrupt by a two years' residence that they could not
be trusted to a reelection. The town increased in size a little in this manner,
for none of these men ever went back to their farms again, though they
speedily lost standing after they retired from their positions. Many others
who left their farms to move to the town said in excuse that the school advan
tages were better, and seemed very anxious for a time that their children
should be educated, but once they were established in Twin Mounds they

1861-88] EDGAR WATSON HOWE.

abused the school a great deal, and said it was not satisfactory, and allowed
their children to remain away if they were so inclined.

There was the usual number of merchants, professional men, mechanics,
etc., who got along well enough, but I never knew how at least one half the
inhabitants lived. Some of them owned teams, and farmed in the immediate
vicinity; others " hauled," and others did whatever offered, but they were all
poor, and were constantly changing from one house to another. These men
usually had great families of boys, who grew up in the same indifferent fash
ion, and drifted off in time nobody knew where, coming back occasionally,
after a long absence, well-dressed, and with money to rattle in their pockets.
But none of them ever came back who had business of sufficient importance
elsewhere to call them away again, for they usually remained until their good
clothes wore out, the delusion of their respectability was broken, and they
became town loafers again, or engaged in the hard pursuits of their fathers.
The only resident of Twin Mounds who ever distinguished himself ran away
with a circus and never came back, for al