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McClure's magazine 

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MARCH 5tPUPncnn'Q I act Nnupl "Sf Iupq" Jl^^l 

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Volume VIII 
NOVEMBER, 1896, to APRIL, 1897 



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Copyright, 1897, by 

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Contents of McClurfs Magazine. 

NOVEMBER, 1896, TO APRIL, 1897. 



Illustrated. 32 

APPEARANCES. A Poem. Robert Browning 401 

BATTLE, THE. OF THE SNOW-PLOWS. A True Story of Railroading in the Rocky 

Mountains. Cy Warman. Illustrated 92 

BELL-BUOY. THE. A Poem. Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated. 364 

BETHLEHEM. S. S. McClure. Illustrated 183 

BIBLE. THE MAKING OF THE. H. J. W. Dam. Illustrated. 331 

BOWERY REGIMENT, IN A. The Story of my'First Command. Capt. Musgrove Davis. 

Illustrated. 245 

•* CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS." A Story of the Grand Banks. Rudyard Kipling. //- 

lustrated 17, 165, 222, 341, 424. 521 

CAROL. A. William Canton no 

CHRISTMASTIDE. in the first, a Poem. By Harriet Prescott Spofford. Il- 
lustrated 121 

CLEAR MIDNIGHT. A. A Poem. Walt Whitman 556 


DAGUERREOTYPE. THE, IN AMERICA. Mrs. D. T. Davis. Illustrated 3 

FARTHEST NORTH, THE. An Account of Dr. Nansen's Adventures and Achievements. 

Cyrus C. Adams. Illustrated 99 

FICTION : Short Stories. 

ASPIRATIONS— EXPLANATIONS. Anthony Hopk. Illustrated 85 

*' BREAD UPON THE WATERS." Rudyard Kipling. Illttstraigd 140 


LAREN. Illustrated 114 

DERELICT "NEPTUNE." THE. Morgan Robertson. Illustrated 278 

DIAMONDS. HERR DOLLE'S. Herbert Keen. Illustrated. 57 

DOMSIE, THE RETIRING OF. Ian Maclaren. Illustrated. 550 

"EMILY BRAND," THE STRANGE STORY OF THE. Andrew Hussev Allen. Illustrated 483 

ENGINEER CONNOR'S SON. Will Allen Dromgoolb. Illustrated 355 

HOME-COMING. THE, OF COLONEL HUCKS. William Allen White 326 

HUERFANO BILL. THE BANDIT. Cv Warman. Illustrated 443 

KING OF BOYVILLE, THE. William Allen White. Illustrated 3" 

LADY, THE. IN THE BOX. Clint<^n Ross. Illustrated 431 

MY UNWILLING NEIGHBOR. Frank R. Stockton. Illustrated 154 

OF THIS GENERATION. Henry Seton Mrrkiman. Illustrated 175 

PITY, THE, OF IT. Mrs. J. H. Riddell. lUustrated an 

SPELLBINDER, THE. Octave Thanet 5*9 

TWO MODERN PRODIQALS. Jambs F. McKay. Illustrated 69 

lustrated 459 


DucTiON. Charles Henry Hart 263 


Cy Warman. Illustrated 539 


Illustrated 195 

GRANT IN THE MEXICAN WAR. Hamlin Garland. Illustrated 366 


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GRANT'S HORSEMANSHIP. An Incidkm. C apt. Alfrf.d M. Fuller 501 

(;kani's like in Missouri, iiamlin (Iarlanu. iiiushaud 514 

(iRANT'S (^UIET YEARS AT NORTHERN POSTS. Rk( ollfx tions of Grant at 
Sackkii's Harijor, Detroit, and on the Pacific Coasi. Hamlin Garland. //• 

lustratcd 402 

GRANT. ULYSSES. THE EARLY LIFE OF. Hamlln (iAkLAM). lUustratcd 125 

GREENLAND WHALER. LIFE ON A. A Record of Personal Adventltres in the 

Arctic Seas. .\. C(^nan Doyle. UlustraUd 4(m^ 

HAMILTON, ALEXANDER. The Hon. Henry Caik.t Lodoe 502 


Die I ION AND Notes. Charles Henry Hari 507 

HOME FROM THE CITY. A Poem Hamlin (;aki.ani» ot) 

IN(,>UISITION, THE. A Poem. William Canton 181 

n<ES()N SKHM^ER, A NOTE ON. Cai-i . John Codman 458 



LINCOLN'S NOMINATION IN i860, THE STORY OF. IJased on the Personal 
Reminiscences of Men who were Insi immentai in Skccrinc. it. Ida .M. Tarbell. 
Illitstvatt'd 43 

LINCOLN, AN UNPUHLLSHED LETTER RY. Rkcardinc; his Defeat by Douglas in 

1858 3 ' 3 

Mckinley, nancy allison: a portrait 457 

mckinley, william: a portrait 456 

M/\I)ONN.\ AND CHILD. REPRODUciKiN of a Painting by Josephine W^ood Colby. 

Illustnitfd Ill 

"MARTHA WASHINGTON" CASE. THE. Lida Rose McC:abf. Illuslraied 236 



HAMILTON, ALEXANDER. Thh Hon. Hknkv Cahot Lolx.k 502 


MEN, THE, IN THE RANKS. From the Note-book of an Old Soldier. Major 

Philip Douglas 537 

NOVEL-WRITIN(;, A NOVELIST'S VIEWS OF. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Illustrated. 77 

lustra tt'd 472 

PSALMS, A NEW RHYTHMIC VERSION OF. Clifton Harby Leyy. Illustrated..... 362 

R VILROAD DOG, A. A True Railroad Story. Cy Warman. Jllurtrated 542 

RAPPAHANNOCK, THE SONG OF THE. The Real Experience in Battle of a Young 

Soldier (jf the Army of the Poiomac. Ir\ Seymour. Illustrated 314 

ROIJIN ADAIR: THE STORY OF A FAMOUS SONG. S. J. Adair Fit/.-(;erald 361 

ST. IVES. The Adyentures of a French Prisoner in England. A Noyel. Robert 

Louis Steyenson. Chaps. I.-IV 393, 493 


SNOW-PLOWS, THE BATTLE OF THE. A True Story of Railroadin(; in the Rocky 

Mountains. C y Warman. Illustrated ()2 


Illustrated 438 

"SON, THOU MUsr LOVE ME." A Poem. Paul Verlaine. Illustrated. 471 

TF:LEGRAPHIN(; without wires, a Possibility of Elf^trical Science. H. J. W. 

Dam. Illustrated 3^3 

VIERGE, DANIEL, THE MASTER ILLUSTRATOR. Personal Impressions of the 

Man and His Art. .August F. I accac 1. Illustrated 413 

lustrated 112 


WASHINCiTON. THIRTY LIFE PORTRAITS OF. With Introduction and Notes. 

Charles Henry Hart 291 

WHAT WILL TIME (MVE? A Poem Gertrude Hali 442 

WILD NI(;HT, a, at WOODRIVER. a True Railro\d Story. Cy Warman Illustrated. 543 

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From a carbon reprcxluction by Sherman and McHugh of an orifi^inal dajfucrreotypc owned by Peter Gilsey, Esq., 

New York. 

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McClure's Magazine. 

Vol. VIII. 

NOVEMBER, 1896. 

No. I. 


By Mrs. D. T. Davis. 

HlfLE in Paris in the spring 
of 1839, engaged in secur- 
ing a patent on his tele- 
graphic apparatus, Pro- 
fessor S. F. B. Morse 
became deeply interested 
in what he heard of the 
brilliant experiments of M. Daguerre, 
whose genius and perseverance had just 
brought to perfection one of the most 
important and astonishing discoveries of 
the age. An artist, as well as a scientist. 
Professor Morse was naturally anxious to 
hear more of this new art of painting with 
sunbeams, especially as he himself had 
made experiments to ascertain if it was 
possible to fix the image of the camera ob- 
scnra^ and had given the matter up as 

Having completed all arrangements in 
regard to his telegraph, Professor Morse 
had already made his plans to leave Paris 
for home, when, in conversation with the 
American Consul, Mr. Robert Walsh, he 
one morning remarked, *' I do not like to go 
home without first having seen Daguerre's 
results.*' The consul thought the matter 
might be easily arranged, and suggested 
that Professor Morse invite M. Daguerre 
to see his telegraphic apparatus, in return 
for which courtesy M. Daguerre would 
doubtless invite Professor Morse to see his 

The plan was, of course, entirely suc- 
cessful. Morse and his marvellous scien- 
tific achievements were already matters of 
European reputation, and AI. Daguerre 
naturally lost no time in responding to the 
distinguished request. Immediately fol- 
lowing this exchange of civilities, Profes- 
sor Morse had the pleasure of seeing the 

Copyright, i8y6, by the S. S. M 

wonderful results of the new discovery at 
the Diorama, where M. Daguerre had his 
laboratory, and where he gave frequent 
exhibitions of his pictures to the foremost 
scientific men of the day. 

These pictures, the extreme beauty of 
which had surprised and delighted all who 
beheld them, bore no resemblance to any- 
thing that had been theretofore known; 
and the striking mystery about them was 
that they should have been produced by a 
clever manipulation of the forces of nat- 
ure rather than by the artist's pencil. 
Except in the absence of color, they pre- 
sented, on a highly polished plate, abso- 
lutely perfect images of the objects repre- 
sented. In fact, such was their perfection 
and fidelity, that, on examining them by 
microscopic power, details were discovered 
which were not perceivable to the naked 
eye in the original object, but which, when 
searched for with optical instruments, were 
found in complete accordance with those 
of the picture, 'i'he pictures were mostly 
views of streets, boulevards, and build- 
ings, those of the Louvre and Notre Dame 
being especially fine. Interiors, still life, 
groups of plaster casts, and other works 
of art were also most successfully treated 
by the new process. Daguerre had not 
succeeded in making portraits as yet, and 
he told Professor Morse that he doubted 
if it could be done. 

Professor Morse's enthusiasm over these 
daguerreotypes was scarcely less than that 
which he felt for his beloved telegraph. 
He wrote concerning them, that the exqui- 
site minuteness of the delineation could 
not be described; that no painting or en- 
graving ever approached them; and that 
the impressions of interiors were Rem- 

lCixke Co. All riphls reserved. 

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From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHugh of an orififinal daguerreotype owned by Peter Gilscy, Esq., 

New York. 

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From an original daguerreotype owned by Peter Gilsey, Esq., New York. 

brandt perfected. Unfortunately, the very 
next day, while Daguerre was with Pro- 
fessor Morse, witnessing the operations of 
his telegraph, the Diorama burned to the 
ground with all the beautiful specimens 
that Professor Morse had seen there the 
day before. 

Professor Morse had been obliged to 
content himself with the mere sight of these 
charming exponents of the new art, as M. 
Daguerre was keeping the process a pro- 
found secret until such a time as it should 
be definitely decided w^hether or not the 
French Government would purchase the 
invention and make it a royal gift to the 
civilized world, — a point then under con- 

There was a loud demand from the 
scientific public for an explanation of the 
discovery. For many years the search for 

a method of fixing the image of the camera 
obscura — an instrument known for nearly 
two centuries — had been diligent and per- 
sistent. The most important experimenta- 
tion latterly had been that done in France 
by Niepce and Daguerre. For at least fif- 
teen years Niepce, in entire ignorance of 
what Daguerre and other scientists had 
been doing, had been vainly endeavoring 
to catch tlie images of the camera obscura^ 
when, in 1829, he met Daguerre, and they 
decided to reveal to each other the secrets 
of their individual methods and share alike 
in whatever material benefits might accrue. 
On the recommendation of Daguerre, 
Niepce substituted iodine for the varnish 
which he had evolved, after years of ex- 
periment, to use on the silver plate. This 
film of iodine, which failed in the hands of 
Niepce, became the foundation of Da- 

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From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHujjh of an oritfinal daj^uerreolype owned by Peter Hilsey, Esq., 

New York. 

guerre's success, and having once obtained 
a material so sensitive to the action of light, 
the French artist overcame all other difti- 
cnltieswith which he had been surrounded. 
In the midst of these interesting jescarches 
Niepce died, in 1S33, and his son after- 
wards succeeded to the partnershij). He, 
however, pursued his father's process, 
without making any essential improve- 
ments, while Daguerre brought his own to 
such perfection tliat, after twenty years of 
unceasing labor, he was enabled to enter 
upon a life of continued triumph. 

No sooner were l)aguerre's pictures e.x- 
hibited than scientific men the world over 
hastened to e.xamine them, and it is safe 
to say that no i)revious discovery had 
awakened a more universal interest. Jour- 

nals and periodicals were given up to ex- 
ploiting the subject, and certain issues 
were delayed, in order to obtain more 
complete accounts of the famous "sun 
pictures." As an invention it was ranked 
in importance with the steam engine, and 
the most exaggerated panegyrics from poet 
and scientist alike were the order of the 

M. Arago, the famcnis astronomer whose 
great discoveries on light entitled him to 
the confidence of the inventor, was in- 
trusted with Daguerre's secret, and with 
that ardent devotion to science and to the 
interest of its cultivator which so often 
and splendidly characterizes scholars, he 
resolved that while France had the honor 
of so great a discovery, it should also have 

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From an original daguerreotype taken and now owned by Josiah J. Hawes, Boston. 

the higher glory of rewarding and honor- published the discovery, in a paper read 

ing the discoverer and of making the dis- before the Academy of Sciences, every 

covery a present to the entire world; and place was taken two hours before the time 

he succeeded in persuading the French announced for the reading to begin, and 

Government to give Daguerre an annual upwards of 200 persons who could not ob- 

pension of 6,000 francs ($[,200) and Niepce tain admittance remained in the courtyard 

one of 4,000 francs ($800) on condition of the Institute. 

that they publish their process. As soon as the resolution to purchase 

The bill received the unanimous assent the invention and make it pul)lic had been 

of both houses, anil was signed by King pa^f>ed by the French Chamber, Daguerre 

Louis Philipj^e on the 15th of June, 1839. hastened to put Profess(jr Morse, who in 

So great was the public interest in the the meantime had returned to America, in 

event that when, in August, 1839, Arago possession of all the knowledge necessary 

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to manipulate the delicate process, and the 
professor lost no time in beginning to ex- 
periment practically with the art. His 
brothers Sidney E. and Richard C. Morse 
had a room with a glass roof erected on 
the roof of their new building at the north- 
west corner of Nassau and Beekman 
Streets, New York, and in this ** palace 
of the sun,'* as they called it, made an 
American home for the new art. Until 
this room was ready for occupancy. Pro- 
fessor Morse continued his experiments 
with great success at the University of 
New York, in Washington Square. His 
first entirely successful picture was a view 
of the Unitarian Church, from the window 
on the staircase of the third story of the 
University. This was taken in September, 
1839, ^"^ w^s without doubt the first da- 
guerreotype ever taken in America. The 
time of exposure was fifteen minutes. 

By the time Morse was fairly started, the 
process as published in Paris had reached 
the United States. Arago had read his 
paper to the Academy of Sciences in 
August, and the first published description 
of the Daguerre process which came to us 
was the summaries of this address pub- 
lished in the London newspapers. The 
Paris journals soon arrived with the paper 
in full, which was, of course, at once trans- 
lated; and at the same time came the de- 
scriptive letters of the Paris correspond- 

These descriptions were so clear that 
any one could follow them, and hundreds 
were doing so, when in the fall of 1839 a 
teacher direct from M. Daguerre himcelf 
arrived in New York, M. Francois Gouraud 
by name. M. Gouraud, having come over 
expressly to give lectures on the process, 
brought with him the most improved 
French apparatus, as well as many pict- 
ures made by the master and his follow- 
ers. These pictures were placed on exhi- 
bition, and on opening day the dite of the 
city were invited to view them. All who 
saw them were enraptured. Philip Hone 
wrote a long paragraph in his diary on 
the marvel of the discovery. *' It ap- 
pears to me not less wonderful,*' said he, 
**that light should be made an active 
operating power in this manner than that 
some such effect should be produced by 
sound; and who knows whether, in this 
age of invention and discoveries, we may 
not be called upon to marvel at the exhi- 
bition of a tree, a horse, or a sheep pro- 
duced by the human voice muttering over 
a metal plate, prepared in the same or some 
other manner, the words *tree,* * horse,' 

and * sheep.' How greatly ashamed of 
their ignorance the bygone generations of 
mankind ought to be! " 

The ** Knickerbocker " — Washington 
Irving's magazine — came out with nearly 
two pages of its December number de- 
voted to the daguerreotype. ** We have 
seen the views taken in Paris by the da- 
guerreotype," the editor says, **and have 
no hesitation in avowing that they are the 
most remarkable objects of curiosity and 
admiration in the arts that we ever beheld. 
Their exquisite perfection almost tran- 
scends the bounds of sober belief. Let 
us endeavor to convey to the reader an 
impression of their character. Let him 
suppose himself standing in the middle 
of Broadway, with a looking-glass held 
perpendicularly in his hand, in which is re- 
flected the street, with all that therein is, 
for two or three miles, taking in the hazi- 
est distance. Then let him take the glass 
into the house, and find the impression of 
the entire view, in the softest light and 
shade, vividly retained upon the surface. 
This is the daguerreotype. The views 
themselves are from the most interesting 
points of the French metropolis. Who 
would throw up their business and their 
dinners, on a voyage to see Paris or Lon- 
don, when one can sit in an apartment in 
New York and look at the streets, the 
architectural wonders, and the busy life of 
each crowded metropolis ? " 

A few months later the ** Knicker- 
bocker," in commenting again on the da- 
guerreotype, pronounced it **an instru- 
ment destined ultimately, we believe, to be 
the companion of every man of taste, tar- 
ticularly in his travels'' — a prophecy which 
we now see fulfilled in the later photo- 

M. Gouraud had little trouble in carry- 
ing through his course of lectures. Many 
people attended them, and he fitted out a 
large number with apparatus for the prac- 
tice of what lie had been teaching. In 
March, 1840, he went to Boston, and his 
season there was very successful. Finally 
he published a pamphlet: '* A Description 
of the Daguerreotype Process, or a Sum- 
mary of M. Gouraud's Public Lectures, 
according to the principles of M. Daguerre; 
with a description of a provisory method 
for taking Human Portraits." 

This "provisory method" of taking 
portraits was not a simple method, as one 
can see from Gouraud's directions for 
preparing the room and the subject: " In 
the first place, you will begin by preparing 
a room exposed to the sun, the southeast 

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From an original daguerreotype owned by Peter Gilsey, Esq., New York. 

if possible. You will give to this room the 
form of a truncated pyramid lying down, 
of which the base will be the whole breadth 
of the window — which window you will 
make as large as possible, and extending 
from the floor to the ceiling. The floor, 
the ceiling, and the two sides of the room 
should be plastered with the whitest kind 

of lime plaster. Those who cannot dis- 
pose a room in this manner, can fix the 
sides of the room with sheets, or other 
cloth of perfect whiteness. The focus of 
the room must be covered with a tapestry 
of white cotton, with knotted or raised 
figures, which is designed from the drap- 
ery. Those are always agreeable to the 

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eye, and should always be shown in inte- 
rior views. The chair on which the person 
sits must be of yellow wood. The person, 
if a man, must be dressed in a clear gray 
coat; pantaloons of a little deeper hue; a 
vest of a fancy ground, — yellow, orange, if 
possible, — with figures of a color to make a 
contrast; the whiteness of the shirt con- 
trasting with a cravat of a gray ground 
either a little less dark or more deep than 
the coat. The toilet of a lady should be 
of the same shades, and in all cases black 
must be constantly avoided, as well as 
green and red." 

M. Gouraud was not by any means the 
first person to attempt portraits in the 
United States. Notwithstanding the 
sceptical attitude of Daguerre in regard to 
the application of the art to living objects, 
Morse soon began to experiment with por- 
traits, though it is interesting to note that 
in all his early attempts the subject's 
eyes are closed, that being considered one 
of the conditions essential to success. 
Morsels first experiments \vere with his 
daughter, taken singly or in a group with 
her young friends, in the full sunlight, w-ith 
the eyes closed. The time of exposure 
was from ten to twenty minutes. He soon 
after made arrangements to experiment 
with his eminent friend and colleague, 
Professor John W. Draper, building for 
the purpose a photographic studio on the 
top of the University, and here Professor 
Draper claims to have made the first suc- 
cessful portrait ever made in America. 
This distinction is, however, often ac- 
credited to Mr. E. A. Wolcott, who was 
w^orking along the same lines. Neither 
possessed any knowledge of the labors of 
the other, but results similar in character 
were arrived at by each operator, under 
slightly differing circumstances. Before 
M. Gouraud left for America a method 
had been found for taking the eyes fairly 
well, and it was this he applied in his 

To realize to-day what the discovery 
meant, one must recall the means of por- 
traiture then in existence; the brush, the 
pencil, and the engraver's tools wxre all 
of them. And as the operation of these 
depended on a skilful human hand, the 
product was limited and correspondingly 
expensive. The daguerreotype, however, 
was comparatively inexpensive, and any 
one could use the process who would give 
it attention. The simplicity of the opera- 
tion, the mystery as well as the beauty of 
the result, the endless opportunity it 
offered — all this appealed to the ingenuity 

and imagination of young Americans of 
the intelligent class, and far and near they 
fell to daguerreotyping. 

The w^ay in which intelligent young men 
put the description of the process to test 
at once is charmingly told in a private 
letter to the author of this article by the 
Rev. Edw^ard Everett Hale: 

** My classmate and near friend, Mr. 
Samuel Longfellow (who died last year), 
and I were both much interested, and he 
repeated Talbot's experiments at once. I 
took from my window in Massachusetts 
Hall a picture of the college library — Har- 
vard Hall — opposite me. The camera was 
a little camera made for the convenience 
of draughtsmen, with a common lens of an 
inch and a quarter. We were delighted, 
because, in a window of the building 
which ' sat for us,' a bust of Apollo * came 
out ' so distinctly as it did. It came out 
dark brown — all the lights and shades 
being marked. . . . 

** I'he French Government paid Da- 
guerre a handsome sum for his invention, 
and the w^hole detail was at once published 
in the 'Journal des Debats. ' My father 
published the ' Boston Daily Advertiser,' 
so that he received the * Debats ' regu- 
larly, and my mother at once translated 
this article for the * Advertiser.' You will 
find it a few weeks after the official pub- 
lication in Paris. 1 now have the machine, 
or part of it, which I made, with my 
cousin, the late Mr. Francis A. Durivage, 
a well-known litterateur of New York, from 
these descriptions. 

*' Daguerre sent agents all over the 
world, or they came with his authority. 
Francois Gouraud came to Boston, and 
brought letters to my father. Mr. Francis 
('olby Gray, a leader in affairs of art in 
Boston, one of the directors of Harvard 
College, interested himself greatly in Gou- 
raud, and arranged for him a class which 
met in the sacred precincts of the Massa- 
chusetts Historical Society. To say this 
in the Boston of that day, was as if you 
said the class met in the queen's private 
apartments at Windsor. Gouraud im- 
ported the apparatus and sold it. He had 
specimens of Daguerre's work, two of 
which, I believe, I still own. He ar- 
ranged, I think, in Connecticut, for the 
manufacture of plates. 

** M. Gouraud was impecunious, and I 
suspect that my father used to lend him 
money. I w'ish now that he had bought 
apparatus instead. Instead of that, we 
youngsters had to make our apparatus, 
and did. Mr. Durivage and I made at 

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From an original daguerreotype taken and now owned by Josiah J. Hawes, Boston. 

least two sets, one of which I have a print 
of still. 

*' My first picture was of the church of 
which, queerly enough, I became a minis- 
ter sixteen years after. It must have been 
in 1840 that, as soon as my work as a 
teacher in the Latin School stopped, I ran 
up to the corner of Castle Street and 
Washington Street, where we had bor- 
rowed a room. I prepared my plates a 
little larger than this sheet. I adjusted 
the camera, and then went on to the church 

and stood — eight minutes expired, I think 
— while my cousin took off the lens and put 
it on. I have often said, and I think it 
is true, that this was the first photograph 
of a man in Boston. I think Dr. Draper 
had taken many before this in New York. 
I am very sorry that I have not this plate. 
But plates cost us two dollars each. I was 
impecunious, as I have said, and after I 
had shown it to my friends, it took its turn 
under pumice stone and putty, and was 
ready for another picture. 

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From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHugh of an orifi^inal dajjuerreotype taken and now owned by 

Josiah J. Hawes, Boston. 

'*This picture may have been a special 
portrait of myself. Early in the business 
I sat with a mirror in my hands, in full 
sunshine. The mirror threw up the sun 
from below to abate the shadows. I sat 
in this \\%\\X. five minutes. The picture came 
out a capital portrait of my hair, ears, and 
chin, Alas! I had tipped my head too far 
back, and all that appeared were my pro- 
jecting eyebrows and the orifices of both 
nostrils (no mouth, alas! ), and the chin 
from below taking its place. So far as I 
know, this was the first portrait proper any 
of us ever attempted." 

The commercial possibilities of the new 
invention were at once evident, and with 
Yankee shrewdness scores of young men 
learned the new art as a business. Morse 
and Draper themselves first gave the hint. 

As soon as it was known that they were 
making daguerreotypes many young men 
(locked to them for instruction. When 
they began to make portraits everybody 
wanted to sit. As both men had spent con- 
siderable money in experimenting with the 
process, they decided, finally, to charge for 
instruction and for portraits until they had 
recovered the outlay. But this was only for 
a short time, and as soon as the day of ex- 
periment was over, both took up other work. 
By the end of 1840 the methods were 
sufficiently improved to justify practising 
them as a means of livelihood. Numer- 
ous galleries were opened in the cities, and 
the travelling-car penetrated into all parts 
of the country. By November, 1841, there 
were six studios in Boston, and a larger 
number in New York. 

Digitized by 





From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHugh of an original daguerreotype taken and now owned by 

Josiah J. Hawes, Boston. 

The interest and curiosity of the general 
public in regard to these pictures painted 
by nature's own hand is not to be de- 
scribed. A small frame containing a 
half dozen pictures exhibited at door or 
window was constantly surrounded by 
crowds of eager sj)ectators, and the guesses 
hazarded as to the method of their pro- 
duction were interesting to a degree. 
Families vied with one another as to 
which could show the most finely executed 
and elaborately finished portraits, and the 
collection of daguerreotypes on the 
ubiquitous centre table formed the leading 
topic of conversation at social gathering 
and casual call. 

At first nearly all pictures were taken by 
side windows. The first skylight was 
erected at the corner of Broadway and 

Chambers Street, New York, on the top of 
the Granite Building, still standing there; 
and soon thereafter "skylight pictures" 
became a distinguished feature in the ad- 
vertisements of the day. 

Monday was looked upon as the best 
day for business, a fact owing almost 
wholly to the Sunday night courtship, the 
first outcome of which was the promise to 
exchange daguerreotypes. No less sure 
than Monday itself came the gentleman 
escorting his sweetheart. He selected the 
most expensive cases, and paid for both 
pictures. And it was a happy man in 
these instances that put the maiden's 
picture into his pocket, for he knew 
there was but one " counterfeit present- 
ment " of her in existence, and he had 

Digitized by 





From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHugh of an original daguerreotype owned by Peter Gilscy, Esq., 

New York. 

The discreet daguerreotyper was never 
without his bit of sticking-wax to keep 
wing-shaped ears from standing out, nor 
his wads of cotton, called ** plumpers," to 
fill out the hollow cheeks. 

The discovery of gold in California was 

a great boon to the daguerreotyper, as 
every embryo miner embarking for the 
golden shore must have several portraits 
taken to leave with his family and friends. 
And whether he was going across the 
Isthmus or around the Horn, he must be 

Digitized by 




From a carbon reproduction by Sherman and McHugh of an orif^inal daguerreotype taken and now owned by 

Josiah J. Hawes, Boston. 

pictured with his entire kit — kettle, frying- 
pan, knife, fork, cup, pick-axe, shovel, 
and the invariable two revolvers in his 
belt. He must also carry with him pict- 
ures of parents, wife, children, and 
friends, destined often to become his sole 
companions in his rough mountain cabin, 
from which he would hardly part for all 
the gold in California. 

Within eleven years from the time of 
the discovery, American daguerreotypers 
were the acknowledged leaders of the 
world, and numbered over 10,000. At the 
World's Fair in London in 1851 they were 
awarded the first prize for their unparal- 
lelled exhibition; and it was a common 
thing in England, France, and Germany to 
advertise to take daguerreotypes by the 
American process. Indeed, the best da- 

guerreotypers in both London and Paris 
were Americans, Mayal and Thompson 

The time of exposure had been reduced 
to a few seconds, and the price had settled 
into a regular scale of from one dollar and 
a half to fifteen dollars, depending upon the 
size — which varied from the locket size to 
thirteen by fourteen inches — and the case. 
The most ordinary size was two and three- 
quarters by three inches, the price for it 
varying from two to three dollars. 

Some of the early daguerreotypers at- 
tained a national, even world-wide, repu- 
tation for the noble contributions they 
made, not only to the art, but to the his- 
tory of the country. Conspicuous among 
such is the late M. B. Brady, a full record 
of whose life would read like a romance. 

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His first studio was located in New York, 
in Fulton Street, at that time one of the 
principal thoroughfares. He afterwards 
moved to Broadway, near Prince Street; 
and, later still, ** lirady's Famous National 
Gallery," at the corner of Tenth Street 
and Broadway, became widely known. 
He had also a studio in Brooklyn, and in 
i860 opened a branch gallery on Penn- 
sylvania Avenue, Washington, which he 
finally made his headquarters. In 1861 
Washington was thronged with men who 
were helping to make the history of Amer- 
ica. Mr. Brady was far-seeing enough to 
realize this, and aimed to secure portraits 
of the most distinguished. In conse- 
quence he soon made his Washington 
gallery a celebrated rendezvous. He also 
sent out wagons for photographic use, 
which followed the army from place to 

In the early days Gurney enjoyed no 
less reputation than Brady, and his da- 
guerreotypes are still considered the finest 
specimens of the art in existence. Meade 
Brothers were distinguished as having, in 
the second story of the Astor House, the 
most spacious galleries in New York, and 
enjoyed the further distinction of being 
the only daguerreotypersin the world who 
had taken a portrait of Daguerre himself. 
Bogardus, Powelson, and Rickwell were 
also among the many well-known New 
York daguerreotypers of the early day, 
while Hale and French, Whipple and 
Black, Plum, and Southworth and Hawes 
were influential in giving Boston a leading 
position in the new art. 

One of the earliest of the Boston galler- 
ies still exists, a dusty relic of the 
4o*s. Any one who will take the trouble 
to climb three flights of stairs, at 19 
Tremont Row, will find there the origi- 
nal studio of Southworth and Hawes, 
opened in 1841, and still presided over by 
Mr. Hawes, now a white-haired man of 
nearly ninety. In the old days, when this 
studio was opened, Tremont Row was the 
centre for the artists of the city. Here 
fully one-third of the portrait painters of 
Boston lived; here, too, were most of the 
sculptors, several engravers, and a goodly 
number of art-supply stores. In the build- 

ing where Southworth and Hawes took 
their quarters, Greenough and Story both 
had studios, and in this same building 
Harriet Hosmer worked. All of the fra- 
ternity up and down the Row were deeply 
interested in the new discovery and were 
constant visitors at the gallery. Traversing 
Tremont Row to-day one would not dream 
that it had ever harbored skilled craftsmen 
and artists. Traffic and noise have 
crowded from it every sign of the finer 
pursuits of life. The most melancholy of 
commercial undertakings monopolizeMt — 
cheap bargain stores, employment bureaus, 
sweater shops. One remnant only of its 
former life remains, the ancient daguerreo- 
type studio at the top of No. 19. Here 
are a half-dozen rooms furnished with 
ancient apparatus and appointments, and 
cluttered with the daguerreotypes and 
photographs of a half century of active 
work. For fifty-four years Mr. Hawes 
has practised his art in this place. Here 
have come to him for portraits the great 
men and women of his day in every pro- 
fession and art — Webster and Pierce, Gar- 
rison and Sumner, Wendell Phillips and 
Jenny Lind, Charlotte Cushman and 
Harriet Beecher Stowe. Mr. Hawes has 
in the specimens of his work an almost 
complete gallery of the eminent residents 
of Boston in the 40's and 50's, and 
of the prominent people who visited the 
city in the same period. The collection 
is of rare historical interest, and should 
be kept intact in some Boston museum, 
though it is doubtful if any one else would 
give it the reverent care that its white- 
haired owner does. Mr. Hawes has also a 
number of daguerreotypes made recently, 
for he is one of the few operators who re- 
main loyal to the old process, and he would 
gladly see it take its place again as a 
method of portraiture. There are signs, 
too, that it may do this. During the last 
year there has been, indeed, a distinct re- 
vival of interest in the daguerreotype in 
this country. And with the much better 
knowledge we now have of all the scien- 
tific and mechanical principles involved, it 
could hardly be taken up again as a seri- 
ous pursuit without being carried to even 
finer execution than it formerly attained. 

Digitized by 




15y Rudyard Kipmng, 

Author of " The Junjjic Book," " Barrack-room Ballads," etc. 


HE weather door of the 
smoking-room had been 
left open to the heavy 
North Atlantic fog, as the 
big liner rolled and lifted 
through the greasy seas, 
whistling to warn the fish- 
*' That Cheyne boy's the biggest nuisance 
aboard," said a man in a frieze overcoat, 
shutting the door with a bang. " He isn't 
wanted here. He's too fresh." 

A white-haired German reached for a 
sandwich, and grunted between bites: " I 
know der breed. Ameriga isfull of dot kind. 
I dell you you should imbort ropes' ends 
free under your dariff." 

"Pshaw! There isn't any real harm to 
him. He's more to be pitied than any- 
thing," said a man from New York, as he 
lay at full length along the cushions under 
the wet skylight. *' 'Fhey've dragged him 
around from hotel to hotel ever since he 
was a kid. I was talking to his mother this 
morning. She's a lovely lady, but she 
don't pretend to manage him. He's going 
to Europe to finish his education." 

"Education isn't begun yet." This was 
Copyright, 1896, by 

a Philadelphian, curled up in a corner. 
**That boy gets two hundred a month 
pocket-money, he told me. He isn't sixteen 

" Railroads, his father, ain't it ? " said the 

" Yep. That and mines and lumber and 
shipping. Built one place at San Diego, 
the old man has ; another at Los Angeles ; 
owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber 
on the Pacific slope, and lets his wife spend 
the money," the Philadelphian went on, 
lazily. ** The West don't suit her, she says. 
She just tracks around with the boy and 
her nerves, trying to find out what'll amuse 
him. Florida, Adirondacks, Lakewood, Hot 
Springs, New York, and round again. He 
isn't much more than a second-hand hotel 
clerk now. When he's finished in Europe 
he'll be a holy terror." 

" What's the matter with the old man 
attending to him personally?" said a voice 
from the frieze ulster. 

" Old man's piling up the rocks. Don't 
want to be disturbed, I guess. He'll find 
out his error a few years hence. Pity, be- 
cause there's a heap of good in him if you 
could get at it." 

" Mit a rope's end, mit a rope's end," said 
the German. 
Rudyard KiTM.i\r, 

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Once more the door banged, and a slight, 
slim-built boy about fifteen, a half-smoked 
cigarette hanging from one corner of his 
mouth, leaned in over the high footway. 
His pasty yellow complexion did not show 
well on a person of his years, and his look 
was a mixture of irresolution, bravado, and 
very cheap "smartness." He was dressed 
in a cherry- colored blazer, knickerbockers, 
red stockings, and bicycle shoes, with a red 
flannel cap at the back of the head. After 
whistling between his teeth, as he eyed the 
company, he said in a loud, high voice : 
** Say, it's thick outside. You can hear the 
fish- boats squawking all around. Say, 
wouldn't it be great if we ran down one ? " 

"Shut the door, Harvey," said the New 
Yorker. "Shut the door and stay outside. 
You're not wanted here." 

** Who'll stop mc? " he answered deliber- 
ately. " Didji^w pay U^x my passage. Mis- 

ter Martin? Guess I've as good right here 
as the next man." 

He picked up the dice from a checker- 
board and began throwing, right hand 
against left. 

"Say, gen'elmen, this is deader'n mud. 
Can't we make a game of poker between 

There was no answer, and he puffed his 
cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on 
the table with rather dirty fingers. Then he 
pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them. 

" How's your mamma this afternoon ? " 
a man said. " I didn't see her at lunch." 

" In her stateroom, I guess. She's most 
always sick on the ocean. I'm going to 
give the stewardess fifteen dollars for look- 
ing after her. I don't go down more'n I 
can avoid. It makes me feel mysterious to 
pass that butler's pantry place. Say, this is 
the first time I've been on the ocean." 

"Oh, don't apologize, Harvey." 

" Who's apologizing ? This is the first 
time I've crossed the ocean, gen'elmen, and, 
except the first day, 1 haven't been sick one 
little bit. Noy sir." He brought down his 
fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his 
finger and went on counting the bills. 

" Oh, you're a high-grade machine, with 
the writing in plain sight," the Philadelphia!! 
yawned. " You'll blossom into a credit to 
your country if you don't take care." 

" I know it. I'm an American — first, 
last, and all the time. I'll show 'em that 
when I strike Europe. Pff ! My cig's out. 
1 can't smoke the truck the steward sells. 
Any gen'elman got a real Turkish cig on 

The chief engineer entered for a moment, 
red, smiling, and wet. " Say, Mac," cried 
Harvey cheerfully, " how are we hitting it ? " 

" Vara much in the ordinary way," was 
the grave reply. " The young are as polite 
as ever to their elders, an' their elders are 
e'en tryin' to appreciate it." 

A low chuckle came from a corner. The 
German opened an old cigar-case and handed 
a skinny black cigar to Harvey. 

" Dot is der broper apparatus to smoke, 
my young frient," he said. " You vill dry 
it ? Yes ? Den you vill be efer so happy." 

Harvey lit the unlovely thing with a 
flourish : he felt that he was getting on 
in grown-up society. 

" It would take more'n this to keel me 
over," he said, not knowing that he was 
lighting that terrible article, a Wheeling 

" Dot we shall bresently see," said the 
German. ** Where are we now, Mr. ^ac- 

Digitized by 



Digitized by 

Googk . 


** Just there or thereabouts, Mr. Schaefer," 
said the engineer. " We'll be on the Grand 
Bank to-night ; but in a general way o' speak- 
in', we're all among the fishing-fleet now. 
We've shaved three dories an' near skelped 
the boom off a Frenchman since noon, an* 
that's close sailin', ye may say." 

*' You like my * stogy,' eh ? " the German 
asked, for Harvey's eyes were full of tears. 

** Fine, full flavor," he answered through 
shut teeth. " Guess we've slowed down a 
little, haven't we? I'll skip out and see 
what the log says." 

" I might if I vhas you," said the German. 

Harvey staggered over the wet decks to 
the nearest rail. He was very unhappy ; but 
he saw the deck-steward lashing chairs 
together, and as he had boasted before 
the man that he was never seasick, his 
pride made him go aft to the second- 
raloon deck at the stern, which was finished 
in a turtle-back. The deck was deserted, 
and he crawled to the extreme end of 
it by the flag-pole. There he doubled up 
in limp agony, for the Wheeling ** stogy " 
joined with the surge and jar of the screw 
to sieve out his soul. His head swelled ; 
sparks of fire danced before his eyes ; his 
body seemed to lose weight, while his heels 
wavered in the breeze. He was fainting 
from sea-sickness, and a roll of the ship 
tilted him over the rail on to the smooth, white 
lip of the turtle-back. Then a low, gray 
mother-wave swung out of the fog, tucked 
Harvey under one arm, so to speak, and 
pulled him off and away to leeward ; the 
green closed over him, and he went quietly 
to sleep. 

He was roused by the sound of a dinner- 
horn such as they used to blow at a sum- 
mer-school he had once attended in the 
Adirondacks. Slowly he remembered that 
he was Harvey Cheyne, drowned and dead 
in mid-ocean, but was too weak to fit things 
together. A new smell filled his nostrils ; 
wet and clammy coldnesses ran down his 
back, and he was helplessly full of salt water. 
He opened his eyes, and perceived that he 
was still on the top of the sea, for it was run- 
ning round him in silver-colored hills, and he 
was lying on a pile of half-dead fish, looking 
at a broad human back clothed in a blue 

" It's no good," thought the boy. " I'm 
dead, sure enough, and this thing is in 

He groaned, and the figure turned its 
head. He could see a pair of little gold 
rings hidden in curly black hair. 

" Aha ! You feel some pretty well now ? " 
it said. ** Lie still so we trim better." 

With a swift jerk he sculled the flickering 
boat-head on to a foamless sea that lifted her 
twenty full feet only to slide her into the 
glassy pit beyond. But this mountain- 
climbing did not interrupt blue-jersey's 
talk. " Fine good job, / say, that I catch 
you. Eh, wha-at ? Better good job, / say, 
your boat not catch me. How you come to 
fall so ? " 

*' I was sick," said Harvey ; " sick, and 
couldn't help it." 

** Just in time I blow my horn, and your 
boat she yaw a little. Then I see you come 
all down. Eh, wha-at ? 1 think you are 
cut into baits by the screw, but you dreeft — 
dreeft to nie, and I make big fish of you ; 
so you shall not die this time." 

** Where am I ? " said Harvey, who could 
not see that life was particularly safe %vhere 
he lay. 

"You are with me in the dory — Manuel 
my name, and 1 come from schooner * We're 
Here' of Gloucester. I live to (iloucester. 
By and by we go to supper. Eh, wha-at?" 

He seemed to have two pairs of hands 
and a head of cast-iron, for not content 
with blowing through a big conch shell, he 
must needs stand up to it, swaying with the 
sway of the boat, and send a grinding, 
thuttering shriek through the fog. How 
long this entertainment lasted, Harvey 
could not remember, for he lay back terrified 
at the sight of the smoking swells. He 
fancied he heard a gun and a horn and 
shouting. Something bigger than the dory, 
but quite as lively, loomed alongside. 
Several voices talked at once, and he was 
dropped into a dark, heaving hole, and they 
gave him something hot, and took off his 
clothes, and he fell asleep. 

When he waked he listened for the first 
breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering 
why his stateroom was so small. Turning, 
he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit 
by a lamp hung against a huge square 
beam. A three-cornered table within arm's 
reach ran from the angle of the bows to 
the foremast. At the after end, behin 1 a 
well-used Plymouth stove, sat a boy abcU 
his own age, with a flat, red face ai.d 
a pair of twinkling, gray eyes. He was 
dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber 
boots. Several pairs of the same sort 
of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn- 
out woollen socks lay on the floor, and 
black and yellow oilskins swayed to and f o 
beside the bunks. The whole place was 
packed as full of smells as a bale is of 
cotton. The oilskins had a ::jeculiarly close 
flavor of their own which made a sort of 
background to the smells of, burnt 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 



grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco ; 
but these again were all hooped together 
by qne encircling smell of ship and salt 
water. Harvey saw with disgust that there 
were no sheets on his bed-place. He was 
lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of 
lumps and nubbles. Then, too, the boat's 
motion was not that of a steamer. She was 
neither slidmg nor rolling, but rather wrig- 
gling herself about in a silly, aimless way, 
like a colt at the end of a halter. Water- 
noises ran by close to his ear, and beams 
creaked and whined about him. All these 
things made him grunt despairingly and 
think of his mother. 

" Feelin' better,*' said the boy, with a 
grin. " Hev some coffee ? " He brought 
a tin cupful and sweetened it with molasses. 

" Isn't there any milk ? " said Harvey, 
looking round the dark double tier of 
bunks as if he expected to find a cow there. 

" Well, no," said the boy. " Ner there 
ain't likely to be till 'baout mid-September. 
'Tain't bad coffee. I made it." 

Harvey drank in silence, and the boy 
handed him a plate full of pieces of fried 
pork which he ate ravenously. 

" I've dried your clothes. Guess they've 
shrunk some," said the boy. ** They ain't 
our style much — none of 'em. Twist round 
a piece back an' forth an' see ef you're 
hurt any." 

Harvey stretched himself in every direc- 
tion, but could not report any injuries. 

** That's good." the boy said heartily. 
** Fix yerself an' go on deck. Dad wants 
to see you. I'm his son— Dan, they call me 
— an' I'm cook's helper an' everything else 
aboard that's too dirty for the men. There 
ain't no boy here 'cep' me since Otto went 
overboard —an' he was only a Dutchy, an' 
twenty year old at that. How d'you come 
to fall off in a dead flat ca'am ? " 

" 'Twasn't a calm," said Harvey, sulkily. 
" It was a gale, and I was seasick ; guess 
I must have rolled over the rail." 

** There was a little common swell yes'- 
day an' last night," said the boy. ** But ef 
thet's your notion of a gale — " He whis- 
tled. " You'll know more 'fore you're 
through. Hurry ! Dad's waitin'." 

Like many other unfortunate young 
people, Harvey had never in all his life re- 
ceived a direct order — never, at least, with- 
out long, and sometimes tearful, explana- 
tions of the advantages of obedience and 
the reasons for the request. Mrs. Cheyne 
lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, 
perhaps, was the reason that she herself 
walked on the edge of nervous prostration. 
He could not see why he should be ex- 

pected to hurry for any man's pleasure, and 
said so. **Your dad can come down here 
if he's so anxious to talk to me. I want 
him to take me to New York at once. It'll 
pay him." 

Dan opened his eyes, as the size and 
beauty of this joke dawned on him. " Say, 
dad," he shouted up the foc'sle hatch. 
** He says you kin slip down an' see him ef 
you're anxiou§ that way. Hear, dad ?" 

The answer came back in the deepest 
voice Harvey had ever heard from a human 
chest : " Quit foolin', Dan, and send him 
to me." 

Dan sniggered, and threw Harvey his 
warped bicycle shoes. There was some- 
thing in the tones on the deck that made 
the boy dissemble his extreme rage and con- 
sole himself with the thought of gradually 
unfolding the tale of his own and his father's 
wealth on the voyage home. This rescue 
would certainly make him a hero among his 
friends for life. He hoisted himself on deck 
up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled 
aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a 
small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with gray 
eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the 
quarter-deck. The swell had passed in the 
night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round 
the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing- 
boats. Between them lay little black 
specks, showing where the dories were out 
fishing. The schooner, with a triangular rid- 
ing-sail on the mainmast, played easily at 
anchor, and except for the man by the cabin 
roof — ** house," they call it — she was de- 

** Mornin' — Good afternoon, I should say. 
You've nigh slep' the clock around, young 
feller," was the greeting. 

** Mornin'," said Harvey. He did not 
like being called ** young feller ; " and, as 
one rescued from drowning, expected sym- 
pathy. His mother suffered agonies when- 
ever he got his feet wet, but this man did 
not seem excited. 

" Naow let's hear all abaout it. It's quite 
providential, first an' last, fer all concerned. 
What might be your name ? Where from 
(we mistrust it's Noo York), an' where 
bound (we mistrust it's Europe)?" 

Harvey gave his name, the name of the 
steamer, and a short history of the accident, 
winding up with a demand to be taken 
back immediately to New York, where his 
father would pay anything anyone chose to 

'* H'm," said the shaven man, quite un- 
moved by the end of Harvey's speech. ** I 
can't say we think special of any man, or boy 
even, that falls overboard from that kind o' 

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packet in a flat ca'am. Least of all when 
his excuse is that he's seasick. " 

" Excuse ! " cried Harvey. " D'you sup- 
pose I'd fall overboard into your dirty little 
boat for fun ? " 

** Not knowin* what your notions o* fun 
may be, I can't rightly say, young feller. 
But if I was you, I wouldn't call the boat 
which, under Providence, was the means o' 
savin' ye', names. In the first place, it's 
blame irreligious. In the second, it's an- 
noyin' to my feelin's — an' I'm Disko Troop 
o' the * We're Here ' o' Gloucester, which 
you don't seem rightly to know." 

" I don't know and I don't care,'' said 
Harvey. " I'm grateful enough for being 
saved and all that; but I want you to under- 
stand that the sooner you take me back to 
New York the better it'll pay you." 

" Mean in' — haow ? " Troop raised one 
shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild 
blue eye. 

** Dollars and cents," said Harvey, de- 
lighted to think that he was making an 
impression. " Cold dollars and cents. " He 
stuck one hand into a pocket, and threw 
out his stomach a little, which was his way 
of being grand. *' You've done the best 
day's work you ever did in your life when 
you pulled me in. I'm all the son Harvey 
Cheyne has." 

" He's bin favored," said Disko, dryly. 

" And if you don't know who Harvey 
Cheyne is, you don't know much — that's 
all. Now turn her around and let's hurry." 

Harvey had a notion that the greater 
part of America was filled with people dis- 
cussing and envying his father's dollars. 

" Mebbe I do, an' mebbe 1 don't. Take 
a reef in your'stummick, young feller. It's 
full o* my vittles." 

Harvey heard a chuckle from Dan, who 
was pretending to be busy by the stump- 
foremast, and the blood rushed to his face. 
*' We'll pay for that too," he said. *' When 
do you suppose we shall get to New 

** I don't use Noo York any. Ner Bos- 
ton. We may see Eastern Point abaout 
September, an' your pa — I'm real sorry I 
hain't heerd tell of him — may give me ten 
dollars efter all your talk. Then o' course 
he mayn't." 

** Ten dollars ! Why, see here, I — " 
Harvey dived into his pocket for the wad 
of bills. All he brought up was a soggy 
packet of cigarettes. 

*' Not lawful currency, an' bad for the 
lungs. Heave 'em overboard, young feller, 
an' try agin." 

" It's been stolen ! " cried Harvey, hotly. 

" You'll hev to wait till you see your pa, 
to reward me, then ? " 

"A hundred and thirty-four dollars — all 
stolen," said Harvey, hunting wildly through 
his pockets. " Give them back." 

A curious change flitted across old 
Troop's hard face. *' What might you have 
been doin' with one hundred an' thirty-four 
dollars, young feller ? " 

" It was part of my pocket-money — for a 
month." This Harvey thought would be a 
knock-down blow, and it was — indirectly. 

'* Oh I One hundred and thirty-four 
dollars is only part of his pocket-money for 
one month only ! You don't remember 
hittin' anything when you fell over, do you ? 
Crack agin a stanchion, less say ? Old man 
Hasken o' the * East Wind'" — Troop 
seemed to be talking to himself — ** he 
tripped on a hatch an' butted the mainmast 
with his head — hardish. 'Baout three weeks 
afterwards, old man Hasken he would hev 
it that the * East Wind ' was a commerce- 
destroyin' man-o*-war, an' so he declared 
war on Sable Island because it was Bridish, 
an' the shoals run aout too far. They sewed 
him lip in a bed-bag, his head an' feet ap- 
pearin', fer the rest o' the trip, an' now he's 
to home at Essex playin' with little rag 

Harvey choked with rage, but Troop 
went on consolingly, " We're sorry fer you. 
We're very sorry fer you— an' so young. 
We won't say no more abaout the money, I 

** Course you won't. You stole it." 

** Suit yourself. We stole it ef it's any 
comfort to you. Naow, abaout goin' back. 
AUowin' we could do it, which we can't, 
you ain't in no fit state to go back to your 
home, an' were jest come on to the Banks 
workin' fer our bread. We don't see the 
ha'af of a hundred dollars a month, let 
alone pocket-money ; an' with good luck 
we'll be ashore again somewheres about the 
first weeks o' September." 

'* But— but it's May now, and I can't stay 
here doin' nothing just because you want to 
fish. I cant, I tell you ! " 

*^ Right an' jest ; jest an right. No one 
asks you to do nothin'. There's a heap as 
you can do, for Otto he went overboard on 
Le Have. I mistrust he lost his grip in a 
gale we fund there. Anyways he never 
come back to deny it. Youve turned up, 
plain, plumb providential for all concerned. 
I mistrust, though, there's ruther few things 
you kin do. Ain't thet so ? " 

" I can make it lively for you and your 
men when we get ashore," said Harvey, 
with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats 

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ha'af a month ; 
o* the trip. A 

about " piracy/* at which Troop almost — not 
quite — smiled. 

** Excep' talk. I'd forgot that. You 
ain*t asked to talk more'n you've a mind to 
aboard the * We're Here.* Keep your eyes 
open, an' help Dan to do ez he's bid, an' 
sechlike, an' 1*11 give you— you ain't wuth 
it, but I'll give — ten an* a 
say thirty-five at the end 
little work will kind o' ease 
up your pore head, an' you 
kin tell us all abaout your 
dad an' your ma an* your 
money afterwards." 

** She's on the steamer," 
said Harvey, his eyes filling 
with tears. ** Take me to 
New York at once.'* 

** Poor woman — poor 
woman ! When she has 
you back she'll forgit it all, 
though. There's nine of 
us on the * We're Here,* 
an' ef we went back naow — 
it*s more 'n a thousand mile 
— we'd lose the season. 
The men they wouldn*t hev 
it, even ef I wuz agree- 

** But my father would 
make it all right." 

" He*d try. I don't 
doubt he*d try,** said Troop, 
"but a whole season's catch 
is eight men's bread ; an* 
you'll be better in your 
health when you see him 
in the fall. Go forward 
an' help Dan. It's ten an' 
a ha*af a month, ez I said, 
an*, o* course, all fund, 
same ez the rest o* us." 

" Do you mean that I 
am to clean pots and pans 
and things?'* said Harvey. 

"An' other things. 
You've no call to shout, 
young feller." 

** 1 won't ! My father will give you 
enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle " 
— Harvey stamped on the deck — " ten times 
over, if you take me to New York safe ; 
and — and — you're in a hundred and thirty 
by me anyway.** 

" Ha-ow ? ** said Troop, the iron face 

" How ? You know how, well enough. 
On top of all that, you want me to do 
menial work '* — Harvey was very proud of 
that adjective — " till the fall. I tell you I 
will not. You hear?'* 


Troop regarded the top of the mainmast 
with deep interest for awhile, as Harvey 
harangued fiercely all around him in the 
afternoon light. 

" Hsh ! " he said at last. "I'm figurin' 
out my responsibilities in my own mind. 
It's a matter o' jedgment.'* 

Dan stole up and plucked Harvey by the 
elbow. " Don't go to taraperin' with dad 
any more," he pleaded. 
" You've called him a thief 
two or three times over, 
an' he don't take that from 
any livin* bein'." 

" I won't ! ** Harvey al- 
most shrieked, and still 
Troop meditated. 

" Seems kinder unneigh- 
borly,** he said at last, his 
eye travelling down to Ilar- 
vey. "I don't blame you, 
not a mite, young feller, 
nor you won't blame me 
when the bile's out o* your 
systim. Be sure you sense 
what I say? Ten an* a 
ha'af fer second boy on the 
schooner — an* all fund — 
for to teach you art* fer 
the sake o' your health. 
Yes or no ? " 

" No ! " said Harvey. 
" Take me back to New 
York or I'll see you — " 

He did not exactly re- 
member what followed. 
He was lying in the scup- 
pers, holding on to a nose 
that bled, while Troop 
looked down on him se- 

** Dan,** he said to his 
son, " I was sot agin this 
young feller when I first 
saw him, on account o* 
hasty jedgments. Neyer 
you be led astray by 
hasty jedgments, Dan. 
Naow I'm sorry for him because he*s plumb 
distracted in his upper works. He ain*t re- 
sponsible fer the names he*s give me, nor 
fer his other statements — ner fer jumpin* 
overboard, which I'm abaout ha*af con- 
vinced he did. You be gentle with him, 
Dan, 'r I'll give you twice what I've give 
him. Them hemmeridges clears the head. 
Let him sluice it off ! '* 

Troop went down solemnly into the cabin, 
where he and the older men bunked, leav- 
ing Dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty 


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"I WARNED ye," said Dan, as the drops 
fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled plank- 
ing. "Dad ain't noways hasty, but you 
fair earned it. Pshaw ! there's no sense 
takin' on so." Harvey's shoulders were ris- 
ing and falling in spasms of sobbing. ** I 
know the feelin'. First time dad laid me 
out was the last — and that was my first 
trip. Makes ye feel sickish an' lonesome, 

** It does," moaned Harvey. " That 
man's either crazy or drunk, and — and I 
can't do anything." 

" Don't say that to dad," whispered Dan. 
" He's set agin all liquor, an' — well he told 
me you was the madman. What in creation 
made you call him a thief ? He's my dad." 

Harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told 
the story of the missing wad of bills. " I'm 
not crazy," he wound up. ** Only — your 
father has never seen more than a five dol- 
lar bill at a time, and my father could buy 
up this boat once a week and never miss it." 

** You don't know what the * We're Here ' 
*s worth. Your dad must hev a pile o' money. 
How did he git it } Dad sez loonies can't 
shake out a straight yarn. Go ahead." 

"In gold mines and things. West." 

" I've read o' that kind o' business. Out 
West, too ? Does he go around with a pis- 
tol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus. 
They call that the Wild West, and I've 
heard that their spurs an* bridles wuz solid 

. " You ^r^ a chump! "said Harvey, amused 
in spite of himself. " My father hasn't any 
use for ponies. When he wants to ride he 
takes his car." 

" Haow ? Lobster-car ? " 

*' No. His own private car, of course. 
You've seen a private car some time in your 
life ? " 

" Slatin Beeman he hez one," said Dan, 
cautiously. " I saw her at the Union De- 
pot in Boston, with three niggers hoggin' her 
run." [Dan meant cleaning the windows.] 
" But Slatin Beeman he owns 'baout every 
railroad on Long Island, they say ; an' they 
say he's bought 'baout ha'af Noo Hamp- 
shire an' run a line-fence round her, an* 
filled her up with lions an* tigers an' bears 
an' buffalo an' crocodiles an' such all. Slatin 
Beeman he's a millionnaire. I've seen his 
car. Yes ! " 

" Well, my father's what they call a multi- 
millionnaire ; and he has two private cars. 
One's named for me, the * Harvey,' and one 
for my mother, the * Constance.' " 

" Hold on," said Dan. ** Dad don't ever 
let me swear, but I guess you can. 'Fore 
we go ahead, I want you to hope you may 
die if you're lying." 

" Of course," said Harvey. 

" Thet ain't *nuff. Say, * Hope I may 
die if I ain't speakin' truth.*" 

" Hope I may die right here," said Har- 
vey, '*if every word I've spoken isn't the 
cold truth." 

"Hundred an' thirty dollars an' all?" 
said Dan. " I heard ye talkin' to dad, an' 
I looked you'd be swallered up, same's 

Harvey protested himself red in the face. 
Dan was a shrewd young person along his 
own lines, and ten minutes' questioning 
convinced him that Harvey was not lying — 
much. Besides, he had bound himself by 
the most terrible oath known to boyhood, 
and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, 
in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon 

" Gosh ! " said Dan at last from the very 
bottom of his soul when Harvey had com- 
pleted an inventory of the car named in 
his honor. Then a grin of mischievous de- 
light overspread his broad face. " I believe 
you, Harvey. Dad's made a mistake fer 
once in his life." 

" He has, sure," said Harvey, who was 
meditating an early revenge. 

** He'll be mad clear through. Dad jest 
hates to be mistook in his judgments." 
Dan lay back and slapped his thigh. " Oh, 
Harvey, don't you spile the catch by lettin' 

" 1 don't want to be knocked down again. 
I'll get even with him, though." 

"Never heerd any man ever got even 
with dad. But he'd knock ye down again 
sure. The more he was mistook the more 
he'd do it. But, gold mines and pistols — " 

" I never said a word about pistols," Har- 
vey cut in, for he was on his oath. 

" Thet's so ; no more you did. Two pri- 
vate cars, then, one named fer you an' one 
fer her; an' two hundred dollars a month 
pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers 
fer not workin' fer ten an* a ha'af a month ! 
It's the top haul o' the season." He ex- 
ploded with noiseless chuckles. 

" Then I was right ? " said Harvey, who 
thought he had found a sympathizer. 

" You was wrong ; the wrongest kind o' 
wrong ! You take right hold an' pitch in 
'longside o' me, or you'll catch it, an' I'll 
catch it fer backin' you up. Dad always 
gives me double helps 'cause I'm his son, 
an' he hates favorin' folk. Guess you're 
kinder mad at dad. I've been that way 

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time an' again. But dad's a mighty jest 
man ; all the fleet says so/' 

** Looks like justice, this, doesn't it?" 
Harvey pointed to his outraged nose. 

"Thet's nothin'. Lets the shore blood 
outer you. Dad did it for yer health. Say, 
though, 1 can't have dealin's with a man 
that thinks me or dad or anyone on the 
' We're Here ' 's a thief. We ain't any 
common wharf-end crowd by any manner o' 
means. We're fishermen, an' we've shipped 
together for six years an' more. Don't you 
make any mistake on that ! I told ye dad 
don't let me swear. He calls 'em vain 
oaths, and pounds me ; but ef I could say 
what you said about your pap an' his 
fixin's, I'd say that about your dollars. I 
dunno what was* in your pockets when I 
dried your kit, fer I didn't look to see ; but 
I'd say, using the very same words ez you 
used jest now, neither me nor dad — an' we 
was the only two that teched you after you 
was brought aboard — knows anythin' about 
the money. Thet's my say. Naow ? " 

The blood-letting had certainly cleared 
Harvey's brain, and maybe the loneliness 
of the sea had something to do with it. 
*' That's all right," he said. Then he looked 
down confusedly. "Seems to me that 
for a fellow just saved from drowning I 
haven't been over and above grateful, 

** Well, you was shook up and silly," said 
Dan. " Anyway, there was only dad an' 
me aboard to see it. The cook he don't 

" I might have thought about losing the 
bills that way," Harvey said half to himself, 
** instead of calling everybody in sight a 
thief. Where's your father ? " 

" In the cabin. What d' you want o' him 
again ?" 

" You'll see," said Harvey, and he stepped, 
rather groggily, for his head was still sing- 
ing, to the cabin steps, where the little ship's 
clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. 
Troop was busy in the chocolate and yellow 
painted cabin with a note-book and an enor- 
mous black pencil, which he sucked hard 
from time to time. 

" I haven't acted quite right," said Har- 
vey, surprised at his own meekness. 

** What's wrong naow ? " said the skipper. 
" Walked into Dan, hev ye ? " 

" No ; It's about you." 

*' I'm here to listen." 

"Well I— I'm here to take things back," 
said Harvey, very quickly. " When a man's 
saved from drowning — " he gulped. 

" Ey ? You'll make a man yet ef you go 
on this way." 

** He oughtn't begin by calling people 

" Jest an' right — right an' jest," said 
Troop, with the ghost of a dry smile. 

" So I'm here to say I'm sorry." Another 
big gulp. 

Troop heaved himself slowly off the locker 
he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch 
hand. *' I mistrusted 'twould do you sights 
o' good ; an' this shows I weren't mistook 
in my judgments." A smothered chuckle on 
deck caught his ear. " I am very seldom 
mistook in my judgments." The eleven-inch 
hand closed on Harvey's, numbing it to the 
elbow. " We'll put a little more gristle to 
that 'fore we've done with you, young feller; 
an' I don't think any worse of ye fer any- 
thin' thet's gone by. You wasn't rightly 
responsible. Go right abaout your busi- 
ness an' you won't take no hurt." 

" You're white," said Dan, as Harvey re- 
gained the deck. 

" I don't feel it," said he. 

" I didn't mean that way. I heard what 
dad said. When dad allows he don't think 
the worse of any man, dad's give himself 
away. He hates to be mistook in his judg- 
ments too. Ho ! ho ! Onst dad has a 
judgment, he'd sooner dip his colours to 
the Bridish than change it. I'm glad it's 
settled right eend up. Dad's right when he 
says he can't take you back. It's all the 
livin' we make here — fishin'. The men'll be 
back like sharks after a dead whale in ha'af 
an hour." 

" What for ? " said Harvey. 

** Supper, o' course. Don't your stum- 
mick tell you ? You've a heap to learn." 

"Guess I have," said Harvey, dolefully, 
looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks 
overhead. . 

" She's a daisy," said Dan, enthusiasti- 
cally, misunderstanding the look. " Wait 
till our mainsail's bent, an' she walks home 
with all her salt wet. There's some work 
first, though." He pointed down into the 
darkness of the open main-hatch between 
the two masts. 

" What's that for ? It's all empty," said 

" You an- me an' a few more hev got to 
fill it," said Dan. "That's where the fish 

" Alive ? " said Harvey. 

" Well, no. They're so's to be ruther 
dead an' flat an' salt. There's a hundred 
hogshead o' salt in the bins ; an' we hain't 
more'n covered our dunnage to now." 

" Where are^the fish, though ? " 

"In the sea they say ; in the boats we 
pray," said Dan, quoting a fisherman's prov- 

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erb. " You come in last night with 'baout 
forty of 'em.'* 

He pointed to a sort of wooden pen just 
ii\ front of the quarter-deck. 

** You an' me we'll sluice that out when 
they're through. 'Send we'll hev full pens 
to-night ! I've seen her down ha'af a foot 
with fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the 
tables till we was splittin ourselves instid 
o* them we was so sleepy. Yes, they're 
comin' in naow." Dan looked over the 
low bulwarks at half a dozen dories row- 
ing towards them over the shining, silky 

** I've never seen the sea from so low 
down," said Harvey. ** It's fine." 

The low sun made the water all purple 
and pinkish with golden lights on the bar- 
rels of the long swells, and blue and green 
mackerel shades in the hollows. Each 
schooner in sight seemed to be pulling 
her dories towards her by invisible strings, 
and the little black figures in the tiny boats 
pulled like clockwork toys. 

"They've struck on good," said Dan, be- 
tween his half-shut eyes. " Manuel hain't 
room fer another fish. Low ez a lily-pad 
in still water ; ain't he ? " 

" Which is Manuel t I don't see how you 
can tell 'em 'way off, as you do." 

** Last boat to the south'ard. He f*und 
you last night," said Dan, pointing. " Man- 
uel rows Portu goosey ; ye can't mistake 
him. East o' him — he's a heap better'n he 
rows — is Pennsylvania. Loaded with sale- 
ratus by the looks of him. East o' him — 
see how pretty they string out all along — 
with the humpy shoulders — is Long Jack. 
He's a Galway man inhabitin* South Bos- 
ton, where they all live mostly, an' mostly 
them Galway men are good .in a boat. 
North, away yonder — you'll hear him tune up 
in a minute — is Tom Piatt. Man-o'-war's 
man he was on the old " Ohio " — first of our 
navy, he says, to go araound the Horn. He 
never talks of much else, 'cept when he 
sings, but he has fair fishin' luck. There ! 
What did 1 tell you ? " 

A melodious bellow stole across the water 
from the northern dory. Harvey heard 
something about somebody's hands and 
^ feet being cold, and then : 

" Bring forth the chart, the doleful chart, 
See where them mountings meet! 
The clouds are thick around their heads, 
The mists around their feet." 

" Full boat," said Dan, with a chuckle. 
" If he gives us * O Captain ' it's toppin' 
full, sure enough." 

The bellow continued : 

" And naow to thee, O C'aptinjj, 
Most earnestly I pray, 
That they shall never bury me 
In church or cloister gray." 

" Double game for Tom Piatt. He'll tell 
you all about the old * Ohio ' to morrow. 
See that blue dory behind him ? He's my 
uncle — dad's own brother — an' ef there's 
any bad luck loose on the p]anks she'll fetch 
up agin Uncle Salters, sure. Look how 
tender he's rowin'. I'll lay my wage and 
share he's the only man stung up to-day — 
an' he's stung up good." 

*' What'll sting him ?" said Harvey, get- 
ting interested. 

" Strawberries mostly. Punkins some- 
times, an' sometimes lemons an' cucumbers. 
Yes, he's stung up from his elbows down. 
That man's luck's perfectly paralyzin'. 
Naow we'll take a holt o' the tackles an* hist 
'em in. Is it true what you told me jest 
now, that you never done a hand's turn o* 
work in all your born life? Must feel 
kinder awful, don't it ? " 

^'I'm going to try to work anyway," Har- 
vey replied, stoutly. ** Only it's all dead 

" Lay a holt o' that tackle, then. Be- 
hind ye ! " 

Harvey grabbed at a rope and long iron 
hook dangling from one of the stays of the 
mainmast, while Dan pulled down another 
that ran from something he called a " top- 
ping lift," as Manuel drew alongside in his 
loaded dory. The Portuguese smiled a brill- 
iant smile that Harvey learned to know 
well later, and with a short-handled fork 
began to throw fish into the pen on deck. 
*' Two hundred and thirty-one. " he shouted. 

** Now give him the hook," said Dan, an' 
Harvey ran it into Manuel's hands. He 
slipped it through a loop of rope at the 
dory's bow, caught Dan's tackle, hooked it 
to the .stern-becket, and clambered into the 

'' Pull I " shouted Dan, and Harvey pulled, 
astonished to find how easily the dory rose. 

*' Hold on, she don't nest in the cross- 
trees ! " Dan laughed ; and Harvey held on, 
for the boat lay in the air above his head. 

'* Lower away," Dan shouted, and as 
Harvey lowered, Dan swayed the light boat 
with one hand till it landed softly just be- 
hind the mainmast. " They don't weigh 
nothin' empty. Thet was right smart fer a 

passenger. There's more trick to it 

in a sea way." 

•' Ah ha ! " said Manuel, holding out a 
brown hand. " You are some pretty well 

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now? This time last night the fish they 
fish for you. Now you fish for fish. Eh, 
wha-at ? *' 

** I'm — I'm ever so grateful," Harvey 
stammered, and his unfortunate hand stole 
to his pocket once more, but he remembered 
that he had no money to offer. When he 
knew Manuel better the mere thought of 
the mistake he might have made would 
cover him with hot uneasy blushes in his 

"There is no to be thankful for to w^r.^" 
said Manuel. ** How shall I leave you 
dreeft, dreeft all around the Banks ? Now 
you are a fisherman — eh, wha-at ? Ouh ! 
Auh ! " He bent backwards and forwards 
stiffly from the hips to get the kinks out of 

" I have not cleaned boat to-day. Too 
busy. They struck on queek. Danny, my 
son, clean for me." 

Harvey moved forward at once. 

was something he could do for the man who 
had saved his life. 

Dan threw him a swab, and he leaned over 
the dory, mopping up the slime, clumsily, 
but with great good will. " Hike out them 
foot-boards ; they slide in them grooves," 
said Dan. " Swab 'em an* lay 'em down. 
Never let a footboard jam. Ye may want 
her bad some day. Here's Long Jack." 

A stream of glittering fish flew into the 
pen from a dory alongside. 

"Manuel, you take the tackle. I'll fix 
the tables. Harvey, clear Manuel's boat. 
Long Jack's nestin' on the top of her." 

Harvey looked up from his swabbing at 
the bottom of another dory just above his 

" Jest like the Injian puzzle-boxes, ain't 
they ? " said Dan, as the one boat dropped 
into the other. 

" Takes to ut like a duck to water," said 
a grizzly-chinned^ long-lipped 

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Galway man, bending to and fro exactly as 
Manuel had done. Disko in the cabin 
growled up the hatchway, and they could 
hear him suck his pencil. 

"Wan hunder an' forty-nine an' a half — 
bad luck to ye, Discobolus," said Long Jack. 
" I'm murderin* meself to fill your pockuts. 
Slate ut for a bad catch. The Portugee 
has bate me." 

Whack came another dory alongside, and 
more fish shot into the pen. 

*' Two hundred and three. Let's look at 
the passenger ! " The speaker was even 
larger than the Galway man, and his face 
was made curious by a purple cut running 
slantways from his left eye to the right 
corner of his mouth. 

Not knowing what else Xo do, Harvey 
swabbed each dory as it came down, pulled 
out the foot-boards, and laid them in the 
bottom of the boat. 

" He's caught on good," said the scarred 
man, who was Tom Piatt, watching him 
critically. "There are two ways o' doin' 
everything. One's fisher-fashion— any end 
first an' a slippery hitch over all—an' the 
other's — " 

" What we did on the * Ohio ' ! " I ian inter- 
rupted, brushing into the knot of men with 
a long board on legs. ** Git out o' here, 
Tom Piatt, an' leave me ^yi the tables." 

He jammed one end of the board into 
two nicks in the bulwarks, kicked out the 
leg, and ducked just in time to avoid a 
swinging blow from the man-o' war's man. 

" An' they did that on the • Ohio,' too, 
Danny. See ? " said Tom Piatt, laughing. 

" Guess they was swivel-eyed, then, fer it 
didn't git home, and I know who'll find his 
boots on the main-truck ef he don't leave us 
alone. Haul ahead ! I'm busy, can't ye see?" 

" Danny, ye lie on the cable an' sleep all 
day," said Long Jack. " You're the hoight 
av impidence, an' I'm persuaded ye'll cor- 
rupt our supercargo in a week." 

" His name's Harvey," said Dan, waving 
two strangely shaped knives, " an' he'll be 
worth five of any Sou' Boston clam-digger 
'fore long." He laid the knives tasteifully 
on the table, cocked his head on one side, 
and admired the effect. 

" / think it's forty-two," said a small 
voice overside, and there was a roar of 
laughter as another voice answered, ** Then 
my luck's turned fer onct, 'caze I'm forty- 
five, though I be stung outer all shape." 

" Forty-two or forty-five. I've lost 
count," the small voice said. 

*' It's ' Penn ' an' Uncle Salters caountin' 
catch. This beats the circus any day," said 
Dan. " Jest look at 'em ! " 

" Come in— come in ! " roared Long Jack. 
" It's wet out yondher, children." 

" Forty-two, ye said." This was Uncle 

** I'll count again, then," the voice replied 

The two dories swung together and 
bunted into the schooner's side. 

" Patience o' Jerusalem ! " snapped Uncle 
Salters, backing water with a splash. " What 
possest a farmer like you to set foot in a 
boat beats me. You've nigh stove me all 

" I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea 
on account of nervous dyspepsia. You ad- 
vised me, I think." The men looked down 
with deep enjoyment on the skirmish. 

" You an' your nervis dyspepsy be 
drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle 
Salters, a fat and tubly little man. " You're 
comin' down on me agin. Did yt say forty- 
two or forty-five ? " 

" I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count." 

" Don't see as it could be forty-five, /'m 
forty-five," said Uncle Salters. " You 
count keerful, Penn." 

Disko Troop came out of the cabin. 
** Salters, you pitch your fish in naow at 
once," he said in the tone of authority. 

" Don't spile the catch, dad," Dan mur- 
mured. ** Them two are on'y jest begin- 
nin.' " 

" Mother av delight ! He's forkin' them 
wan by wan," howled Long Jack, as Uncle 
Salters got to work laboriously ; the little 
man in the other dory counting a line of 
notches on the gunwale. 

" That was last week's catch," he said, 
looking up plaintively, his forefinger where 
he had left off. 

Manuel nudged Dan, who darted to the 
aftertackle, and leaning far overside slipped 
the hook into the stern rope as Manuel made 
her fast forward. The others pulled gal- 
lantly and swung the boat in — man, fish, 
and all. 

" One, two, four — nine," said Tom Piatt, 
counting with a practised eye. "Forty- 
seven. Penn, you're it ! " I^an let the 
aftertackle run and slid him out of the stern 
on to the deck amid a torrent of his own 

" Hold on," roared Uncle Salters, bob- 
bing by the waist. " Hold on, I'm a bit 
mixed in my caount." 

He had no time to protest, but was hove 
inboard and treated like *' Pennsylvania." 

" Forty-one," said Tom Piatt. " Beat 
by a farmer, Salters. An' you sech a sailor, 
too ! " 

" 'Twern't fair caount," said he, stumbling 

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out of the pen ; " an* Vm stung up all to 

His thick hands were puffy and mottled 
purply white. 

** Some folks will find strawberry-bottom," 
said Dan, addressing the newly-risen moon, 
" ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me." 

*' An* others," said Uncle Salters, " eats 
the fat o* the land in sloth an' mocks their 
own blood-kin." 

" Seat ye ! Seat ye ! " a voice Harvey 
had not heard called from the foc'sle. 
Disko Troop, Tom Piatt, " Long " Jack, 
and Salters went forward on the word. 
Little Penn bent above his square deep-sea 
reel, which was in tangled confusion. Man- 
uel lay down full length on the deck ; and 
Dan dropped into the hold, where Harvey 
heard him banging with a hammer. 

" Salt," he said, returning. " Soon as 
we're through we git to dressing down. 
You'll pitch to dad. Tom Piatt an' dad 
they stow together, an' you'll hear 'em 
arguin'. We're second ha'af, you an' me 
an* Manuel an' Penn— the youth an' beauty 
o* the boat." 

" What's the good of that?" said Harvey. 
" I'm hungry." 

** They'll be through in a minute. Snff ! 
She smells good to-night. Dad ships a 
good cook ef he do suffer with his brother. 
It's a full catch to-day, ain't it ? " He 
pointed at the pens piled high with cod. 
" What water did ye hev, Manuel ?" 

" Twenty-fife father," said the Portuguese 
sleepily. " They strike on good an' queek. 
Some day I show you, Harvey." 

The moon was beginning to walk on the 
still sea before the elder men came aft. 
The cook had no need to cry ** second 
half." Dan and Manuel were down the 
hatch and at table ere Tom Piatt, last and 
mos«- deliberate of the elders, had finished 
wipir.g his mouth with the back of his hand. 
Harvey followed Penn, and sat down before 
a tin pan of cod's tongues and sounds, mixed 
with scraps of pork and fried potato, a loaf 
o^ hot bread, and some black and powerful 
f offee. Hungry as they were, they waited 
while ** Pennsylvania " solemnly asked a 
blessing. Then they stoked in silence till 
Dan drew breath over his tin cup and de- 
manded of Harvey how he felt. 

" Most full, but there's just room for 
another piece." 

The cook was a huge, jet-black negro, 
and, unlike all the negroes Harvey had met, 
did not talk, contenting himself with smiles 
and dumb-show invitations to eat more. 

" See, Harvey," said Dan, rapping with 
his fork on the table, ** it's jest as I said. 

The young an' handsome men — like me an' 
Pennsy an' you an* Manuel— we're second 
ha'af, an' we eats when the first ha'af are 
through. They're the old fish ; and they're 
mean an* humpy, an* their stummicks has 
to be humored ; so they come first, which 
they don't deserve. Ain't that so, doctor ? " 

The cook nodded. 

"Can't he talk?" said Harvey in a 

" Nuff to git along. Not much p* any- 
thing we know. His natural tongue's 
kinder curious. Comes from the innards 
of Cape Breton, he does, where the farmers 
speak home-made Scotch. Cape Breton's 
full o' niggers whose folk run in there 
durin' aour war, an' they talk like the farm- 
ers—all huffy-chuffy." 

" That is not Scotch," said ** Pennsyl- 
vania." ** That is Gaelic. So I read in a 

" Penn reads a heap. Most of what he 
says is so — 'cep* when it comes to a caount 
o' fish — eh ?" 

" Does your father just let them say how 
many they've caught without checking 
them ? " said Harvey. 

" Why, yes. Where's the sense of a man 
lyin' fer a few old cod ? " 

" Was a man once lied for his catch," 
Manuel put in. " Lied every day. Fife, 
ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say 
there was." 

" Where was that ? " said Dan. " None 
o' aour folk." 

" Frenchman of Anguille.** 

** Ah ! Them West Shore Frenchmen 
don't count anyway. Stands to reason they 
can't count. Ef you run acrost any of their 
soft hooks, Harvey, you'll know why," said 
Dan, with an awful contempt. 

** Always more and never less, 
Every time we come to dress," 

Long Jack roared down the hatch, and the 
** second ha'af " scrambled up at once. 

The shadow of the masts and rigging, 
with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to 
and fro on the heaving deck in the moon^ 
light ; and the pile of fish by the stern shone 
like a dump of fluid silver. In the hold 
there were tramplings and rumblings where 
Disko Troop and Tom Piatt moved among 
the salt-bins. Dan passed Harvey a pitch- 
fork, and led him to the inboard end of the 
rough table, where Unci- Salters was drum- 
ming impatiently with a knife-haft. A tub 
of salt water lay at his feet. 

** You pitch to dad an' Tom Piatt down 
the hatch, an' take keer Uncle Salters don't 

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''CAPTAINS courageous:' 

cut yer eye out," said Dan, swinging down. 
'* ril pass salt below.'* 

Penn and Manuel were knee deep in the 
pen, flourishing drawn knives. Long Jack, 
a basket at his feet, and mittens on his 
hands, faced Uncle Salters at the table, and 
Harvey stared at the pitchfork and the 

" Hi I " shouted Manuel, stooping to the 
fish, and bringing one up with a finger under 
its gill and a finger in its eye. He laid it 
on the edge of the pen ; the knife-blade 
glimmered with a sound of tearing, and the 
fish, slit from throat to vent, with a nick on 
either side of the neck, dropped at Long 
Jack's feet. 

" Hi ! " said Long Jack, with a scoop of 
his mittened hand. The cod's liver dropped 
in the basket. Another wrench and scoop 
sent the head and offals flying, and the 
. empty fish slid across to Uncle Salters, who 
snorted fiercely. There was another sound 
of tearing, the backbone flew over the bul- 
warks, and the fish, headless, gutted, and 
open, splashed in the tub, sending the salt 
water into Harvey's astonished mouth. 
After the first yell, the men were silent. 
The cod moved along as though they were 
alive, and long ere Harvey had ceased 
wondering at the miraculous dexterity of it 
all, his tub was full. 

" Pitch ! " grunted Uncle Salters, without 
turning his head, and Harvey pitched the 
fish by twos and threes down the hatch. 

" Hi ! Pitch' em bunchy," shouted Dan. 
" Don't splatter ! Uncle Salters is the best 
splitter in the fleet. Watch him mind his 
book ! " 

Indeed, it looked a little as though the 
round uncle were cutting magazine pages 
against time. Manuel's body, cramped oyer 
from the hips, stayed like a statue ; but his 
long arms grabbed the fish without ceas- 
ing. Little Penn toiled valiantly, but it 
was easy to see he was weak. Once or 
twice Manuel found time to help him with- 
out breaking the chain of supplies, and once 
Manuel howled because he had caught his 
finger in a Frenchman's hook. These hooks 
are made of soft metal, and are rebent after 
use ; but the cod very often get away with 
them to be hooked again elsewhere ; and 
that is one of the many reasons the Glouces- 
ter boats despise the Frenchmen. 

Down below, the rasping sound of rough 
salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the 
whirring of a grindstone — a steady under- 
tune to the " click-nick " of the knives in 
the pen, the wrench and schloop of torn 
heads, dropped liver and flying offal ; the 
" caraaah " of Uncle Salters's knife scooping 

away backbones, and the flap of wet, opened 
bodies falling into the tub. 

At the end of an hour Harvey would have 
given the world to rest ; for fresh, wet cod 
weigh more than you would think, and his 
back ached with the steady pitching. But 
he felt for the first time in his life that he 
was one of a working gang, took pride in 
the thought, and held on sullenly. 

** Knife oh ! " shouted Uncle Salters at 
last. Penn doubled up, grasping among the 
fish, Manuel bowed up and down to supple 
himself, and Long Jack leaned over the 
bulwarks. The cook appeared, noiseless 
as a black shadow, gathered up a mass of 
backbones and heads, and retreated. 

*• Blood- ends for breakfast an' head- 
chowder," said Long Jack, smacking his 

" Knife oh ! " repeated Uncle Salters, 
waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon. 

" Look by your foot," cried Dan below. 

Harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in 
a cleat in the hatch combing. He dealt 
these round, taking over the dulled ones. 

** Water ! " said Disko Troop. 

"Scuttle-butt's forward an' the dipper 
alongside. Hurry, Harve," said Dan. 

He was back in a minute with a big dip- 
perful of stale brown water which tasted like 
nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and 
Tom Piatt. 

** These are cod," said Disko. " They ain't 
Damarskus figs, Tom Piatt, nor yet silver 
bars. I've told you that every single time 
sence we've sailed together." 

"A matter o' seven seasons," returned 
Tom Piatt coolly. ** Good stowin's good 
stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an* a 
wrong way o' stowin' ballast even. If you'd 
ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into 

" Hi ! " With the yell from Manuel the 
work began again, and never stopped till 
the pen was empty. The instant the last fish 
was down, Disko Troop rolled aft to the cabin 
with his brother. Manuel and Long Jack 
went forward. Tom Piatt only waited long 
enough to slide home the hatch ere he too 
disappeared. In half a minute Harvey 
heard deep snores in the cabin, and he 
was staring blankly at Dan and ** Pennsyl- 

" 1 did a little better that time, Danny," 
said Penn, whose eyelids were heavy with 
sleep. " But I think it is my duty to help 

" Wouldn't hev your conscience fer a 
thousand quintal," said Dan. " Turn in, 
Penn. You've no call to do boy's work. 
Draw a bucket, Harvey. Oh, Penn, dump 

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these in the gurry-butt 'fore you sleep. 
Kin you keep awake that long ? " 

Penn took up the heavy basket of livers, 
emptied them into a cask with a hinged top 
lashed by the foc'sle ; then he too dropped 
out of sight in the cabin. 

** Boys clean up after dressin' down, an* 
first watch in ca'am weather is boy's watch 
on the * We're Here.'" Dan sluiced the 
pen energetically, unshipped the table, 
set it up to dry in the moonlight, ran the 
red knife-blades through a wad of oakum, 
and began to sharpen them on a tiny grind- 
stone, as Harvey threw offal and backbones 
overboard upder his directions. 

At the first splash a silvery- white ghost rose 
bolt upright from the oily water and sighed 
a weird whistling sigh. Harvey started 
back with a yell, but Dan only laughed. 
"Grampus," said he. *• Beggin' fer fish- 
heads. They up-eend thet way when they're 
hungry. Breath on him like the doleful 
tombs, hain't he?" A horrible stench of 
decayed fish filled the air as the pillar of 
white sank, and the water bubbled pilily. 
" Hain't ye never seen a grampus up-eend 
before? You'll see 'em by hundreds 'fore 
ye're through. Say, it's good to hev a boy 
aboard again. Otto was too old, an' a 
Dutchy at that. Him an' me we fought 
consid'ble. Wouldn't ha keered fer thet ef 
he'd hed a Christian tongue in his head. 
Sleepy ? " 

** Dead sleepy," said Harvey, nodding 

" Mustn't sleep on watch. Git up an' see 

ef our anchor-light's bright' an' shinin*. 
You're on watch now, Harve." 

" Pshaw ! What's to hurt us ? Bright's 
day. Sn — orrr ! " 

" Jest when things happen, dad says. 
Fine weather's good sleepin', an' 'fore you 
know mebbe you're cut in two by a liner, 
an* seventeen brassbound officers, all gen'el- 
men, lift their hand to it that your lights 
was aout an' there was a thick fog. Harve, 
I've kinder took to you, but ef you nod onct 
more 111 lay inter you with a rope's end." 

The moon, who sees many strange things 
on the Banks, looked down on a slim youth 
in knickerbockers and a red jersey, stag- 
gering around the cluttered decks of a 
seventy-ton schooner, while behind him, 
waving a knotted rope, walked, after the 
manner of an executioner, a boy who yawned 
and nodded between the blows he dealt. 

The lashed wheel groaned and kicked 
softly, the riding-sail slatted a little in the 
shifts of the light wind, the windlass creaked, 
and the miserable procession continued. 
Harvey expostulated, threatened, whim- 
pered, and at last wept outright, while Dan, 
the words clotting on his tongue, spoke of 
the beauty of watchfulness and slashed 
away with the rope's end, punishing the 
dories as often as he hit Harvey. At last 
the clock in the cabin struck ten, and upon 
the tenth stroke little Penn crept on deck. 
He found two boys in two tumbled heaps 
side by side on the main hatch, so deeply 
asleep that he actually rolled them to their 

i To bf continued. ) 


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From a photojfraph, by permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East Twenty-third Street, New York. 


By Ethel Mackenzie McKenna. 

house inhabited by Mr. and 
Irs. Alma-Tadema is situ- 
ted in St. John's Wood, a 
)cality much jDatronized by 
rtists, most of whom, while 
esirous of living in London 
and of being in the centre 
of the life of the great metropolis, yet 
are anxious to get as far away as pos- 
sible from the dust and smoke of the city. 
It is more like an enchanted palace than a 
London house, and but for the neat, white- 
aproned, essentially prosaic parlor-maid, 
you feel as if you had stepped into fairy- 
land as the garden door closes behind 
you. The glass-covered pathway stretches 
in a curve towards the house, either side 
banked with brilliant colored flowers, while 
the floor is paved with specially designed 
tiles which form the letters L. A. T. 
quaintly intertwined. The iron supports 
of the glass roof also bear the name of the 
master of the place. As the path sweeps 
round to the front door, the bank of flowers 
breaks on the right hand and discloses a 
marble basin, into which a fountain 
splashes and plays. Above the door, 
which is bordered with some fine bronze 
work, is the friendly greeting Salve^ here 
more than a mere formality. And as the 
portals fly open in response to a resounding 
knock from the wonderful bronze knocker. 

the eye is dazzled by a flight of gleaming 
steps of exquisitely polished brass, which 
rise to the studio door. On the door 
hangs a superb brass shield, a gift from 
the sculptor George Simmonds, who exe- 
cuted it especially for his friend. This 
entrance to the artist's sanctum, however, 
is not the one that is ordinarily used. 

Turning to the left from the entrance 
hall we are in a huge, domed conservatory, 
with palms rising high above the head and 
ferns and exotics growing luxuriantly on 
every side. IJeyond is another hall, where, 
from the mantel, the words of Richard 
IL, "I count myself in nothing else so 
happy as in a soul remembering my good 
friends," speak a cheering welcome. This 
hall is one of the features of the house, if 
a house where everything is a work of art 
can be said to have any sj)ecial features. 
It is panelled some five feet high WMth 
white enamelled wood, and each narrow 
panel bears a signed painting by some 
celebrated artist. The subjects are widely 
diversified: one artist has chosen a corner 
of the house itself for his jMcture; another 
contributes an exquisite nude figure; a 
third shows a glimpse of tenii)est-tossed 
sea, in striking contrast to which are a 
calm, peaceful landscape and a branch of 
delicately tinted apj^le-blossoms. The 
owner himself has added a ribbon-like 

Digitized by 





From a photof^raph taken for MlClure's Mac.azine by Fradelle and Young, London. 

frieze of the flowers he loves so well, 
aglow with life and color, which gives a 
perfect finish to the hall. In one corner 
is a little niche filled with flowers and 
curios, which show particularly well 
against a background of exquisitely painted 
tiles, a bit of Mrs. Tadema's work. The 
floor is paved with tiles designed by Mr. 
Tadema and expressly made in Naples. 

A wide staircase leads u|) wards to the 
chief studio, the balustrade hung with 
gorgeous embroideries from Japan. Under 
an arched doorway is the entrance to Mrs. 
Tadema's studio, the subdued tones of 
which are in striking contrast to the greater 
part of the house. Mrs. Tadema's devo- 
tion to everything Dutch is a compliment 
to her husband, and here, in her own 
studio, she is surrounded by the quaint 
old Dutch objects that Khe loves to paint. 

The high windows, with their leaded panes 
of white and faintly-tinted, old stained 
glass, occu|\v nearly the whole of one side 
of the room, while the wide open fireplace 
takes up another. The greater part of the 
room is panelled with oak, and the ceiling 
was beautifully arranged, under Mr. 
Tadema's directions, to utilize some very 
fine old Dutch carving. 

The entrance from the hall is through a 
screen of carved oak arches. Another 
door in the panels leads, through a pas- 
sage lined with old Delft tiles whereon is 
depicted a Dutch canal scene, to the 
library, while a diminutive oaken staircase 
rises to the cosiest of anterooms, almost 
entirely filleil by a huge, carved, four-post 
bedstead. Here Mrs. Tadema rests when 
she is tired; and certainly nothing could 
be more inviting than the pile of huge bro- 

Digitized by 





From a photofrraph by Fradellc and Younjf, London. 

cade cushions heaped on the cov- 
erlet of antique embroidery, with 
a beautiful old curtain to shield 
the light from weary eyes. Here, 
too, are the Dutch cradle and the 
old press which have figured in 
many of Mrs. Tadema's paintings, 
while a curious brass basin and 
tap replace the conventional wash- 
hand stand. 

The studio itself is filled with 
blue china and curios of every de- 
scription, while the cosey old chairs 
are upholstered in embroideries 
and brocades whose colors are 
softened and subdued by age. A 
wonderful bird-cage hangs from 
the ceiling, brass bowls stand on 
the chimney-piece, things of inter- 
est and beauty catch the eye on 
every side, and Mr. and Mrs. Ta- 
dema are fain to pardon those 
who stare open-eyed at all these 

Passing through the library we 
come to the dining-room, a long 
room one side of which is panelled 
with oak and has a fitted oaken 
sideboard. The walls are hung 
with golden paper, and the chief 
pictures are Mr. Tadema's own 
portraits of his wife and youngest 
daughter. • The dining-table, like 

MK. lALibMA *< M<.'l >h A>. hfc EN KROM THE (iAKOEN. 

From a photojirraph by Fradellc and Voun^f, London. 

Digitized by 





From a photograph by Fradclle and Voung, London. 

everything else in the room, is of orig- 
inal design, is long and very narrow, 
and affords no place for elaborate table 
decorations. The window looks into the 
garden, and even here the genius of 
the owner has been at work, and has 
transformed the commonplace "plot** of 
the neighboring places to a really effec- 
tive scene. A series of pillars and arches 
in graceful iron work border one side and 
the end of the lawn, flowering creepers 
climbing lovingly from one to another, 
while on the third side are spreading trees, 
from the branches of which a hammock 
hangs invitingly. At the end is also a 
pool of water, with a fountain, surrounded 
by a deep band of brilliant yellow flowers. 

From the side of the dining-room 
another flight of brass steps leads once 
more to the great studio, but it is broken 
by a little atrium decorated in the Pom- 
peian style. There are long lounges, and 
bookshelves laden with interesting volumes 
bound in the most original way. Some of 
these volumes are priceless collections of 
notes and manuscripts, many of them are 
very old, all of them are of great interest. 
Opposite the bookshelves is a long, high 
desk, whereat Mr. Tadema stands and 
personally indites all his correspondence. 
In a corner is a marble basin lit by a sky- 
light, and it was here that the artist con- 
trived to see the shower of roses for his 
*' Heliogabalus " picture, by having them 

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thrown from above to the marble floor. 
As if in memory of that perfumed rain 
dried rose-leaves still lie scattered on the 
edge of the basin, faintly scenting the air. 
An alcoved recess leads to the gallery of 
the studio, while mounting the brass steps 
at the farther corner you pass into the 
great studio. 

Of all rooms in the house this is, of 
course, the one most stamped with the 
individuality of the artist as he reveals it 
to the public in his work. He himself 
speaks of his house as a scries of back- 
grounds t() his {pictures, and it is naturally 
in his studio especially that he has pro- 
vided himself with suitable surroundings. 
The room has more than one entrance, but 
only one small door is visible; the others 
are merely panels, which are usually con- 
cealed by the wall into which they slide, 
rich curtains breaking the outline of the 
opening. The great domed roof is over- 
laid with silver; the floor is exquisitely 
inlaid with parcpiet designed by Mr. 
Tadema. Facing the great window, with 
its clear north light, is the apse, surmounted 
by the inscription, Ars Longa Vita Brrvis. 
It is lined with cushioned seats and hung 

with gorgeous old red velvet embroidery 
which once decorated the palace of some 
V^enetian noble. The delicate coloring has 
faded from a portion of the work, and one 
would suppose that it is the oldest piece of 
all; but it is not so. Not having enough 
of the tlrapery for his purpose, Mr. Tadema 
had the design copied and materials dyed 
to match the antique. But while the old 
dyes have withstood the light for many a 
score of I years, the new have already lost 
their brilliant hues. 

Two brass steps lead to another recess, 
over whiih there is a wonderful window 
where the light filters dimly through Mexi- 
can onyx and delicately veined, trans|)ar- 
ent marble. Here stands the jiiano, a 
marvel of satinwood inlaid with tortoise- 
shell, mother-of-pearl, and silver. 'I'he 
inside of the lid is lined with vellum, and 
thereon are inscribed the autographs of all 
the famous musicians, and their name is 
legion, who have played on, or been accom- 
panied by, the piano. 

'i'he walls of the studio are lined with 
beautiful woods and matchless marbles, 
while the gallery which runs along one 
side is ornanijented with classic scenes in 

From a pholograph by Fradcllc and Voun^f. London. 

Digitized by 





From a phocof^raph, by permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East Twenty-third Street, New York. 

bronze. Here and there quaint little 
legends are introduced into the decoration, 
such as *** As the sun colors flowers, so 
art colors life/' A little anteroom is 
devoted to paints and brushes, and the 
great easel stands on the polished floor, 
facing the wide window. The room is full 
of treasures, but to do justice to all it con- 
tains I should need a pen as brilliant as the 
paintbrush of the owner. 

Laurens Alma-Tadema was born at 
Dronryp, in Holland, on January 8, 1836. 
His father died when he was barely four 
years old, and his childhood was one of 

many deprivations and but simple pleas- 
ures. His mother, to whom he was very 
deeply attached, was a woman of strong 
character, and when she was left with a 
family of small children, only the two 
youngest of whom were her own, and a 
very limited income on which to support 
and educate them, she bore herself with 
energy and courage. Laurens was the 
darling of her heart, but she refused to 
allow herself to be convinced of his genius, 
fearing, no doubt, the glamour of her par- 
tiality. Circumstances had made her ex- 
tremely practical, and she would not listen 

Digitized by 





From a photograph by Fradrlle and Younu, London. 

to the prayers of her son that he might 
study art. It was decided that he should 
be made a lawyer, and he did his utmost to 
submit cheerfully to the career which ma- 
ternal love had marked out for him, al- 
though every moment he could steal from 
work was devoted to drawing and sketch- 
ing, and his tasks were often neglected in 
the pursuit of his passion for art. 

Tadema was educated at the public 
school at Leeuwarden, but the routine of 
his work there was intensely irksome to 
him, and among all his studies the only 
one that appealed to him was Roman his- 
tory. He induced his mother to wake 
him at daybreak every morning — by 
means of jerking a string fastened to his 
big toe — and worked at his drawing with 
untiring energy till it was time for school. 
In 1856, when he was only fifteen, without 
having ever received proper tuition, he sent 
a portrait of his sister to one of the Dutch 
galleries, which was duly accepted and 
hung. But the struggle beWeen the in- 
born passion of the lad and the desire to 
do what he regarded as his duty to his 
mother was more than his health could 
bear. His strength gave way completely, 
and the doctors who attended him gave it 
as their verdict that his days were num- 
bered. Anxious that his few remaining 
months of life should be as happy as pos 
sible, his mother's resolution at last gave 

way, and young Tadema was given his 
heart's desire. The fierce struggle was 
over, and under the new conditions he 
soon regained his health; for though the 
future still held many difficulties, they 


From a photojijraph by Fradellc and Young, London. 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 



melted before the invincible determination 
of the young genius. But Holland was 
not to have the glory of training her brill- 
iant son, for, strange as it is to tell, the 
student failed to obtain admission into the 
Dutch schools, and he decided to go to 
Antwerp, where he entered the Art Acad- 
emy and studied under Wappers. He 
labored without ceasing to make up for 
the time he had lost, but none of his work 
of this time remains, for he destroyed 
everything that he felt did not attain to 
the standard of excellence he had raised 
for himself. 

After leaving 
the art school, 
the young artist 
entered the 
studio of the 
great historical 
painter of Bel- 
gium, Leys, who 
exercised a deep 
and lasting in- 
fluence on Ta- 
dema's work. 
AVhile yet but 
t w e n t y - 1 h r e e 
years of age, he 
assisted Leys in 
painting the 
frescoes of the 
Antwerp Guild- 

Abo u t this 
time Tadema*s 
mother and sis- 
ter gave up their 
home in Leeu- 
warden to join 
the young paint- 
er at Antwerp. 
But the happi- 
ness of having 
the mother he 

idolized near him was only to endure for 
a short time; four years later she passed 
away. It was then that Mr. Tadema 
married. His wife, a French lady, died 
in 1869, leaving two daughters. At her 
death Mr. Tadema went to England with 
his children and took up his residence in 
London, becoming a naturalized British 
subject a few years later. In 1871 he 
married Miss Laura Theresa Epps, whose 
striking features and wonderful red gold 
hair we have admired in so many of 
Tadema'spictures, and whose clever paint- 
ing would have made the name of Tadema 
well known, even if it had not been illu- 
mined by the genius of her distinguished 



husband. In 1876, when Mr. Tadema 
was spending the winter in Rome, study- 
ing antique art and architecture with an 
energy characteristic of him, he received 
the news of his election to the associate- 
ship of the Royal Academy. This was 
followed in 1883 by the title of Royal 
Academician. He is represented in the 
Diploma Gallery at Burlington House by 
** The Way to the Temple," but it is by 
no means one of the finest specimens of 
his work. Recognitions of Mr. Tadema's 
greatness have come to him from every 

part of the 
world, and there 
is scarcelya 
country that has 
not bestowed 
honors upon 

Mr. Tadema 
is one of the 
neatest of men ; 
his studio is al- 
ways the picture 
of order; no 
spot of paint 
has ever fallen 
upon the par- 
quet; never 
does a paint- 
brush lie ne- 
glected upon 
the floor, and 
his brushes are 
like new in their 
absolute clean- 
liness. So par- 
ticular is he on 
this point that 
even his artist 
daughter is 
scarcely to be 
trusted with the 
labor of clean- 
ing them. " P^re always says I make the 
handles greasy," she laughingly tells you; 
" he can't bear any one to wash them but 

Mr. Tadema's work is always fraught 
with sadness to his friends, for each of his 
pictures is the grave of many others. He 
never makes sketches, and could we but 
peel the paint in layers off each completed 
painting, we should find many a change of 
scene. The procession of springtime, in 
one of his later works, once moved under 
a wonderful domed ceiling. But it did 
not satisfy the artist, who had a feeling for 
the blue sky, and the ceiling was painted 
out, to the bitter chagrin of many friends. 

photograph, by permission of the Berlin Photographic Com- 
pany, 14 East Twenty-third Street, New York. 

Digitized by 



Nor would they cease their lamen- 
tations at the destruction of this 
excjuisite piece of work till Mr. 

I'adema promised that they should 
see it a^ain, and it was to this 
])romise that the painting ** Un- 
conscious Rivals *' owes its origin. 

Theceiling was painted once more, 
and the two girls were inserted as 
a subject. 

Mr. i'adema is very strongly 
against the idea that art students 
should travel and. study the works 
of the great masters. They should 
wait till they are artists, he says. 
'I'hen they will be better able to 
understand and profit by the mas- 
terpieces they see. Mr. Tadema 
himself has not travelled a great 
deal, and has, curiously enough, 
never visited (Greece or Egypt, the 
countries he so loves to paint, and 
which his brush brings so vividly 
before us. He has sometimes been 
reproached with a want of imagina- 
tion and sentiment, a criticism 
which much annoys him, for he is 
by no means lacking in either. 
One of his bits of sentiment relates 
to the number seventeen, which he 
VIEW OF MK. TADKMAs GARDEN. dccUres has always been a lucky 

From a photograph by Fradcllc and Vounjf. London. one for him. His wife, he will tell 


From a photofjraph by Fradelle and Young, London. 

Digitized by 





From a photofn^ph, by permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, u East Twenty-third Street, New York. 

you, was seventeen when he first met her; 
ilie number of the house to which he took 
Iier when they were married was seventeen; 
his present house bears the same number; 
and the first spade was put to the work of 
rebuilding it on August 17th. This was in 
1 086. He had then been in possession of 
the house for tliree years, and throughout 
those three years lie had been designing 
and making plans and sketches for rebuild- 
ing. It was on November 17th that he 
and his family first took up their residence 
there. He laughs at himself for this su- 
perstition; but it is evident that his hold- 
ing to it is not wholly a joke. 

With the knowledge that Mr. Tadema's 
paintings number over three hundred, 
without taking into consideration those 
v/hicli he so rutlilessly destroyed in his 
youth, it is not suri)rising to learn that he 
is an indefatigable worker. 1 remember 
questioning him once as to his favorite 
amusement. " Painting,** he smilingly re- 
plied. Every moment of daylight spent 
away from his easel is regretted. In the 
evening he rests, or possibly plays a game 
of billiards, at which he is an adept. He 
cannot read much, for his eyes are very 
sensitive and easily grow tired, but he 
loves iiis books, and many a pleasant hour 

is spent in arranging and classifying them. 
Then there is his correspondence, which 
takes a good deal of time, for all his let- 
ters are written by his own hand. Even 
his daughters are not allowed to help him 
much, though they, like their father and 
mother, are hard-working j)e()ple. The 
elder. Miss Laurens Alma-Tadema, is 
almost as busy with her pen as her father 
with his brush. Her novel, ** The Wings 
of Icarus,'* is well known, and she has 
written a l)iography of Madame Eleonora 
Duse, of whom she is a warm friend and 
admirer, and with whom she spent several 
months in Italy, in order to collect material 
for the work. All the family are ardent 
lovers of the drama, but it is an enjoyment 
in which Mr. Tadema can indulge but 
sparingly. For when he goes to the 
theatre, he throws his whole soul into the 
play, as he does into everything that in- 
terests him, and he finds that the excite- 
ment, the bright lights, and brilliant 
colors combine to affect his eyes and to 
render him unfit for work next day. On 
several occasions he has made designs for 
scenery and dresses for some s|)ecial dra- 
matic production. 

Mr. Tadema is the most genial of men, 
and he and Mrs. Tadema are extremely 

Digitized by 




hospitable. Evidently his is not that 
phase of the artistic temperament which 
can only work in certain moods and can- 
not bear to meet the eye of a fellow-man 
when in the mood for work. The desire to 
work is chronic with him, but he does not 
allow it to interfere with his social duties. 
Mrs. Tadema is always at home to her 
friends on Monday afternoons and Tues- 
day evenings, and Mr. Tadema does not 
follow the example of so many husbands 
and absent himself from his wife's recep- 
tions, but is just as genial and full of wel- 
come as she. On the Mondays there is 
only tea and gossip, but gossip of art, 
music, the drama, and of all things inter- 
esting. Mrs. Tadema receives in her stu- 
dio, and after chatting with her for a while 
and drinking a cup of tea, her friends move 
upwards to the larger studio to talk with 
their host and to enjoy his work. And here 
is one of the points on which husband and 
wife differ: while Mr. Tadema's pictures are 
always open for the delight of his friends, 
Mrs. Tadema's work is put carefully out 
of sight, for she does not like to have it 
viewed while in course of development. 

The evening receptions, which are quite 
as informal as the afternoon " at homes," 
but which are, as a rule, more numerously 
attended, are held in the larger studio. 
Music and recitations given by the most 
famous votaries of their arts are often 
heard. Paderewski, Mr. and Mrs. Hen- 
schel, Madame Duse, Miss Ellen Terry, 
Mr. Irving, have all assisted in entertaining 
Mr. Tadema's guests. But there is no 
pre-arrangement, and while sometimes the 
brightest stars may combine in an irre- 
sistible programme, occasionally conversa- 
tion unaccompanied is perforce the order 
of the evening. 

Although one may not perhaps go so 
far as to paraphrase the fannliar aphorism 
and say, Show me a man's house and I 
will tell you what he is; nevertheless, 
there is no doubt that a man influences 
his surroundings with as much force as 
they influence him, and a great deal of a 
man's character may be gathered from the 
home he has made for himself. And in 
the case of Alma-Tadema the inference 
is in the highest degree gracious and 


From a photograph, by permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East Twenty-third Street, New York. 

Digitized by 





By Ida M. Tarhf.i.l. 

THE possibility of Abraham Lincoln 
becoming the Presidential candidate 
of the Republican party in i860 was prob- 
ably first discussed by a few of his friends in 
1856. The dramatic speech which in May 
of that year gave him the leadership of his 
party in Illinois,* and the unexpected and 
flattering attention he received a few weeks 
later at the Republican national conven- 
tion,! suggested the idea; but there is no 
evidence that anything more was excited 
than a little idle speculation. The im- 
pression Lincoln made two years later in 

•Sec McClure's Magazine for September, iSqC. 

t Lincoln received no votes on tiie first ballot for the 
nomination to the Vice-Presidency at the national conven- 
tion held in Philadelphia in June 1856. 

the Lincoln and Douglas debates kindled 
a different feeling. It convinced a num- 
ber of astute Illinois politicians that judi- 
cious effort would make Lincoln strong 
enough to justify the presentation of his 
name as a candidate in i860 on the ground 
of pure availability. 

One of the first men to conceive this 
idea was Jesse W. Fell, a local politician 
of Bloomington, Illinois. During the 
Lincoln and Douglas debates Fell had 
been travelling in the ^liddle and Eastern 
States. He was surprised to find that Lin- 
coln's speeches attracted general atten- 
tion, that many papers copied liberally 
from them, and that on all sides men plied 

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him witli questions about the career and 
personality of the new man. Before Fell 
left the East he had made up his mind that 
Lincoln must be pushed by his own State 
as its Presidential candidate. One even- 
ing, soon after returning home, he met 
Lincoln in Bloomington, where the latter 
was attending court, and drew him into a 
deserted law-office for a confidential talk. 

"I have been F2ast, Lincoln," said he, 
*' as far as Boston, and up into New Hamp- 
shire, travelling in all the New England 
States, save Maine; in New York, New- 
Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, and 
Indiana; and everywhere 1 hear you talked 
about. Very frequently I have been 
asked, * Who is this man Lincoln, of your 
State, now canvassing in opposition to 
Senator Douglas ? ' Being, as you know, 
an ardent Republican and your friend, 1 
usually told them we had in Illinois two 
giants instead of one; that Douglas was 
the little one, as they all knew, but that 
you were the big one, which they didn't all 

** But, seriously, Lincoln, Judge Doug- 
las being so widely known, you are getting 
a national reputation through him^ and the 

truth is, I have a ilecided impression that 
if your popular history and efforts on the 
slavery question can be sufficiently brought 
before the people, you can be made a 
formidable, if not a successful, candidate 
for the Presidency." 

** What's the use of talking of me for 
the Presidency," was Lincoln's re|)ly, 
" whilst we have such men as Seward, 
Chase, and others, who are so much better 
known to the people, and whose names are 
so intimately associated with the principles 
of the Republican party? Everybody 
knows them; nobody scarcely outside of 
Illinois knows me. Besides, is it not, as a 
matter of justice, due to such men, who 
have carried this UKn'ement forward to its 
present status, in spite of fearful opposi- 
tion, personal abuse, and hard names? I 
really think so." 

Fell continued his persuasions, and 
hnally requested Lincoln to furnish him a 
sketch of his life which could be put out 
in the East. The suggestion grated on 
Lincoln's sensibilities. He had no chance. 
Why force himself? "Fell," he said, 
rising and wrapping his old gray shawl 
around his tall figure, " 1 admit that I am 


After a drawing; in *' Harper's Weekly" of May 19, i860, by permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers. 

Digitized by 





From an ambrotypc owned by Mr. Hilyard of Superior, Nebraska, and taken at Danville, Illinois, as a jfift to his father. 

ambitious and would like to be President. 
I am not insensible to the compliment you 
pay "le and the interest you manifest in 
the matter; but there is no such gooii luck in 
store for me as the Presidency of these United 
States. Besides, there is nothing in my 
early history that would interest you or 
anybody else: and, as Judge Davis says, 
* // uwnt pay. ' (iood night." And he dis- 
appeared into the darkness. 

Lincoln's defeat in November, 1S58, in 
the contest for the United States Senator- 
ship, in no way discouraged his friends. A 
few days after the November election, 
when it was known that Douglas had been 
reelected senator, the Chicago " Dem- 
ocrat," then edited by " Long John " 
Went worth, printed an editorial, nearly a 
column in length, headed "Abraham Lin- 
coin." His work in the campaign then 

just closed was reviewed and commended 
in the highest terms. " His speeches," 
the " Democrat" declared, " will be rec- 
ognized for a long time to come as the 
standard authorities upon those topics 
which overshadow all others in the politi- 
cal world of our day; and our children will 
read them and appreciate the great truths 
which they so forcibly inculcate, with even * 
a higher appreciation of their worth than 
their fathers possessed while listening to 

" We, for our part," said the " Demo- 
crat " further, "consider that it would be 
but a partial appreciation of his services to 
our noble cause that our next State Repub- 
lican convention should nominate him for 
governor as unanimously and enthusiasti- 
cally as it did for senator. With such a 
leader and with our just cause, we would 

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sweep the State from end to end, with a triumph so 
complete and perfect that there would be scarce enough 
of the scattered and demoralized forces of the enemy 
left to tell the story of its defeat. And this State 
should also present his name to the national Republi- 
can convention, first for President and next for Vice- 
President. We should say to the United States at large 
that in our opinion the Great Man of Illinois is Abra- 
ham Lincoln, and none other than Abraham Lincoln." 

All through the year 1859 a few men in Illinois 
worked quietly but persistently to awaken a desire 
throughout the State for Lincoln's nomination. The 
greater number of these were lawyers on Lincoln's 
circuit, his life-long friends, men like Judge Davis, 
Leonard Swett, and Judge Logan, who not only be- 
lieved in him, but loved him, and whose efforts were 
doubly effective because of their affection. In addi- 
tion to these were a few shrewd politicians who saw 
in Lincoln the "available" man the situation de- 
manded ; and a group represented by John M. Palmer, 
who, remembering Lincoln's magnanimity in throw- 
ing his influence to Trumbull in 1854, in order to send 
a sound anti-Nebraska man to the United States Sen- 
ate, wanted, as Senator Palmer himself put it, to 
" pay Lincoln back." Then there were a few young 
men who had been won by Lincoln in the debates with 
Douglas, and who threw youthful enthusiasm and con- 
viction into their support. 

The work which these men did at this time cannot 
be traced with any definiteness. It consisted mainly 
in ** talking up" their candidate. They were greatly 
aided by the newspapers. The press, indeed, followed 
a concerted plan that had been carefully laid out by 
the Republican State Committee in the office of the 
Chicago ** Tribune." 

To give an appearance of spontaneity to the news- 
paper canvass it was arranged that the country papers 
should first suggest Lincoln's name. Joseph Medill, 
then, as now, of the " Tribune," and secretary of the 
committee, says that a Rock Island paper opened the 
campaign. On May 4, 1859, the ** Central Illinois 
Gazette" came out for Lincoln, and one by one, at 
diplomatic intervals, other papers followed. 

Lincoln soon felt the force of this effort in his 
behalf. Letters came to him from unexpected quarters, 
offering aid. Everywhere he went on the circuit, men 
sought him to discuss the situation. In the face of an 
undoubted movement for him he quailed. The inter- 
est was local; could it ever be more ? Above all, had 
he the qualifications for President of the United 
States ? He asked himself these questions as he pon- 
dered a reply to an editor who had suggested announc- 
ing his name, and he wrote: " I must in all candor say 
I do not think myself fit for the Presidency." 

This was in April, 1859. In the July following he 
still declared himself unfit. Even in the following 
November he had little hope of nomination. *' For 
my single self," he wrote to a correspondent who had 
suggested the putting of his name on the ticket, ** I 
have enlisted for the permanent success of the Repub- 
lican cause, and for this object I shall labor faithfully 


Seward's name was presented to the 
Chicaj^o convention of i860, which finally 
nominated Lincoln, by William M. Evart& 
of New York. On the first ballot he 
received 173^ votes, on the second 184^, 
on the third 180; 234 votes were neces- 
sary for a choice.* 

SAl-MoN f. CHASH. 

Chase's name was presented to the Chi- 
cajfo convention of i860 by D. K. Carttcr 
of Ohio. On the first ballot he received 49 
voles, on the second 424. on the third 24^. 

* The portraits on this and page 47 are 
all from photographs by Brady, now in 
the war collection of Mr. Robert Coster. 

Digitized by 





Andrew H. Reeder of Pennsylvania 
presented Cameron's name to the Chi- 
cago convention. On the first ballot he 
received 50^ votes. On the second ballot 
his name was withdrawn, although two 
votes were cast for him. He received no 
votes on the third ballot. 


F. P. Blair of Missouri nominated Mr. 
Bates in the Chicago convention. He 
received on the first ballot 48 votes, on 
the second 35, and on the third 22. At 
Lincoln's inauguration as President in 
March, 1861, Bates became a member of 
his cabinet, as did also three other of his 
competitors for the nomination in the 
convention of i860 — Seward, Chase, and 

in the ranks, unless, as I think not probable, the judg- 
ment of the party shall assign me a different position." 

The last weeks of 1859 and the first of i860 con- 
vinced Lincoln, however, that, fit or not, he was in the 
field. Fell, who as corresponding secretary of the 
Republican State Central Committee had been travel- 
ling constantly in the interests of the organization, 
brought him such proof that his candidacy was gen- 
erally approved of, that in December, 1859, he con- 
sented to write the "little sketch" of his life now- 
known as Lincoln's "autobiography." 

He wTote it with a little inward shrinking, a half 
shame that it was so meagre. " There is not much 
of it," he apologized in sending the document, "for 
the reason, I suppose, that there is not much of me. 
If anything be made out of it, I wish it to be modest, 
and not to go beyond the material." 

By the opening of i860 Lincoln had concluded 
that, though he might not be a very promising candi- 
date, at all events he was now in so deep that he must 
have the approval of his own State, and he began to- 
work in earnest for that. "I am not in a position 
where it ^ould hurt much for me to not be nominated 
on the national ticket," he wrote to Norman B. Judd, 
" but I am where it would hurt some for me to not get 
the Illinois delegates. . . . Can you help me a little 
in your end of the vineyard ? " 

The plans of the Lincoln men were well matured. 
About the first of December, 1859, Medill had gone 
to Washington, ostensibly as a "Tribune" corre- 
spondent, but really to promote Lincoln's nomina- 
tion. " Before writing any Lincoln letters for the 
* Tribune,' " says Mr. Medill in his" Reminiscences," 
" I began preaching Lincoln among the Congressmen. 
I urged him chiefly upon the ground of availability in 
the close and doubtful States, with what seemed like 
reasonable success." 

On February 16, i860, the "Tribune" came out 
editorially for Lincoln, and Medill follow^ed a few days- 
later with a ringing letter from Washington, naming 
Lincoln as a candidate on whom both conservative 
and radical sentiment could unite, and declaring that 
he now heard Lincoln's name mentioned for President 
in Washington " ten times as often as it was one month 
ago." About the time when Medill was writing thus, 
Norman B. Judd, as member of the Republican Na- 
tional Committee, was executing a manoeuvre the im- 
portance of which no one realized but the Illinois- 
politicians. This was securing the convention for 

As the spring passed and the counties of Illinois 
held their conventions, Lincoln found that, save in 
the north, where Seward was strong, he was unani- 
mously recommended as a candidate at Chicago. 
When the State convention met at Decatur on May 
9th and loth, he received an ovation of so picturesque 
and unique a character that it colored all the rest of 
the campaign. The delegates were in session when 
Lincoln came in as a spectator and was invited to a 
seat on the platform. Soon after, Richard Oglesby, 
one of Lincoln's ardent supporters, asked that an old 

Digitized by 



Democrat of Macon County be allowed to offer a con- 
» tribution to the convention. The offer was accepted, and 
a curious banner was borne up the hall. The standard 
was made of two weather-worn fence-rails, decorated with 
Hags and streamers, and bearing the inscription: 



From a photograpti by Sarony, New York. 


In the Republican national con- 
vention of i860 Horace Greeley sat 
AS the alternate of an absent delc- 
jfate from Orejjon. lie had failed 
to be chosen a delegate from his 
own State cNew York), through 
the opposition of the Seward men. 
As editor of the New York "Tri- 
bune," it was supposed, until a sh«»rt 
time before the convention, th;.t 
he would support Seward for the 
nomination to the Presidency, but 
he turned against Seward on the 
plea that he could not be elected. 
In the convention he labored ar- 
dently for Bates. 

JF.SSK \V. FKl I . 

Mr. Fell, a Pennsylvanian by 
birth, settled in Bloomingion, Illi- 
nois. Here he became acquainted 
-with Lincoln, who was fret^uenlly 
in the town during court terms. He 
was one of the first Republicans of 
the State ; he first introduced Lin- 
coln's name in Pennsylvania as a 
candidate for the Presidency, and 
it was to him that Lincoln ad- 
•dressed his well-knt)wn autobiog- 

Two rails from a lol of 3,fx)o made in 1 830 
by i'hos. Hanks and Alxf Lincoln — whose 
father was the lirsl pioneer of Macon County. 

A Storm of applause greeted 
cries of "Lincoln! I-incoln!" 
pointing to the banner, ** I 
suppose I am expected to 
reply to that. I cannot say 
whether 1 made those rails or 
not, but I am (pjite sure I 
have made a great many just 
as good." * The speech was 
warmly applauded, and one 
delegate, an influential (ier- 
man and an ardent Seward 
man, after witnessing I he 
demonstration, turned to his 
neighbor and said, ** Seward 
has lost the Illinois delega- 
tion."! He was right; for 
when, later, John M. Palmer, 
at present L'nited States 
Senator and the nominee of 
the anti-silver Democrats for 
President, brought forth a 
resolution that " Abraham 
Lincoln is the choice of the 
Republican party of Illinois 
for the Presidency, and the 
delegates fri^m this State are 
instructed to use all honor- 
able means to secure his 
nomination by the Chicago 
Convention, and to vote as a 
unit for him," it was enthusi- 
astically adopted. 



While the politicians of 
Illinois were thus preparing 
for the campaign, the Re- 

♦ Congressman John Davis of Kans^is, 
who was present at the Decatur conven- 
tion and look down Mr. Lincoln's words, 
has courteously allowe<l us the use of his 

t Mr. (ieorge Schneider of Chicago, at 
thai date editor of the " Staals Zrilung. " 
and now president of the .National Hank 
of Illinois 

the banner, followed by 
Rising, Lincoln said. 

Photoffrapher. Cincinnati, Ohio ; loaned 
by General Palmer's son. 


From a photograph taken in 186;. 
.Mr. Palmer was born in Kentucky 
in 1817, and removed to Illinois in 
1832. Here he studied law, and was 
admitted to practice in 1840. Al- 
though an active Democrat, he 
revolted against the Kansas-Ne- 
braska Bill and joined the anti- 
Nebraska branch of his party. In 
1854 he was one of the five men in 
the State legislature who secured 
the electi<m of Lyman Trumbull to 
the United Sutes Senate. He was 
chairman of the first Republican 
State ctmvention held in Illinois, 
and a delegate to the Republican 
national convention in 1856 ; and 
he contributed no little to the nomi- 
nation of Lincoln to the Presidency 
in i8f>o. He served throughout the 
war, and was raised for gallant 
conduct to the rank of Major-Gcn- 
cral. He has since served as Gov- 
ernor of Illinois and L^nited States 
Senator, and he is now the nominee 
of the ami-silver Democrats for 

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publicans of the East 
hardly realized that Lin- 
coln was or could be made 
a possibility. In the first 
four months of i860 his 
name was almost unmen- 
tioned as a Presidential 
candidate in the public 
prints of the East. In a 
list of twenty-one ** promi- 
nent candidates for the 
Presidency in i860," pre- 
pared by D. W. Bartlett 
and published in New York 
towards the end of 1859, 
Lincoln's name is not men- 
tioned; nor does it appear 
in a list of thirty-four of 
** our living representative 
men," prepared for Presi- 
dential purposes by John 
Savage, and published in 
Philadelphia in i86o.* 
The most important notice 
at this period of which we 
know was a casual mention 
in an editorial in the New 
York ** Evening Post " on 
February 15 th. The 
** Post " considered it time 
for the Republicans to 
speak out about the nomi- 
nee at the coming conven- 
tion, and remarked: *'With 
such men as Seward and 
Chase, Banks and Lincoln^ 
and others in plenty, let us 
have two Republican repre- 
sentative men to vote for." 
This was ten days before 
the Cooper Union speech 
and the New England tour, 
which undoubtedly did 

From a pbotoKraph by Tandy, Lincoln, 
Illinois; loaned by W. O. Paisley. 


Richard J. Ogriesby was born in 
Kentucky in 1824. Left an orptian at 
the ai^e of eight years, he removed 
to Illinois, and there learned the 
carpenter's trade. In 1845 he was 
admitted to the bar, but his practice 
of the law was interrupted by ser- 
vice in the Mexican War and three 
years of mining in California. Re- 
turning to Illinois, he became in- 
fluential in politics. It was he who 
suggested to Lincoln's stepbrother, 
John D. Johnston, bringing the 
rails into the Sute convention at 
Decatur in i860. He served with 
honor in the Union army until 1864, 
when he resigned, and in Novem- 
ber of that year was elected gover- 
nor of his Sute. He was in Wash- 
ington at the time of Lincoln's 
assassination. He continued to 
serve as governor until 1869, and he 
has served several terms since. 
From 1873 to 1879 he was United 
Sutes Senator. 

man who had a record for 
executive statesmanship. 

Up to the opening of the 
convention in May there 
was, in fact, no specially 
prominent mention of Lin- 
coln by the Eastern press. 
Greeley, intent on under- 
mining Seward, though as 
yet nobody perceived him 
to be so, printed in the New 
York weekly ** Tribune'* 
— the paper which went to 
the country at large — cor- 
respondence favoring the 
nomination of Bates and 
Read, McLean and Bell, 
Cameron, Fremont, Day- 
ton, Chase, Wade; but not 
Lincoln. The New York 
'•Herald" of May ist, in 
discussing editorially the 
nominee of the ** Black 
Republicans," recognized 
** four living, two dead, 
aspirants." The** living" 
were Seward, Banks, Chase, 
and Cameron ; the * * dead, * ' 
Bates and McLean. On 
May loth ** The Independ- 
ent," in an editorial on 
'•^The Nominauon at Chi- 
cago," said: ** Give us a 
man known to be true upon 
the only question that 
enters into the canvass — a 
Seward, a Chase, a Wade, 
a Sumner, a Fessenden, a 
Banks." But it did not • 
mention Lincoln. His most 
conspicuous Eastern recog- 
nition before theconvention 
was in "Harper's Weekly" 

much to recommend Lincoln as a logical of May 12th, his face being included in a 
and statesmanlike thinker and debater, double pa'ge of portraits of " eleven promi- 
though there is no evidence that it created nent candidates for the Republican Presi- 

him a Presidential following in the East, 
save, perhaps, in New Hampshire. Indeed 
it was scarcely to be expected that prudent 
and conservative men who knew little of 
him, save as he had exhibited himself in the 
Lincoln and Douglas debates and in the 
Cooper Union speech, would conclude that, 
because he could make a good speech, 
he would make a good President. They 

dential nomination at Chicago." Brief 
biographical sketches appeared in the same 
number — the last and the shortest of them 
being of Lincoln. 


It was on May i6th that the Republican 
convention of i860 formally Opened at 

knew him to be comparatively untrained in Chicago, but for days before the city was 
public life and comparatively untried in in a tumult of expectation and preparation, 
large aflFairs. They naturally preferred a The audacity of inviting a national con- 
vention to meet there, in the condition in 

.:x:^^JS^^K^''S%"^xyi^^Yi':'^Ay^''T^^^^. which Chicago chanced to beat that time, 
phia. was purely Chicagoan. Tso other city 

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A New Yorker by birth, Norman 
B. Judd moved to Illinois in 1836, 
when twenty-one years of ajje, and 
there bepan practice of the law. In 
1844 he was elected to the State 
Senate, where he served for sixteen 
consecutive years. Prominent as 
the attorney of several railroads, 
he frequently called in Lincoln as 
an associate. From the beginninf^ 
of the anti-Nebraska agitation he 
was active in politics, and he did 
much to bring about Lincoln's 
nomination in i860. In 1861 he was 
appointed minister to Prussia. He 
served in the forty-second and forty- 
third Congresses, and was after- 
wards collector of customs at Chi- 
cago. He died in 1876. 

H r o m 1 e y , — o n e Tom 
Hyer. With the New 
York delegation, which 
numbered all told fully 
2,000 Seward men, came 
Dodworth's Band, one of 
the celebrated musical organizations of that dayi 

While New York sent the largest number, Pennsyl- 
vania was not far behind, there being about 1,500 
persons present from that State. From New Eng- 
land, long as was the distance, there were many 
trains of excursionists. The New England delegation 
took Gilmore's Band with it, and from Boston to 
Chicago stirred up every community in which it 
stopped, with music and speeches. Several days be- 
fore the convention opened fully one half of the 
members of the United States House of Representa- 
tives were in the city.* To still further increase the 
throng were hundreds of merely curious spectators 
whom the flattering inducements of the fifteen rail- 
roads centring in Chicago at that time had tempted 
to take a trip. There were fully 40,000 strangers in 
the city during the sitting of the convention. 

The streets for a week were the forum of this mul- 
titude. Processions for Seward, for Cameron, for 
Chase, for Lincoln, marched and counter-marched, 
brave with banners and transparencies, and noisy with 
country bands and hissing rockets. Every street 
corner became a rostrum, where impromptu harangues 
for any of a dozen candidates might be happened 
upon. In this hurly-burly two figures were particu- 

♦ Boston *' Herald," May 15, i860, Cliicaj^'o correspondence. 

would have risked it. In ten years Chicago had nearly 
quadrupled its population, and it was believed that the 
feat would be repeated in the coming decade. In the first 
flush of youthful energy and ambition the town had under- 
taken the colossal task of raising itself bodily out of the 
grassy marsh, where it had been originally placed, to a 
level of twelve feet above Lake Michigan, and of putting 
underneath a good, solid foundation. When the invitation 
to the convention was extended, half the buildings in Chi- 
cago were on stilts; some of the streets had been raised to 
the new grade, others still lay in the mud; half the side- 
walks were poised high on piles, and half were still down 
on a level with the lake. A city with a conventional sense 
of decorum would not have cared to be seen in this de- 
moralized condition, but Chicago perhaps conceived that 
it would but prove her courage and confidence to show the 
country what she was doing; and so she had the conven- 
tion come. 

But it was not the convention alone which came. Be- 
sides the delegates, the professional politicians, the news- 
paper men, and the friends of the several candidates, there 
came a motley crowd of men hired to march and to cheer 
for particular candidates, — a kind of out-of-door claque 
which did not wait for a point to be made in favor of its 
man, but went off in rounds of applause at the mere men- 
tion of his name. New York brought the greatest number 
of these professional applauders, the leader of them being 
a notorious prize-fighter and street politician, — " a sort of 
white blackbird," said 


Horn in Maine in i82<;, it was not until 
1 849, after he had served through the Mex- 
ican War, that Leonard Swett settled in 
Bloomington, niinois, where he began 
practice of the law. He travelled the 
Eighth Circuit with Lincoln until the 
latter was elected to the Presidency. 
Mr. Swett took an active part in the 
anti-slavery aj^itation in niinois, aided 
in Lincoln's nomination in i860, and was 
a trusted adviser of Lincoln's throughout 
thr j>orio(l of the civil war. 

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larly prominent : Tom Hyer, who managed 
the open-air Seward demonstration, and 
Horace Greeley, who was conducting in- 
dependently his campaign against Seward. 
Greeley, in his fervor, talked incessantly. 
It was only necessary for some one to say 
in a rough but friendly way, ** There's old 
Greeley," and all within hearing distance 
grouped about him. Not infrequently the 
two or three to whom he began speaking 
increased until that which had started as a 
conversation ended as a speech. 

In this half-spontaneous, half-organized 
demonstration of the streets, Lincoln's 
followers were conspicuous. State pride 
made Chicago feel that she must stand by 
her own. Lincoln banners floated across 
every street, and build- 
ings and omnibuses were 
decorated with Lincoln 
emblems. When the Il- 
linois delegation saw 
that New York and 
Pennsylvania had 
brought in so many out- 
siders to create enthusi- 
asm for their respective 
candidates, they began 
to call in supporters 
from the neighboring lo- 
calities. Leonard Swett '= 
says that they succeeded 
in getting together fully 
10,000 men from Illinois 
and Indiana, ready to 
march, shout, or fight 
for Lincoln, as the case 

Not only was the city 
full of people days be- 
fore the convention t^egan, but the dele- 
gations had organized and actual work 
was in progress. Every device conceiv- 
able by an ingenious opposition was re- 
sorted to in order to weaken Seward, the 
most formidable of the candidates. The 
night before the opening of the convention 
a great mass meeting was held in the Wig- 
wam. The Seward men had arranged to 
have only advocates of their own candi- 
date speak. But the clever opposition 
detected the game, and William D. Kelley 
of Pennsylvania, whd was for Lincoln or 
for Wade, got the floor and held it until 
nearly midnight, doggedly talking against 
time until an audience of 12,000 had 
dwindled to less than 1,000. 

One of the first of the delegations to 
begin activities was that of Illinois. The 
Tremont House had been chosen as its 
headquarters, and here were gathered 


Reproduced from " Harper's Weekly " of 
May 19, i860, by permission of Messrs. Harper 
and Brothers. 

almost all the influential friends Lincoln 
had in the State. 'I'hey came determined to 
win if human effort could compass it, and 
men never put more intense and persistent 
energy into a cause. Judge Davis was 
naturally the head of the body; but Judge 
Logan, Leonard Swett, John M. Palmer, 
Richard Oglesby, N. B. Judd, Jesse W. 
Fell, and scores more were with him. 
'* We worked like nailers," says Governor 
Oglesby to-day, in talking over the 

The eff^ort for Lincoln had to begin in 
the Illinois delegation itself. In spite of 
the rail episode at Decatur, the State con- 
vention was by no means unanimous fbr 
Lincoln. ** Our delegation was instructed 
for him," wrote Leonard 
Swett to Josiah Drum- 
mond,* " but of the 
twenty-two votes in it, 
by incautiously selecting 
the men, there were eight 
who would have gladly 
gone for Seward. The 
reason of this is in this 
fact: the northern coun- 
ties of this State are 
more overwhelmingly 
Republican than any 
other portion of the con- 
tinent. I could pick 
twenty-five contiguous 
counties giving larger 
Republican majorities 
than any other adjacent 
counties in any State. 
The result is, many 
people there are for 
Seward, and such men 
had crept upon the delegation. They in- 
tended in good faith to go for Lincoln, 
but talked despondingly, and really wanted 
and expected finally to vote as I have in- 
dicated. We had also in the north and 
about Chicago a class of men who always 
want to turn up on the winning side, and 
who would do no work, although their feel- 
ings were really for us, for fear it would be 
the losing element and would place them 
out of favor with the incoming power. 
These men were dead weights. The centre 
and south, with many individual excep- 
tions to the classes I have named, were 
warmly for Lincoln, whether he won or 

" The lawyers of our circuit went there 

♦This letter, written by Mr. Swett on May 27, i860, to 
Josiah Dnimmond of Maine, is one of the best documents on 
the convention. It was published in the New York " Sun " 
of July 26, 1891, and is in O. H. Oldroyd's recent work. 
** Lincoln's Campaign." 

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determined to leave no stone unturned; and 
really they, aided by some of our State 
officers and a half dozen men from various 
portions of the State, were the only tire- 
less, sleepless, unwavering, and ever vigi- 
lant friends he had." 

The situation which the Illinois delega- 
tion faced, briefly put, was this: the Re- 
publican party had in i860 but one promi- 
nent candidate, William H. Seward. By 
virtue of his great talents, his superior 
cultivation, and his splendid services in 
anti-slavery agitation, he was the choice 
of the majority of the Republican party. 
It was certain that at the opening of the 
convention he would have nearly enough 
votes to nominate him. But still there 
was a considerable and resolute opposi- 
tion. The grounds of this were several, 
but the most substantial and convincing 
was that Illinois, Indiana, Pennsylvania, 
and New Jersey all declared that they 
could not elect Seward if he was nomi- 
nated. Andrew G. Curtin of Pennsyl- 
vania, and Henry S. Lane of Indiana, 
candidates for governor in their respective 
States, were both his active opponents, 
not from dislike of him, but because they 
were convinced that they would them- 
selves be defeated if he headed the Re- 
publican ticket. It was clear to the entire 
party that Pennsylvania and Indiana were 
essential to Republican success; and since 
many States with which Seward was the 
first choice held success in November as 
more important than Seward, they were 
willing to give their support to an ** avail- 
able" man. But the difficulty was to 
unite this opposition. Nearly every State 
which considered Seward an unsafe candi- 
date had a ** favorite son " whom it was 
pushing as "available." Pennsylvania 
wanted Cameron; New Jersey, Dayton; 
Ohio, Chase, McLean, or Wade; Massa- 
chusetts, Banks ; Vermont, Collamer. 
Greeley, who alone was as influential as a 
State delegation, urged Bates of Missouri. 

Illinois's task was to unite this opposition 
on Lincoln. She began her work with a 
next-door neighbor. " The first State ap- 
proached," says Mr. Swett, " was Indiana. 
She was about equally divided between 
Bates and McLean.* Saturday, Sunday, 
and Monday were spent upon her, when 
finally she came to us unitedly, with 
twenty-six votes, and from that time acted 
efficiently with us." 

With Indiana to aid her, Illinois now suc- 

* Mr. Joseph Medill, who has very kindly annotated Mr. 
Swett's letter for us, says that half the Indiana delegration 
had been won for Lincoln on the ground of availability 
before the convention met. 

ceeded in drawing a few scattering votes, 
in making an impression on New Hamp- 
shire and Virginia, and in persuading Ver- 
mont to think of Lincoln as a second 
choice. Matters began to look decidedly 
cheerful. On May 14th (Monday) the 
New York " Herald's" last despatch de- 
clared that the contest had narrowed down 
to Seward, Lincoln, and Wade. The Bos- 
ton " Herald's " despatch of the same day 
reported: "Abe Lincoln is looming up 
to-night as a compromise candidate, and 
his friends are in high spirits." And this 
was the situation when the convention 
finally opened on Wednesday, May i6th. 


The assembly-room in which the con- 
vention met was situated conveniently at 
the corner of Market and Lake Streets. 
It had been built especially for the occa- 
sion by the Chicago Republican Club, and 
in the fashion of the West in that day was 
called by the indigenous name of Wigwam. 
It was a low, characterless structure, fully 
180 feet long by one hundred feet wide. 
The roof rose in the segment of a circle, 
so that one side was higher than the other; 
and across this side and the two ends were 
deep galleries. Facing the ungalleried side 
was a platform reserved for the delegates 
— a great floor 140 feet long and thirty-j 
five feet deep, raised some four feet fromj 
the ground level, with committee-roomsf 
at each end. This vast structure of pinej 
boards had been rescued from ugliness 
through the energetic efforts of the com- 
mittee, assisted by the Republican women 
of the city, who, scarcely less interested 
than their husbands and brothers, strove 
in every way to contribute to the success 
of the convention. They wreathed the 
pillars and the galleries with masses of 
green; hung banners and flags; brought in 
busts of American notables; ordered great 
allegorical paintings of Justice, Liberty, 
and the like, to suspend on the walls; bor- 
rowed the whole series of Healy portraits 
of American statesmen — in short, made 
the Wigwam at least gay and festive in 
aspect. Foreign interest added something 
to the furnishings; the chair placed on the 
platform for the use of the chairman of 
the convention was donated from Michi- 
gan, as the first chair made in that State. 
It was an arm-chair of the most primitive 
description, the seat dug out of an im- 
mense log and mounted on large rockers. 
Another chair, one made for the occasion, 
attracted a great deal of attention. It was 

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constructed of thirty-four kinds of wood, 
each piece from a different State or Terri- 
tory, Kansas being appropriately repre- 
sented by the "weeping willow*' as a 
symbol of her grief at being still excluded 
from the sisterhood of States.* The gavel 
used by the chairman was more interesting 
even than his chair, having been made from 
a fragment of Commodore Perry's brave 
** Lawrence." 

Into the Wigwam, on the morning of the 
t6th of May, there crowded fully 10,000 
persons. To the spectator in -the gallery 
the scene was vividly picturesque and 
animated. Around him were packed hun- 
dreds of women, gay in the high-peaked, 
flower-filled bonnets and the bright shawls 
and plaids of the day. Below, on the plat- 
form and floor, were many of the notable 
men of the United States — William M. 
Evarts, Thomas Corwin, Carl Schurz, 
David Wilmot, Thaddeus Stevens, Joshua 
Giddings, George William Curtis, Fran- 
cis P. Blair and his two sons, Andrew H. 
Reeder, George Ashmun, Gideon Welles, 
Preston King, Cassius M. Clay, Gratz 
Brown, George S. Boutwell,Thurlovv Weed. 
In the multitude the newspaper representa- 
tives outnumbered the delegates. Fully 
900 editors and reporters were present, a 
body scarcely less interesting in its person- 
nel than the convention itself. Horace 
Greeley, Samuel Bowles, Murat Halstead, 
Isaac H. Bromley, Joseph Medill, Horace 
White, Joseph Hawley, Henry Villard, A. 
K. McClure, names so familiar to-day, all 
represented various journals at Chicago in 
i860, and in some cases were active work- 
ers in the caucuses. It was evident at once 
that the members of the convention — some 
500 out of the attendant 10,000 — were not 
more deeply interested in its proceedings 
than the mere spectators, whose approval 
and disapproval, quickly and emphatically 
expressed, swayed, and to a degree con- 
trolled, the delegates. 

Wednesday and Thursday mornings 
were passed in the usual opening work of 
a convention. While officers were for- 
mally elected and a platform adopted, the 
real interest centred in the caucuses, 
which were held almost uninterruptedly. 
Illinois was in a frenzy of anxiety. " No 
men ever worked as our boys did," wrote 
Mr. Swett; "I did not, the whole week, 
sleep two hours a night." They ran from 
delegation to delegation, haranguing, 
pleading, promising. But do their best 
they could not concentrate the opposition. 
"Our great struggle," says Senator 

• Boston "Atlas and Bee," May 22, i860. 

Palmer, " was to prevent Lincoln's nomi- 
nation for the Vice-Presidency. The 
Seward men were perfectly willing that he 
should go on the tail of the ticket. In fact, 
they seemed determined that he should be 
given the Vipe-Presidential nomination. 
We were not troubled so much by the an- 
tagonism of the Seward men as by the over- 
tures they were constantly making to us. 
They literally overwhelmed us with kind- 
ness. Judge David Davis came to me in 
the Tremont House^ greatly agitated at the 
way things were going. He said: 'Palmer, 
you must go with me at once to see the New 
Jersey delegation.' I asked what I could 
do. * Well,' said he, * there is Judge Horn- 
blower, a grave and venerable judge, who 
is insisting that Lincoln shall be nominated 
for Vice-President and Seward for Presi- 
dent. We must convince the judge of his 
mistake!' We went; I was introduced to 
Judge Hornblower, and we talked about 
the matter for some time. Judge Horn- 
blower praised Seward, but he was espe- 
cially effusive in expressing his admiration 
for Lincoln. He thought that Seward was 
clearly entitled to first place and that Lin- 
coln's eminent merits entitled him to 
second place. I listened for some time, 
and then said: 'Judge Hornblower, you 
may nominate Mr. Lincoln for Vice-Presi- 
dent if you please. But I want you to 
understand that there are 40,000 Demo- 
crats in Illinois who will support this ticket 
if you give them an opportunity. We are 
not Whigs, and we never expect to be 
Whigs. We will never consent to support 
two old Whigs on this ticket. We are 
willing to vote for Mr. Lincoln with a 
Democrat on the ticket, but we will not 
consent to vote for two Whigs.' I have 
seldom seen Judge Hornblower's indigna-* 
tion equalled. Turning to Judge Davis 
he said: * Judge Davis, is it possible that 
party spirit so prevails in Illinois that 
Judge Palmer properly represents public 
opinion?* 'Oh,* said Davis, affecting 
some distress at what I had said, * oh. 
Judge, you can't account for the conduct 
of these old Locofocos.' * Will they do as 
Palmer says?' 'Certainly. There are 
40,000 of them, and, as Palmer says, not 
one of them will vote for two Whigs.' We 
left Hornblower in a towering rage. When 
we were back at the Tremont House I said: 
• Davis, you are an infernal rascal to sit 
there and hear Hornblower berate me as 
he did. You really seemed to encourage 
him.' Judge Davis said nothing, but 
chuckled as if he had greatly enjoyed the 
joke. This incident is illustrative of the 

Digitized by 




kind of work we had to do. We were com- 
pelled to resort to this argument — that the 
old Democrats then ready to affiliate with 
the Republican party would not tolerate 
two Whigs on the ticket — in order to break 
up the movement to nominate Lincoln for 
Vice-President. The Seward men recog- 
nized in Lincoln their most formidable 
rival, and that was why they wished to get 
him out of the way by giving him second 
place on the ticket." * 

The uncertainty on Thursday was har- 
rowing, and if the ballot had been taken on 
the afternoon of that day, as was at first in- 
tended, Seward probably would have been 
nominated. Illinois, Indiana, and Penn- 
sylvania all felt this, and shrewdly man- 
aged to secure from the convention a 
reluctant adjournment until Friday morn- 
ing. In spite of the time this manoeuvre 
gave, however, Seward's nomination 
seemed sure; so Greeley telegraphed the 
** Tribune " at midnight on Thursday. At 
the same hour the correspondent of the 
'•Herald" (New York) telegraphed: 
** The friends of Seward are firm, and 
claim ninety votes for him on the first bal- 
lot. Opposition to Seward not fixed on 
any man. Lincoln is the strongest, and 
may have altogether forty votes. The 
various delegations are still caucusing.'* 

It was after these messages were sent 
that Illinois and Indiana summoned all 
their energies for a final desperate effort 
to unite the uncertain delegates on Lin- 
coln, and that Pennsylvania went through 
the last violent throes of coming to a de- 
cision. The night was one full of dramatic 
episodes, of which none, perhaps, was more 
nearly tragic than the spectacle of Sew- 
ard's followers, confident of success, cele- 
brating in advance the nomination of their 
favorite, while scores of determined men 
laid the plans ultimately effective for his 
overthrow. All night the work was kept up. 
*' Hundreds of Pennsylvanians, Indianians, 
and Illinoisans," says Murat Halstead, 
"never closed their eyes. I saw Henry 
S. Lane at one o'clock, pale and haggard, 
with cane under his arm, walking as if for 
a wager from one caucus-room to another 
at the Tremont House. In connection 
with them he had been operating to bring 
the Vermonters and Virginians to the 
point of deserting Seward." 

In the Pennsylvania delegation, which 
on Wednesday had agreed on McLean as 
its second choice and Lincoln as its third, 
a hot struggle was waged to secure the 
vote of the delegation as a unit for Cam- 

• Interview with Senator Palmer for McCi u re's Magazine. 

eron until a majority of the delegates 
directed otherwise. Judge S. Newton 
Pettis, who proposed this resolution, 
worked all night to secure votes for it at 
the caucus to be held early in the morn- 
ing. The Illinois men ran from delegate 
to caucus, from editor to outsider. No 
man who knew Lincoln and believed in 
him, indeed, was allowed to rest, but was 
dragged away to this or that delegate to 
persuade him that the " rail candidate," as 
Lincoln had already begun to be called, 
was fit for the place. Colonel Hoyt, then 
a resident of Chicago, spent half the night 
telling Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsyl- 
vania what he knew of Lincoln. While 
all this was going on, a committee of 
twelve men from Pennsylvania, New 
York, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa 
were consulting in the upper story of the 
Tremont House. Before their session was 
over they had agreed that in case Lin- 
coln's votes reached a specified number on 
the following day, the votes of the States 
represented in that meeting, so far as these 
twelve men could effect the result, should 
be given to him. 

The night was over at last, and at ten 
o'clock the convention reassembled. The 
great Wigwam was packed with a throng 
hardly less excited than the members of 
the actual convention, while without, for 
blocks away, a crowd double that within 
pushed and strained, every nerve alert to 
catch the movements of the convention. 

The nominations began at once, the 
Hon. William M. Evarts presenting the 
name of William H. Seward. The New 
Yorkers had prepared a tremendous clcique^ 
which now broke forth — " a deafening 
shout which," says Leonard Swett, " I 
confess, appalled us a little." But New 
York in preparing her claque had only 
given an idea to Illinois. The Illinois 
committee, to offset it, had made secret 
but complete preparations for what was 
called a "spontaneous demonstration." 
From lake front to prairie the committee 
had collected every stentorian voice 
known, and early Thursday morning, while 
Seward's men were marching exultantly 
about the streets, the owners of these voices 
had been packed into the Wigwam, where 
their special endowment would be most 
effective. The women present had been 
requested to wave their handkerchiefs at 
every mention of Lincoln's name, and hun- 
dreds of flags had been distributed to be 
used in the same way. A series of signals 
had been arranged to communicate to the 
thousands without the moment when a 

Digitized by 




roar from them might influence the con- 
vention witliin. When N. B. Judd nomi- 
nated Lincoln this machinery began to 
work. It did well; but a moment later, 
hi greeting the seconding of Seward's 
nomination, New York out-bellowed Illi- 
nois. ** Caleb B. Smith of Indiana then 
seconded the nomination of Lincoln," 
says Mr. Swett, *'and the West came to 
his rescue. No mortal ever before saw 
such a scene. The idea of us Hoosiers 
and Suckers being outscreamed would 
have been as bad to them as the loss of 
their man. Five thousand people at once 
leaped to their seats, women not wanting 
in the number, and the wild yell made soft 
vesper breathings of all that had preceded. 
No language can describe it. A thousand 
steam whistles, ten acres of hotel gongs, 
a tribe of Comanchcs, headed by a choice 
van-guard from pandemonium, might have 
mingled in the scene unnoticed.'* 

As the roar died out a voice cried, 
** Abe Lincoln has it by the sound now; 
let us ballot I" and Judge Logan, beside 
himself with screeching and excitement, 
called out: *' Mr. President, in order or 
out of order, 1 propose this convention 
and audience give three cheers for the man 
who is evidently their nominee." 

The balloting followed without delay. 
The Illinois men believed they had one 
hundred votes to start with; on counting 
they found they had 102. More hopeful 
still, no other opposition candidate ap- 
proached them. Pennsylvania's man, ac- 
cording to the printed reports of that day, 
had but fifty and one half votes; Greeley's 
man, forty-eight; Chase, forty-nine; while 
McLean, Pennsylvania's second choice, 
had but twelve. If Seward was to be 
beaten, it must be now; and it was for 
Pennsylvania to say. The delegation hur- 
ried to a committee-room, where Judge 
Pettis, disregarding the action of the 
caucus by which McLean had been adopted 
as the delegation's second choice, moved 
that, on the second ballot, Pennsylvania's 
vote be cast solidly for Lincoln. The 
motion was carried. Returning to the hall 
the delegation found the second ballot 
under way. In a moment the name of 
Pennsylvania was called. The whole 
Wigwam heard the answer: " Pennsylvania 
casts her fifty-two votes for Abraham Lin- 
coln." The meaning was clear. The 
break to Lincoln had begun. New York 
sat as if stupefied, while all over the hall 
cheer followed cheer. 

. It seemed but a moment before the 
second ballot was ended, and it was known 

that Lincoln's vote had risen from 102 
to 181. The tension as the third ballot 
was taken was almost unbearable. A 
hundred pencils kept score while the 
delegations were called, and it soon be- 
came apparent that Lincoln was outstrip- 
ping Seward. The last vote was hardly 
given before the whisper went around, 
"Two hundred and thirty-one and one- 
half for Lincoln; two and one-half more 
will give him the nomination." An instant 
of silence followed, in which the conven- 
tion grappled with the idea, and tried to 
pull itself together to act. The chairman 
of the Ohio delegation was the first to get 
his breath. "Mr. President," he cried, 
springing on his chair and stretching out 
his arm to secure recognition, "I rise to 
change four votes from Mr. Chase to Mr. 

It took a moment to realize the truth. 
New York saw it, and the white faces of 
her noble delegation were bowed in despair. 
Greeley saw it, and a guileless smile 
spread over his features as he watched 
Thurlow Weed press his hand hard against 
his wet eyelids. Illinois saw it, and tears 
poured from the eyes of more than one of 
the overwrought, devoted men as they 
grasped one another's hands and vainly 
struggled against the sobs which kept 
back their shouts. The crowd saw it, and 
broke out in a mad hurrah. " The scene 
which followed," wrote one spectator,* 
" baffles all human description. After an 
instant's silence, as deep as death, which 
seemed to be required to enable the 
assembly to take in the full force of the 
announcement, the wildest and mightiest 
yell (for it can be called by no other 
name) burst forth from 10,000 voices which 
we ever heard from mortal throats. This 
strange and tremendous demonstration, 
accompanied with leaping up and down, 
tossing hats, handkerchiefs, and canes 
recklessly into the air, with the waving of 
flags, and with every other conceivable 
mode of exultant and unbridled joy, con- 
tinued steadily and without pause for per- 
haps ten minutes. 

" It then began to rise and fall in slow and 
billowing bursts, and for perhaps the next 
five minutes these stupendous waves of 
uncontrollable excitement, now rising into 
the deepest and fiercest shouts, and then 
sinking like the ground swell of the ocean 
into hoarse and lessening murmurs, rolled 
through the multitude. Every now and 
then it would seem as though the physical 
power of the assembly was exhausted and 

♦ Editorial in the Boston " Traveller " of May 23, i860. 

Digitized by 




that quiet wo aid be restored, when all at 
once a new hurricane would break out, 
more prolonged and terrific than anything 
before. If sheer exhaustion had not pre- 
vented, we don't know but the applause 
would have continued to this hour." 

Without, the scene was repeated. At 
the first instant of realization in the Wig- 
wam a man on the platform had shouted 
to a man stationed on the roof, ** Halle- 
lujah; Abe Lincoln is nominated!** A 
cannon boomed the news to the multitude 
below, and 20,000 throats took up the 
cry. The city heard it, and one hundred 
guns on the Tremont House, innumerable 
whistles on the river and lake front, on 
locomotives and factories, and the bells in 
all the steeples, broke forth. For twenty- 
four hours the clamor never ceased. It 
spread to the prairies, and before morning 
they were afire with pride and excitement. 


And while all this went on, where was 
Lincoln ? Too much of a candidate, as 
he had told Swett, to go to Chicago, yet 
hardly enough of one to stay away, he had 
ended by remaining in Springfield, where 
he spent the week in restless waiting and 
discussion. He drifted about the public 
square, went often to the telegraph office, 
looked out for every returning visitor from 
Chicago, played occasional games of ball, 
made fruitless efforts to read, went home 
at unusual hours. He felt in his bones 
that he had a fighting chance, so he told a 
friend, but the chance was not so strong 
that he would indulge in much exultation. 
By Friday morning he was tired and de- 
pressed, but still eager for news. One of 
his friends, the Hon. James C. Conkling, 
returned early in the day from Chicago, 
and Lincoln soon went around to his law 
office. ** Upon entering," says Mr. Conk- 
ling, ** Lincoln threw himself upon the 
office lounge, and remarked rather wearily, 
* Well, I guess I'll go back to practising 
law.* As he lay there on the lounge, I 
gave him such information as I had been 
able to obtain. I told him the tendency 
was to drop Seward; that the outlook for 
him was very encouraging. He listened 
attentively, and thanked me, saying I had 
given him a clearer idea of the situation 
than he had been able to get from any 

other source. He was not very sanguine 
of the result. He did not express the 
opinion that he would be nominated.** * 

But he could not be quiet, and soon left 
Mr. Conkling, to join the throng aroun'd 
the telegraph office, where the reports 
from the convention were coming in. The 
nominations were being reported, his own 
among the others. Then news came that 
the balloting had begun. He could not 
endure to wait for the result. He remem- 
bered a commission his wife had given him 
that morning, and started across the 
square to execute it. His errand was 
done, and he was standing in the door of 
the shop, talking, when a shout went up 
from the group at the telegraph office. 
The next instant an excited boy came rush- 
ing pell-mell down the stairs of the office, 
and, plunging through the crowd, ran 
across the square, shouting, *' Mr. Lin- 
coln, Mr. Lincoln, you are nominated! ** 
The cry was repeated on all sides. The 
people came flocking about him, half 
laughing, half crying, shaking his hand 
when they got it, and one another*s when 
they couldn't. For a few minutes, car- 
ried away by excitement, Lincoln seemed 
simply one of the proud and exultant 
crowd. Then remembering what it all 
meant, he said, ** My friends, I am glad 
to receive your congratulations, and as 
there is a little woman down on Eighth 
Street who will be glad to hear the news, 
you must excuse me until I inform her." 
He slipped away, telegram in hand, his 
coat-tails flying out behind, and strode 
towards home, only to find when he reached 
there that his friends were before him, and 
that the '* little woman ** already knew 
that the honor which for twenty years and 
more she had believed and stoutly declared 
her husband deserved, and which a great 
multitude of men had sworn to do their 
best to obtain for him, had at last come. 

Thirty-six hours later Lincoln received 
the committee sent by the convention to 
notify him formally of his selection as the 
Republican candidate for the Presidency 
of the United States; but before that time 
the whole country knew of his nomination, 
and the North and West were ringing with 
the stirring chorus: 

** Hurrah for our cause — of all causes the best ! 
Hurrah for old Abe, Honest Abe of the West ! " 

♦ Interview with Mr. Conkling for McCll'ke's Magazinb. 

Digitized by 



By Hkrbert Keen. 

received one day an addi- 
tion to our circle at Elvira 
House in a Mr. Booth that 
proved a decided acquisi- 
tion. He conducted him- 
self with the grave decorum 
of aquiet elderly gentleman 
of studious tastes and methodical habits, 
and he and I soon became very good friends. 
But he always maintained the most abso- 
lute reserve respecting his former avoca- 
tion. He let it be understood that he had 
retired from business, but I noticed that 
he usually absented himself for some hours 
daily, as though he still had some kind of 
occupation; and occasionally, he went out 
of town for a day or two ostensibly 
to attend race meetings. This 
hobby, of which he made no secret, 
might have created a prejudice 
against most men, but in the case 
of Mr. Booth it was merely re- 
garded as an amiable idiosyncrasy, 
for it was impossible to suspect 
him of the mildest dissipation. 
Sometimes, as he sat in his accus- 
tomed arm-chair in the smoking- 
room, enjoying his after-dinner 
cigar, and listening with quiet at- 
tention to the conversation around 
him, I used to wonder what the 
history of this innocent-looking, 
little, gold-spectacled, bald-headed 
gentleman, with the scrupulously 
neat and spotless attire and be- 
nevolent aspect, could have been. 
Among our guests at that time 
was a certain Herr Victor Dolle, a 
Dutch gentleman, who lived in 
Amsterdam and came over pretty 
frequently to this country on busi- 
ness connected with his trade of a 
diamond cutter and polisher. He 
had resided at Elvira House on 
many previous occasions, and had 
gained universal esteem, for he was 
an amiable, good-natured giant of 
a man, looking more English than 
foreign, and speaking our language 
with singular fluency and correct- 

One day Herr Dolle started by 
an early train on a flying visit to 

Birmingham, and I was preparing to depart 
to the city at the usual hour, when Mrs. 
Nix stopped me as I passed the door of her 
office, and, in an agitated voice, requested 
me to come in. I found her very pale and 
upset; in fact, almost hysterical. The 
door of a large safe which stood in a corner 
of the room was open, and the contents 
lay scattered in a confused heap upon the 

"Mr. Perkins, I have been robbed!" 
exclaimed Mrs. Nix, trembling in fevery 
limb, as she closed and locked the door. 

** Burglars! " I exclaimed. 

** No; at least, I think not," she added, 
hastily. "The safe has apparently not 

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been tampered with. It was locked when 
I opened it just now. The key acted per- 
fectly. And yet something has been ab- 
stracted! " 

I glanced round in consternation, and, 
as I did so, I observed upon her writing- 
table a bank *' paying-in " book lying open, 
and on top of it two or three checks, some 
bank-notes, and gold. 

"It is not money that I have lost," 
said Mrs. Nix, following my gaze. ** If 
it were, it would be my own, and wouldn't 
so much matter." 

*• What is it, then ? '* I inquired. 

**A small parcel intrusted to me by Herr 
Dolle on the day of his arrival. It con- 
tained, I suppose, diamonds or precious 
stones. He has been in the habit of ask- 
ing me to take charge of such things while 
staying here, to avoid carrying them about. 
For aught I know the contents of the 
parcel may have been worth hundreds — 
nay, thousands of pounds! " exclaimed 
Mrs. Nix, distractedly. 

** My dear madam," I said, soothingly, 
seeing that she was beside herself with agi- 
tation, *' you must keep calm and tell me 
how it all happened. When did you last 
see the parcel ?" 

I took her hand as I spoke and con- 
ducted her to an easy-chair, into which 
she sank in a half-fainting condition. 
After a brief pause, she said: 

"On Tuesday, the day he arrived, Herr 
Dolle, with my permission, placed the par- 
cel in the corner of that second shelf. 
To-day being Saturday, I have received 
payment of several accounts, your own 
among others. I went to the safe just 
now to get my ' paying-in ' book in order 
to send the money to the bank. Suddenly 
I thought of Herr Dolle*s parcel, which I 
had almost forgotten. It has disap- 

"Are you sure?" I asked, incredu- 

" I have turned everything out of the 
safe on to the floor," she said, despair- 

"Perhaps you have overlooked it. 
What size was it ? " I inquired. 

" Oh, quite small! Not larger or much 
thicker than an envelope folded longways 
across. Yon know the sort of little paper 
parcel that Herr Dolle carries diamonds 
in ? It fits into his pocket-book." 

I remembered having been shown, on 
several occasions, by Herr Dolle, little 
parcels of diamonds such as Mrs. Nix de- 
scribed. They had generally been done up 
in neat packages of drab paper folded like 

a needlecase, but rather larger, with an 
inner lining of tissue in which the gems 
reposed. Obviously, a parcel of such 
small dimensions might easily get mislaid 
among other articles, and I tried to re- 
assure Mrs. Nix by asseverating my belief 
that this was what had happened. Though 
the poor lady shook her head despond- 
ently, I at once set to work to replace in 
the safe, one by one, the books and docu- 
ments she had taken out of it. There 
were two or three account-books, some 
miscellaneous papers, a check-book, a 
number of counterfoils of old checks, but, 
unfortunately, a careful scrutiny con- 
vinced me that Herr Dolle's packet had 
not slipped into any unsuspected fold or 
insinuated itself between the leaves of a 
book, as I had hoped. 

" I suppose you are quite sure that you 
have never given back the packet to Herr 
Dolle?" I said, as I reluctantly aban- 
doned the search. 

" Quite certain. I have been expecting 
to be asked for it." 

" And you found the safe securely 
locked ?" I inquired, as I tried the key. 


" Have you ever parted with the key ? " 

" Not for a single instant. I always 
carry my keys about with me," said Mrs. 

"What does Major Nix think about 

I declare that when I asked this question 
I was not conscious 'of any sequence of 
ideas in my mind; yet, as I uttered the 
words, I wished them unspoken, for Mrs. 
Nix flushed painfully, while I suddenly 
realized that her husband, sharing her 
apartment, was the only person who might 
have obtained access to the key without 
her knowledge. 

" I have not mentioned the subject to 
anyone yet. Besides, the major was not 
even aware that the parcel existed," she 
added, indignantly. 

I felt embarrassed and confused, for I 
suddenly realized the true cause of the 
poor lady's agitation. The loss of the 
parcel was, of course, serious enough; but 
when one reflected that circumstances 
pointed to the major as the possible thief, 
the situation became painfully compli- 

" What is to be done?" inquired Mrs. 
Nix, nervously. 

" It is a matter for the police," I said, 

" No, Mr. Perkins, that is impossible," 
said Mrs. Nix, confronting me with an air 

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of desperate resolution. ** Scandal must 
be avoided. I cannot have the police 
called in. And yet the parcel must be 
found. What am I to say to Herr DoUe? 
What shall I do?" 

I reflected a moment, feeling, indeed, 
quite at a loss what to advise in the pecul- 
iar circumstances, and then, by a sort of 
inspiration, I exclaimed: 

** There is a gentleman here, Mr. Booth, 
who I think has had experience in these 
matters. Will you 
authorize me to con- 
sult him ? " 

My suggestion, 
!)eing totally unex- 
pected, received a 
somewhat reluctant 
acquiescence, but I 
felt immensely re- 
lieved at the prospect 
of sharing the re- 
sponsibility of advis- 
ing Mrs. Nix in this 
delicate affair with 
some one whose 
judgment I instinc- 
tively knew could 
be relied upon. I 
therefore left Mrs. 
Nix with strict in- 
junctions not to 
breathe a word of 
the loss, even to her 
husband, at present, 
while I hastened to 
seek for Mr. Booth. 

I found him smok- 
ing his morning cigar 
over his partfcular 
copy of the**'i'imes," 
and though I burst in 
upon him without 
preface or apology, 
and related bluntly 
what had occurred, 
he manifested neither 
surprise nor confusion at my consulting 
him, but immediately proceeded to ask me 
pertinent questions in a brisk, matter-of- 
fact way. 

** The major is too big a fool to meddle 
with diamonds. If it had been money, 
now — '* A slight shrug of the shoulders 
significantly conveyed Mr. Booth's esti- 
mate of poor Mrs. Nix's husband, as he 
rose from his seat at the conclusion of my 
narrative. ** Let us come and look at the 
safe," he added. 

** I am glad you don't suspect the ma- 
jor, for his wife's sake," I remarked. 


** He may have had an accomplice, but 
we needn't tell her so," he replied, as we 
passed out of the room. 

Our hostess was, by this time, a little 
calmer, and as we entered her sanctum, she 
was hurriedly filling in, on the leaf of the 
" paying-in " book, particulars of the 
money to be despatched to the bank. She 
received Mr. Booth with a slight access 
of her habitual stateliness, which betrayed 
her nervous apprehensions. 

** My dear madam, 
permit me to con- 
gratulate you on your 
wise determination to 
refrain from sending 
for the police," he 
said, with unusual 

" You think it is 
unnecessary ? " said 
Mrs. Nix, eagerly. 

** Unnecessary and 
undesirable," replied 
Mr. Booth, rather to 
my astonishment. 
*' VVhat you want, of 
course, is to recover 
the missing property. 
The police, on the 
other hand, would 
care less about that 
than to bring some 
person to justice — 
probably the wrong 
person — causing, in 
any case, scandal and 

**That is what I 
thought," said Mrs. 
Nix, in a tone of 
heartfelt relief. 

" Exactly, and you 

were quite right. 

Now, let us consider 

the facts of the 

case," added Mr. 

Booth, turning to the safe. "This is 

where the parcel was placed ? " 

" Yes." 

" On this shelf here, as I understand 
from Mr. Perkins. I won't trouble you to 
repeat what you told him. I shall have 
a question or two to ask you presently." 

He spoke in a pre-occupied manner, 
while closing the door of the safe and 
manipulating the key. The latter he ex- 
amined carefully, carrying it to the light 
and scrutinizing the wards through a small 
magnifying glass which he produced from 
his pocket. 

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" Now/* said Mr. Boobh, having appar- 
ently satisfied himself that the key had not 
been tampered with," let us have a little 
rehearsal of what took place when Herr 
Dolle arrived. To begin with, what were 
you doing ? ** 

'* I was seated at the table as I am now, 
and I was — yes, I remember! — I was just 
commencing to fill in a slip with particu- 
lars of the money I was about to send to 
the bank, "said Mrs. 
Nix. , , , 

"Ah! Then that /'' j, >^ 

will fix the date. /, ■ ^^ 

May I look ?" in- 
quired Mr. Booth, ^ - ^ 
taking up the " pay- ^— 
ing-in *' book, which 
lay upon the table, 
and turning over the 
leaves. *' It was 
on the 13th ? " 


** And I see you 
sent the money to 
the bank by a mes- 
senger or servant," 
said Mr. Booth, 
carelessly, as he laid 
down the book. 

" How do you 
know that?" in- ^^^ 
quired Mrs. Nix in '^ 

*' Only because 
the counterfoil was 
initialled by the 
bank clerk who re- 
ceived the money, 
which is generally 
done when a mes- 
senger i^ em- 
ployed," said Mr. 

** Yes, I sent by 
Martha Staines." vajo 

**That elderly 
woman with spectacles — a sort of house- 
keeper? " inquired Mr. Booth. 

"Yes; but surely you don't suspect 
her! She has been with me for many 
years. I am sure she is quite honest," 
said Mrs. Nix, warmly. 

" No, I don't suspect her, for a very 
good reason which 1 will tell you pres- 
ently," answered Mr. Booth, smilingly. 
" Well, you were engaged as you said 
when Herr Dolle arrived ? He came in 

" I went out to meet him in the hall, 
recognizing his voice. He followed me 


into this room, and stayed talking for some 
moments. I resumed my seat at the desk 
here, and presently I went on filling up 
the * paying-in * slip, while he talked." 
"Ah," ejaculated Mr. Booth. 
" The fact is, I was very busy, and Herr 
Dolle always has so much to say," said 
Mrs. Nix, smiling. " Presently he pro- 
duced the little parcel, and asked me to 
allow him to put it inside the safe, which 
was open." 
^' " I,ofcourse, con- 

I . ! • sented, and I partic- 

ularly looked round 
at his request, and 
saw him place it on 
the shelf there," 
said Mrs. Nix, em- 

*• And then ? ** 
queried Mr. Booth. 
"Then he left, 
after taJking a few 
minutes longer.'* 

•* What did he 
talk about in those 
few minutes ? ** 
asked Mr. Booth, 

" Really, 1 can't 
remember,'* said 
Mrs. Nix, impa- 
tiently. "I'm afraid 
I didn't listen very 

Mr. Boothglanced 
at me as though our 
hostess's last answer 
possessed some sig- 
nificance, but I en- 
tirely failed to grasp 
his meaning. He 
smiled at my per- 
plexity, and turned 
, NIX. again to Mrs. Nix. 

" Did you lock 
up the safe directly he left?'* he asked. 
'*Yes — at least — no; not immediately. 
I rang for Martha. When she came we 
checked my figures in the * paying-in ' 
book with the money, which we placed in 
a little paper ba.2: — you know the kind' ** 

"One of these," said Mr Booth, pro- 
ducing from a bundle which stood in a 
corner of the safe a brown paper bag sup- 
plied by the bank. 

"Yes, and — and that'sall; Martha took 
the bag and the ' paying-in * book to the 
bank, while I shut the safe and went about 
my other duties." 

Digitized by 




** And now for the only really impor- 
tant question," said Mr. Booth, briskly. 
•* When you shut the safe, are you sure 
Herr Dolle's parcel was there ? " 

'* Quite sure. I saw him place it 

** But did you really see it ? Could you 
swear that you locked it up in the safe ? 
Because," added Mr. Booth, laughingly, 
** I'm prepared to wager my head against 
a china orange, as the saying is, that when 
you locked the safe the parcel wasn't 

** Where was it, then ? " exclaimed Mrs. 
Nix, in bewilderment. 

** In Herr Dolle's pocket! " 

**No!'* we both exclaimed. 

" I say * yes,* and it is a fact which can 
be verified the moment he returns from 
Birmingham," he added, smiling at our 
undisguised incredulity. " Depend upon it 
that, after placing the parcel on the shelf 
there, he changed his mind and took it up 
again. You were busy, Mrs. Nix, and 
didn't notice what he said. Try and re- 
member ! " 

"You — may be right, of 
course," murmured Mrs. Nix, 
evidently anxious to be convinced 
in spite of secret misgivings. 

"Of course I'm right — eh, 
Perkins ? " said Mr. Booth, glanc- 
ing meaningly at me. 

" Your theory seems a little far- 
fetched," I replied, half involun- 

Mrs. Nix looked distressed at 
my reply, and Mr. Booth darted 
at me a momentary glance of an- 

" What a fellow you are, Per- 
kins!" he exclaimed, good- 
humoredly, the instant after. 
" You refuse to allow me the 
credit of an intelligent deduction 
from bare facts! You force me 
to disclose the trick which I carry 
up my sleeve and to discount my 
own cleverness! " 

** What do you mean?" in- 
quired Mrs. Nix, eagerly. 

" Last night Herr Dolle showed 
me, in my own room, a parcel of 
diamonds precisely like the one 
we have been talking about," 
said Mr. Booth, gravely. 

** Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Nix. 

" But he didn't say — " I com- 
menced, rather hotly. 

" He didn't say it was the 
identical parcel," interposed Mr. "mr. booth 

Booth, quickly, "because, naturally, it 
never occurred to me to ask the question ; 
but I'm convinced in my own mind that it 
was. If Perkins likes to risk a sovereign, 
I'll take his bet that Herr Dolle confirms 
my theory." 

"It would be worth a sovereign," I 
said, more, in truth, from obstinacy than 
from conviction. 

" Done, then," said Mr. Booth, cheer- 

" Oh, Mr. Booth, I am so much obliged 
to you. You have relieved my mind of a 
great anxiety," exclaimed Mrs. Nix, evi- 
dently carried away by my companion's 
assurance. "Come in!" she added, 
quickly, in response to a knock at the door. 

It was the old housekeeper, Martha, a 
tall, gray-haired woman in spectacles of 
such strong magnifying power that they 
made her dim eyes look unnaturally large. 
Nevertheless, she was obviously as blind 
as a bat, for she peered into the room in 
a short-sighted manner and appeared 
startled at seeing us. 


Digitized by 




*' Beg pardon, ma'am. I only wished 
to ask if I am to go to the bank ?" she 

** I shall be passing, Mrs. Nix,** I inter- 
posed, desirous of making amends for any 
uneasiness I might have caused. 

**0h! thank you. Never mind, Martha, 
to-day,** said Mrs. Nix. 

** H'ml Hardly a safe messenger," re- 
marked Mr. Booth, as Martha withdrew. 
'* Honest enough, no doubt, but getting 
old, and might easily be robbed.** 

He was strolling to the door as he spoke; 
I paused only while Mrs. Nix placed in a 
paper bag the coins, notes, and checks, 
and then followed him into the liall. 
When we were alone, he looked at me 
rather queerly. 

** So you don't believe in my theory, 
Perkins ? *' he laughed. 

** I don*t know what to believe,'* I re- 
plied, puzzled by his manner. 

**Ah! you are beginning to waver, I 
see. Do you want to hedge ? ** 

** No; it is a bet," I answered. 

Mr. Booth laughed quietly and returned 
to the smoking-room, while I, feeling 
-somewhat unreasonably irritated, put on 
my hat and started for my office. I was 
annoyed because Mr. Booth had seemed to 
suggest that I was endeavoring to foster 
suspicion against Major Nix, whereas 
nothing had been farther from my 
thoughts. But when I came to reflect 
upon what had passed, 1 realized that I 
had no cause of complaint against him, 
and that my resentment was really due to 
vexation with myself for having involun- 
tarily assumed an attitude calculated to 
disturb our hostess's peace of mind. As 
for Mr. Booth's theory, a few moments' 
consideration convinced me that it was 
possibly corrfect; and it could, as he had 
pointed out, easily be put to the test, for 
Herr Dolle was due back the same even- 

I called in at Mrs. Nix's bank as I 
passed along Oxford Street, and paid in 
the money and checks which she had in- 
trusted to me. I had rendered her this 
small service on two or three previous 
occasions, and was known to the clerks 
there. It was in those days a small branch 
establishment, with a very modest staff. 
There was only one cashier, if I remember 
rightly; at all events, I was attended to 
by a young fellow whose face was familiar 
to me, though I did not know his name. 

*' Anything happened to the old lady 
who generally comes here ? " he inquired, 
carelessly, as 1 handed over my charge. 

" Mrs. Staines is all right. Mrs. Nix 
asked me to pay in the money, as I hap- 
pened to be passing," I replied. 

*' All well at Elvira House ? " he asked, 
glancing through the checks. 


" And the major ? " 

" Major Nix is quite well," I answered, 
as I turned away. 

" I suppose you heard that he lost a 
good bit of money over the Leger, *' he 
remarked, lowering his voice. 

" 1 am not in the major*s confidence," 
1 replied, annoyed at the news on the poor 
wife's account. 

"Oh! all right. Then you needn't say 
I told you," rejoined the cashier, with a 
vindictive laugh. 

It seemed to me, from his tone, that the 
young man bore some grudge against 
Major Nix, and was not unwilling to do 
him an injury by spreading the news. I 
resolved, therefore, not to gratify him by 
repeating what he had told me, but, at the 
same time, the information caused me 
some uneasiness. If Mr. Booth's theory 
about the missing parcel should prove de- 
lusive, here was a piece of intelligence 
which might, of itself, suffice to arouse 
suspicion against the major. 

I was a good deal disturbed by this dis- 
covery, which had the effect of arousing 
uncomfortable misgivings in my mind. 
When I returned to Elvira House in the 
evening, I told Mr. Booth in confidence 
what I had learnt. To my surprise, how- 
ever, he seemed already aware of Major 
Nix's misfortune, and, after listening to 
my story, he quietly produced a telegram. 

" From Herr Dolle," he remarked, as 
he placed it triumphantly in my hands. 

** Did you send him a message, then ? " 
I asked. 

" Yes. Fortunately, Mrs. Nix remem- 
bered the name and address of his agents 
in Hatton Garden. From them I ascer- 
tained where a telegram to Birmingham 
would find him. I thought it better to 
put an end to Mrs. Nix's suspense at 
once," he added. 

Herr Dolle's reply, despatched from 
Birmingham, was in these words: " Wire 
received. Parcel in my possession. Ex- 
plain to-night." 

"Have you told Mrs. Nix?" I in- 
quired, eagerly. 

"Yes. She is delighted, of course. 
" By the way," he added, carelessly, 
" Mrs. Nix doesn't wish her husband to 
know anything about it. Between our- 
selves she evidently doesn't trust him, and 

Digitized by 




quite right too. She prefers he shouldn't 
know that her safe occasionally contains 

"Well, it appears I owe you a sover- 
eign," I replied, producing my purse. 

** Better wait and learn the truth from 
Herr Dolle's own lips. His train arrives 
at eight o'clock,** said Mr. Booth, laugh- 

I demurred to this delay in discharging 
my obligation, but my friend was good- 
humoredly obsti- 
nate, and it was not '•"' 
until later in the 
evening, after Herr 
Dolle's return, that 
he consented to re- 
ceive it. When I 
adjourned to the 
s mo k i n g-r oom , 
after spending an 
hour or two in the 
drawing-room after 
dinner, I found Herr 
Dolle smoking 
stolidly in his usual 
corner by the fire- 
place, and at my 
entrance he roseand 
drew me aside. 

** My friend," he 
said, in his slow, 
guttural accents, 
**you have lost 
your bet.** 

**So I under- 
stand,** I replied. 

**Mrs. Nix is a 
very stupid lady. 
It comes of doing 
two things at once. 
If she had listened 
to what I said, she 
would have saved 
herself much anxi- 
ety. I said to 
her, *On second 

thoughts, my dear madam, I may be able 
to do business to-day with my little par- 
cel;* and she replied *Yes,' like that. 
How was I to know that she did not 
hear ? ** 

" It was her own fault, of course,*' I 

** I am sorry, but I should have been 
sorrier still if the pafcel had been lost,'* 
he remarked. 

** Were the contents valuable?*' I in- 

** Very valuable. I should have been a 
fool for my pains, Ja! " said Herr l^olie. 


nodding his head emphatically as he left 
me and returned to his chair. 

An animated discussion was going on in 
the room, and our little colloquy excited 
no attention, except from Mr. Booth, who 
glanced at me with a self-satisfied smile, 
and silently held out his hand for my sov- 
ereign, which I immediately produced. 
The major, who was in great form that 
evening, and was apparently quite cheerful 
and indifferent about his recent losses, 
caught sight of this 
little episode, and 

*' Hullo! Perkins 
is paying up! What 
is it ? A bet ?** 

**Yes," replied 
Mr. Booth, quietly 
pocketing the coin. 
** A bet which Herr 
Dolle has decided 
in my favor.** 

•*Eh? What was 
it ? Tell us about 
it, Dolle,** cried the 
major, who was 
quite in his element. 
Herr Dolle 
looked a little dis- 
concerted at being 
appealed to, for he 
turned red and 
glanced covertly at 
Mr. Booth. No 
doubt, he had, like 
myself, been warned 
not to reveal our 
secret to the major, 
and felt at a loss 
how to reply. But 
Mr. Booth relieved 
his embarrassment 
and my own by say- 
»'iR» promptly: 

** Perkinsdoubted 
when I said that a 
diamond merchant could always recognize 
his own wares.** 

" Hang it all, one diamond is very 
like another. (liven two stones of the 
same size and quality, and how the deuce 
could even an expert tell the difference ? " 
shouted the major, in an argumentative 

** You don't often come across two 
stones which are exact counterparts,** 
said Mr. Booth, glancing at the Dutch- 

" What I say is this,*' said Herr Dolle, 
slowly, " that I could always recognize 

Digitized by 




stones which had been cut and polished 
by myself/* 

" Well, I shouldn't have believed it pos- 
sible! *' cried the major in his noisy way. 
'* Now, ril tell you fellows what happened 
once to a man I knew at Agra." 

I forget now the details of the story, 
but though it led to a long argument, it 
failed to convince Herr Dolle, who, in- 
deed, was evidently disinclined to discuss 
the point. I thought he looked worried 
and depressed, and shortly aferwards he 
got up, observing with a prodigfous yawn 
that he was tired after his journey, and 
retired from the room. But Mr. Booth 
defended his own assertion with great per- 
tinacity, and incidentally displayed an 
intimate acquaintance with traffic in pre- 
cious stones, which he explained by saying 
that he had once visited Kimberley, where 
he had been initiated into most of the mys- 
teries of the trade. 

Looking back, I think I always had a 
sort of suspicion at the back of my head 
that we had not heard the last of Herr 
Dolle's parcel. But it is easy, from after 
knowledge of events, to claim credit for 
preternatural acuteness, and to speak quite 
honestly, I cannot recall to mind anything 
that happened for some days to make me 
suspect a private understanding between 
Herr Dolle and Mr. Booth. At all events, 
I must own to having been considerably 
startled by an incident which occurred 
about a week later. 

We were alone one evening in the smok- 
ing-room, Herr Dolle, Mr. Booth, the 
major, and I, after the other guests had 
departed. It was pretty late, and Herr 
Dolle had just risen to knock the ashes 
out of his last pipe when the major, who 
had been fidgeting about in his chair and 
nervously twisting the ends of his mous- 
tache for some moments, suddenly ex- 

** I say, Dolle, you buy diamonds, don't 
you ? " 

'* Eh ? " exclaimed Herr Dolle, turning 
round with a startled look. 

** A friend of mine owes me some money, 
but, like me, he is hard up," explained 
the major, reddening at the evident sur- 
prise which his inquiry had caused. ** His 
mother died recently and left him some 
jewelry, including a diamond necklace. 
He has taken out the stones, and wishes to 
dispose of them." 

While speaking, Major Nix lugged out 
of his trouser-pocket a little leather bag, 
from which he extracted a quantity of cot- 
ton wool. Carefully wrapped inside this 

were a dozen or more good-sized diamonds 
of extraordinary whiteness and brilliancy. 
Herr Dolle stared at the stones in amaze- 
ment, and turned red all over his face and 

**May I look?" he grunted, after a 

Major Nix yielded up his treasure with 
increasing confusion, and Herr Dolle, pick- 
ing out the diamonds one by one from 
their woolly bed, ranged them in rows on 
his broad palm, and examined them 
beneath the gas-lamp. Though he said 
nothing, I could see plainly that he was 
considerably startled and taken aback, 
and I noticed that Mr. Booth was vigilant 
and alert. 

" I suppose they are real stones ? " said 
Major Nix, apparently struck by the 
Dutchman's manner. 

"Yes, they are real stones, but I shall 
not buy these. No! " said Herr Dolle, re- 
placing the diamonds in the bag with stolid 

" Why not ? " inquired the major. 

" Because Herr Dolle prefers selling to 
buying, eh, Herr ? " interposed Mr. Booth, 
briskly. " Besides, he is leaving England 

"Yes. I am leaving England to-mor- 
row," said Herr Dolle, rather sulkily, as 
he handed over the bag to Mr. Booth in 
obedience to a peremptory gesture from 
that gentleman. 

" My friend can't wait — or rather, / 
can't," said Major Nix, with an uneasy 
laugh. " I suppose you can recommend 
me to some one in your line of business ? " 

"/ can," said Mr. Booth, before the 
Dutchman could reply. " My friend Mr. 
Klenck of 187 Hatton Garden will treat 
you fairly on my introduction. I'll meet 
you there, if you like." 

"Thanks," exclaimed the major, hur- 
riedly making a note of the name and 
address on his shirt-cuff. " Shall we say 
to-morrow ? " 

" Any time that will suit your friend," 
said Mr. Booth, cheerfully. 

"Eh? Oh! He^oxi'x. want to come. 
He trusts me," returned the major. 

" Mr. Klenck would not deal with an 
agent in a case like this. Besides, it would 
be better for your own sake that he should 
be present. Bythe bye, what is your friend's 
name?" inquired Mr. Booth, carelessly. 

" I don't think I ought to say," replied 
Major Nix, pulling at his moustache, and 
looking embarrassed. "He particularly 
doesn't want his name to appear. You 
see it's a family matter." 

Digitized by 




'* I see," said Mr. Booth, dryly, as he 
quietly put the little bag in his pocket. 
** I'm not going to let you make a fool of 
yourself, major. Your friend must turn 
up or there will be no business done." 

Mr. Booth's words, and especially the 
significant action which accompanied them, 
threw the major in a great state of excite- 
ment and perturbation, and he indignantly 
protested that his friend's integrity was 
beyond suspicion. But, unable to resist 
the logical retort, he at length sullenly gave 
way, and, though he still refused to men- 
lion the name of his principal, he consented 
to bring him to Mr. Klenck's office at five 
o'clock in the afternoon of the following 

With this arrangement the discussion 
ended, and I remarked that Herr Dolle, 
whose demeanor had at one time been 
rather mysterious, seemed relieved at the 
turn of events, and he resumed his habitual 
stolidity. We all left the apartment 
together, but on the landing outside my 
room, where Mr. Booth and 1 found our- 
selves alone, I unburdened my mind by 
whispering, eagerly: 

** Those were Herr Dolle's diamonds, 
of course! " 

"Yes," said Booth, quietly. 

** How did the major come by them ? " 
I inquired. 

*• We shall know to-morrow," said Mr. 
Booth, smiling at my excitement. ** Would 
you like to meet us at Mr. Klenck's, and 
see what happens ? " 

** Yes," I replied. 

** Very well. No. 187 Hatton Garden, 
third floor back, at ^st o'clock," he said, 
in a matter-of-fact tone, as he passed on 
towards his room. 

"One moment, Mr. Booth," I ex- 
claimed, unable to restrain my curiosity. 
" You don't believe the major stole 

"I can't say anything till to-morrow," 
he replied, gravely. 

With which he nodded "good-night" 
to me, and abruptly entered his room ; and 
here I may remark that I learnt from sub- 
sequent experience that my friend always 
had a weakness for creating dramatic 
effects. I frequently accused him of this 
peculiar form of vanity, and though he 
defended himself by enlarging upon the 
danger of premature confidences in mat- 
ters involving important issues, I am still 
of opinion that Mr. Booth carried this 
irritating reticence to undue limits from 
motives of self-glorification. 

However, it was a harmless eccentricity 

at the worst, though on the present occa- 
sion it annoyed me exceedingly, for 1 was 
completely mystified by this extraordinary 
development. On the one hand, all the 
circumstances of the case pointed to Major 
Nix as the probable thief, even to the 
stolen diamonds being actually in his pos- 
session ; on the other, it was impossible to 
believe he could be guilty when he had 
openly offered them for sale in his own 
house to the lawful owner. It was true 
that the story of the loss had been hushed 
up, and the major might have been dense 
enough not to suspect that the stones be- 
longed to Herr Dolle; but even assuming 
this, his conduct had either been that of 
^n innocent man or a lunatic. 

Next morning Mr. Booth's reserve was 
more impenetrable than ever; and I did 
not see Herr Dolle, who had left the house 
before I came down. I had, therefore, no 
alternative but to control my impatience 
as best I could till the evening, when, 
punctually at the hour named, I presented 
myself at No. 187 Hatton Garden. 

It was a dingy building, in which there 
were several sets of chambers, and after 
lingering for a few moments outside, wait- 
ing for Mr. Booth, it occurred to me that 
he might have entered, and I therefore 
ascended the stairs to Mr. Klenck's office. 
On reaching the third floor I opened a door 
which bore his name, my action being sig- 
nalled by the sharp ring of a bell which 
answered to the turning of the handle. I 
found myself in a little square vestibule, 
partitioned off with glazed panelling, in 
which was a sliding window marked " In- 

"Yes?" questioned a voice from the 
other side. 

" Is Mr. Booth here?" I inquired. 

The response was a "click" at my 
elbow, which revealed the opening of an 
inner door, through which I passed into a 
good-sized room. Here, seated at a table, 
busily engaged in writing, was my friend 
Booth, who saluted me with a cool nod 
and a silent intimation to close the door 
through which I had entered. 

"Where is Mr. Klenck ? " I inquired, 
perceiving that we were alone. 

" He has been good enough to let me 
have the use of his office for half an hour. 
Mr. Klenck is Herr Dolle's agent," he 
added, without looking up from his writ- 

This was a revelation to me, but seeing 
that Mr. Booth was occupied with his 
pen, I forebore to ask questions, and seated 
myself on a vacant chair opposite to him. 

Digitized by 




I gazed around me with curiosity, and 
observed that the only furniture consisted 
of a couple of small tables covered with 
blue cloth and surrounded on three sides 
by a low wooden barrier, evidently de- 
signed to prevent small articles from 
being brushed off; a few chairs, and an 
enormous safe. I noticed also two sets 
of scales of fragile and delicate mechan- 
ism, with miniature weights, screened by 
a glass covering; some copper or metal 
scoops of various small siz2s; some pairs 
of tweezers, and a jeweller's magnifying 

** Here they are," said Mr. Booth, sud- 
denly, at the sound of footsteps on the 
landing outside. ** Come in," he added, 
as the bell rang. 

"Is Mr. Klenck in?" inquired the 
major's voice. 

With a sly look at me, Mr. Booth jerked 
the handle of a small lever attached to the 
desk at which he was sitting, and Major 
Nix entered through the inner door, fol- 
lowed by a taller and younger man. 
Directly they appeared, Mr. Booth rose 
quickly, and, passing behind them, pushed 
to the inner door, which fastened with a 

" Well, gentlemen ! " he exclaimed, 
briskly, as he returned to the table. 

" Hullo! What are you doing here?" 
exclaimed the major, recognizing me with 
a start. 

Noticing a similar movement of surprise 
on the |)art of his companion, I looked at 
the latter attentively, and, though he had 
evidently taken pains to disguise himself 
by muffling the lower part of his face in a 
comforter and keeping on his hat, which 
was pulled down over his brow, I per- 
ceived that it was the young cashier from 
Mrs. Nix's bank. 

" Vou have a cold, sir ? " remarked Mr. 
Booth, sarcastically, regarding the young 
man. " You wouldn't otherwise keep 
your hat on in a gentleman's office." 

The person addressed muttered some 
unintelligible reply, while the major, who 
seemed suddenly to become vaguely con- 
scious of something being amiss, inquired 

" Where is Mr. Klenck ? " 

" He has authorized me to transact this 
little business," said Mr. Booth. 

" Well, this is my friend, and you've 
got the diamonds," said the major, sulkily. 

" No, Herr Dolle has got the diamonds, 
because they were his property, and at the 
present moment they are in .Amsterdam," 
said Mr. Booth, quietly. 

** This is a trap I " cried the young man 
furiously, making a sudden movement 
towards the door, while the major dropped 
into a chair, open-mouthed. 

"The door is locked," said Mr. Booth, 
indicating the lever by his side, " and no 
one can leave without my permission." 

" Who are you ? What's your name ? " 
exclaimed the young man, excitedly. 

" What does it all mean? " gasi)e<l Major 

Mr. Booth seemed grimly amused at the 
consternation of his visitors, and for 
answer he commenced to read aloud from 
the document he held in his hand. 

" This is the confession of Charles Mort- 
land Morton^ a clerk in the Oxford Street 
Branch of the Middlesex Bank.'* 

"It's a lid I — 1 only came here to 
oblige him," cried the young man, point- 
ing to the major with a trembling hand. 

** \'ou mean that he stole the dia- 
monds ? " said Mr. Booth, looking up in- 

** How do I know how he came by 
them ? " exclaimed the young man, with a 
shrug of his shoulders. 

" 'I'his is just as I expected," said Mr. 
Booth, glancing at me. " Keep quiet and 
listen," he added, sharply, to the major, 
who had risen furiously from his chair. 

" On the \2,th inst./* he went on, reading 




Digitized by 





"•hllloI what awe you doing herk? exclaimed the major.' 

from the document before him, ''Mrs. 
Nix 5 housekeeper came to the bank, bringing 
some gold, notes, and checks in a paper bag, 
7uhich she handed to me over the counter. 

** How do you know it was 1 ?" inter- 
rupted the clerk, defiantly. 

** Because the counterfoil of the * pay- 
ing-in ' book bears your initials," replied 
Mr. Booth, quietly. 

*' Oh! ** exclaimed the clerk, manifestly 
taken aback. 

Inside the bag which she handed to me I 
found, in addition to the items mentioned in 
the ^ paying'in' book, a small paper parcel 
which had evidently slipped in by mistake^*' 
resumed Mr. Booth, reading from his 

"I deny it!" cried the clerk, with an 

** I questioned the old woman quietly," 
said Mr. Booth, disregarding the interrup- 
tion and addressing me, **and found out 
how it happened. She has no suspicion 
to this moment, but I elicited from her 
that, at Mrs. Nix*s request, she fetched 
from the safe a small pile of gold and notes 
which she put into the bag. Among them, 
being near-sighted, she no doubt acci- 
dentally took up Herr IJolle's little parcel, 
unobserved by her mistress." 

** I never knew Dolle had lost any- 
thing/* interposed the major, hotly. 

"No; I persuaded him — for various 

reasons — to keep it quiet," replied Mr. 
Booth, smiling at me. 

' * When I found the parcel contained dia- 
monds,'' he proceeded, reverting to the 
written statement, ** I kept the discovery to 
myself^ and, hearing nothing further of the 
matter, I determined to appropriate them, I 
owed money, to Major Nix among others, for 
gambling debts, and I was hard pressed. 

" ^<? was pressing me," interposed the 
young man, half involuntarily. 

* * My difficulty was ho7V to get rid of them 
7vithout exciting suspicion,'' read Mr. Booth, 
calmly. '' And at length I decided to employ 
Major Nix, thinking that if anything went 
wrong I could deny all knowledge of them^ 
and that the circumstances of the case would 
bring suspicion on him." 

" Which was the reason why you were 
careful to tell me he was in money difficul- 
ties," I interrupted, indignantly, address- 
ing the young man, who winced at my 

" / therefore told him a cock-and-bull story ^ 
ivhich he, like a fool^ believed, and — bigger 
fool still — he undertook the business, in the 
hope of getting paid what I owed him. That 
is the whole," added Mr. Booth, in con- 

" You expect me to sign that paper, I 
suppose," sneered the young man, though 
he was evidently cowed and overawed. 

" No, I expect to have to hand you 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 



over to the police. I give you the chance, 
that's all," said Mr. Booth, laying down 
the document on the desk and rising from 
his chair. 

*' What if I sign it ? ** inquired the other, 
with sudden eagerness. 

** Herr Dolle has left himself in my 
hands,*' replied Mr. Booth, meaningly. 
** He will return to prosecute if necessary; 
otherwise, you will be free to go. The 
only difficulty I feel is about your em- 
ployers. They ought to be told." 

** They've found out more than enough 
already, and I'm sacked. What does it 
matter what 1 sign! Here, give me the 
pen," he added, with a transparently 
assumed air of desperation, and, taking a 
hasty stride to the table, he dashed off his 
signature and handed the document to Mr. 

** The door is open," said the latter, 
quietly, as he jerked the lever. 

"What use are you going to make of 
the paper?" inquired the young man, 
evidently seized with a sudden apprehen- 

" None, upon my honor," said Mr. 
Booth, folding it up and putting it in his 
pocket; "unless, indeed, I hear of your 
making any more libellous statements 
about Major Nix." 

" I couldn't make the major out a 
greater blackleg than he is," said the 
young man, with a bitter laugh; and with 
this parting shot he hurried from the room, 
and slammed the door after him. 

"Hi! Stop! " cried Major Nix, starting 
up with a great show of virtuous indigna- 

" Nonsense, Major," said Mr. Booth, 
severely. " Let the poor lad go. You've 
helped to bring him to this, you know." 

"1!" protested the major, though he 
looked sheepish beneath Mr. . Booth's 
steady regard. 

" Oh, he is a bad lot — I know all about 
him. 1 don't mean to say that you've led 
him astray. But you've betted with him — 
you, a man of nearly twice his age! And 
let me tell you, my friend, that you were 
in a very tight place, though you little sus- 
pected it," he added, impressively. " But 
for my interference you would probably 
have found yourself in the dock over this 
business, with every chance of hearing a 
verdict of * guilty ' returned against you 
by an intelligent jury." 

" I'm awfully obliged, I'm sure," mur- 
mured Major Nix, in a subdued tone. 

" What I did was for your wife's sake, 
and not for yours," replied Mr. Booth, a 
little contemptuously. "I'm not san- 
guine enough to hope that this affair will 
be a warning to you, but it oiight. Per- 
kins," he said, turning to me to hide a 
smile which was evoked by the major's 
ludicrous affectation of injured innocence, 
" would you mind putting out that gas ? I 
promised Mr. Klenck that I would lock 
the office up and hand the key to the 
housekeeper. We must get back or we 
shall be late for dinner." 

Digitized by 




r>v James F. McKay, 

Author of " A Leap in the Dark," '* Stella 
Grayland," and other stories. 

and Chauncey 
Smith were 
chums at 
school. Tom 
went into the 
a r in y and 
Chauncey into 
they drifted 
apart. Chaun- 
cey made a 
brilliant start 
in iiis first par- 
ish, but he re- 
signed sud- 
denly, and wandered about, then went out 
as missionary to the Oregons. Few knew 
that the cause of his going off the track 
was a certain Emily Varick. 

Miss Varick was a young person of 
ideas; and when Chauncey expressed his 
great regard for her, she repulsed him 
with some scornful remarks about carpet 
knights and the need there was for men 
and women to do noble deeds before say- 
ing fine words. 

Out West he met Frank Standish, but 
could get nothing from him about Tom. 
He did not succeed there, nor get on well 
with the other missionaries. Finally, he 
gave it up at short notice, and went 
straight back home to the old farm among 
the eastern hills. He left his baggage at 
the station, and walked home across lots, 
touched by every familiar stone and tree. 
It was haying-time, and he saw his father 
at the other end of a mown field. He took 
a stray fork and began heaping up the 
windrows, finding it pleasant that he could 
beat the man on the next row. The old 
man presently came down to see who it 
was, and Chauncey kept his head down 
and made the hay fly till his father stood 
close beside him. Then he dropped the 
fork and threw his arms across the bent 
<ihoulders, laughing with a sudden dim- 
ness in his eyes. 

"This is honest work,'* he said. ** I 
guess this is what I was made for.'* 

The old folks were glad and sorry, but 
saw he was not to be questioned. He 
worked away and made it pleasant for 
them all that summer and fall, but he did 
not find it satisfying. In the middle of 
November he got a letter from Frank 
Standish which he showed to his mother, 
and he told her the story in a few words. 

** I have just heard you are out of the 
woods," the captain wrote. *' I know 
just the spot for you. Maberly is going 
to take a professorship, and they want a 
parson up at Standish. They pay pretty 
well, and you're just the man. There's 
work enough to satisfy you and the kind 
of work you ought to be at. I've spoken 
about you, and they want to see you. 
Come up and preach for them at Thanks- 
giving. We'll all be at home this year, and 
will make it pleasant for you. Did you 
know I had been getting engaged ? She'll 
be there — come and see her. We'll de- 
pend on you." 

The old folks talked it over that night, 
and they urged him to go, though they 
would miss him sadly. So he set to work 
on a Thanksgiving sermon. He threw it 
away several times and went to work out 
of doors again. But he saw it vexed the 
old people; they had expected great 
things of him. Everybody had, in fact; 
he had been a brilliant fellow at college, 
class poet and a forcible speaker. In the 
end, he finished his sermon and started for 
Standish, intending to stop over one train 
in the city on some business of his father's. 

On the train he remembered that Dan 
Field lived at Preston on this road, and he 
looked out for him. Sure enough he saw 
him getting on the train. They sat to- 
gether the rest of the way, and Chauncey 
found his friend's strong, laughing talk 
very pleasant to hear again. He told him 
where he was going, and they talked over 
the Standishes, Nelly's marriage to Colo- 
nel Haven, Parrv's narrow escape from 


Digitized by VjOOQ IC 



the Arctic, and the rest. Chauncey asked 
Field if he knew anything about Tom and 
why Frank would not speak of him. Then 
Field stopped laughing. 

** No, they don't talk about Tom. Tom 
went to the bad. He got to be a lieuten- 
ant, and was out in New Mexico, acting 
captain and commissary of the post. He 
got into some scrape; there was a shortage 
in his accounts or something, and he was 
court-martialed and dismissed from the 
army in disgrace. Scott Jervis ran across 
him in New Orleans in a shirt and trousers 
and close down to the husks. Scott 
bought him a ticket and sent him home; 
and when he got to Standish they turned 
him out. He had dishonored them, and 
they shut the door in his face.'' 

Chauncey made little reply to this, ex- 
cept by the expression on his face. Tom 
Standish had been the gentlest, nicest boy 
he knew; and he did not know how to 
make this story fit. Finally he asked Field 
if he knew where Tom was. 

** Yes, I think he's about town. I used 
to get a glimpse of him, but he keeps on 
the shady side, and I haven't seen him in 
a long time. I hear about him occasion- 
ally, though, through a client of mine who 
keeps a place on the east side." 

They talked about some other things, 
but Chauncey was absent and forgetful, 
and after a while asked Field for his 
client's address. Field wrote a few words 
on a card, and gave it to him. Just as 
they were shaking hands in the hubbub of 
the streets, Field said, '* Remember me to 
Frank Standish; I suppose he told you he 
is going to marry Emily Varick." 

A wave of the hand, and then he was 
gone. Chauncey drifted on with the hu- 
man tide. When he remembered his 
father's business, it was too late for that 
day. He found he was tired out, and took 
a room at a cheap hotel near by. He 
threw himself on the bed, and lay there 
several hours without moving. 

Finally he got up and went out into the 
streets again. It was night now, and he 
wandered into a riotous quarter, finding 
it congenial with his humor. He saw, on 
a lamp, the name of the street Field had 
written for him, looked up the number, and 
went in. He gave Field's card to the pro- 
prietor of the place; and the man looked 
at it and him; then said: 

** 1 expect the man you want will be in 
here before long. I'll give you a hint 
when he comes." 

A faintness had crept upon Chauncey; 
he forgot that he had not eaten anything 

since early morning. He sat down aside, 
where he could watch the door. Presently 
a man came in and stood speaking to some 
one near the entrance. Chauncey sat 
looking at him in a kind of a dream, in 
which the brilliant lights, the swinging 
doors, the coming and going, the loud talk 
of flashy, sharp-faced men, swam in a shift- 
ing scene. Something made him turn, and 
the keeper of the place caught his eye, and 
motioned with his thumb toward Ihe door. 
He got up and met the new-comer half 
way. He was shabby and unkempt 
enough; but Chauncey was glad he was 
not like most of the people in the place, 
who were not shabby at least. He had to 
stare sharply to find the Standish look in 
the dull face, though, to tell the truth, Tom 
had always been a trifle dull. 

"Well, Tom, I suppose you don't re- 
member me," he said. 

" Yes," he answered, without brighten- 
ing, "I know you; you're Chauncev 

Chauncey had not the slightest idea 
what he was going to do with him, but he 
said decidedly: 

" Tom, come along with me. I want 
to talk to you." 

Tom looked dogged as well as dull. 

" I don't want to go with you. If you 
want to talk, we can do it here." 

"All I've got to say," Chauncey re- 
plied, " is that I think you've had enough 
of this, and I want you to come out of it." 

Tom simply refused, and Chauncey re- 

" Well, if you won't come with me, I'll 
go with you. I don't care much which." 

There was a certain hardness and reck- 
lessness in Chauricey's manner that worked 
through to Tom's dulled perception and 
affected him more than any appeal would 
have done; and finding that he couUnot 
sh^ke Chauncey off, he finally asked what 
he wanted of him, and let him take him 
away. Chauncey did not talk, but took him 
under his arm and walked him along with 
an impatient, almost fierce imperiousness 
that wielded the sway of natural right over 
Tom's milder spirit. He went into a 
clothing-store, pencilled on a scrap of 
wrapping-paper for the man to take Tom's 
measure in his eye, and pointed out what 
he wanted. His pocket-book was not very 
stout when he went in, and was lean when 
he came out, but he didn't care. He 
fetched the bundle away under one arm 
and 'l\)m under the other. He went into 
some baths behind a barber shop, saying: 

** Tom, I've been travelling all day and 

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feel principally composed of cinders and 
engine-smoke. Let's have a wash-up/' 

He turned on the water for Tom, threw 
down the bundle, and told him to put on 
the things, shut him in, and went into the 
next place himself. He was waiting when 
Tom came out, and he told the barbers to 
do their worst by them both. Then he 
saw in a glass that Tom looked something 
like a Standish again. He brought him 
away, and took him up to his room, stop- 
ping at the office to write T. J. Standish 
on the register. Then he sat down oppo- 


site to Tom, and forgot all about him for a 
good while, though he seemed to be star- 
ing at him all the time. 

By and by this roused a certain resent- 
ment in Tom, and he spoke up angrily: 

** Now, I'd like to know what you mean 
by all this." 

Chauncey straightened up, and woke 
himself slowly to a remembrance of the 
situation. Then he said, with a deliber- 
ateness that showed the fiery temper be- 
hind it: 

'* Say that over again slow." 

It was the perception of this something 
unnatural, something almost furious, be- 

hind Chauncey^s words and manner, that 
made Tom passive in his hands. 'J here 
had never been anything coarse about the 
Chauncey Smith that Tom had known, and 
now his whole manner and speech were 
rough. His talk had suddenly caught the 
flavor of the street, of the untamed, riot- 
ous world. He had chaffed and laughed 
harshly with the bath-keeper and the hotel 
clerk. Tom was shaken and stung by his 
scornful expression. 

" Do you suppose," he asked, " that a 
little soap and water can clean up a man 
who has been down in the mud 
for years ? " 

** No, I don't," Chauncey 
retorted. " I'll tell you what I 
suppose; I suppose any man is 
liable to slip and get down under 
foot and even roll into the gutter. 
But I didn't suppose until now 
that a man who had been brought 
up on soap and water would like 
mud well enough to be still and 
wallow in it until somebody came 
and pulled him out by the neck. 
I supposed that any one out of 
his teens must know that every 
man has his own way to make 
in this world, without much help 
from anybody else, and that any 
man who lies down in the street 
and whines for somebody to pick 
him up and push him along the 
straight road is a miserable fraud 
and failure." 

He said more of the same sort, 
said it harshly and hotly, and 
with the emphasis of strong lan- 
guage. His words were harder 
than those Tom had met when he 
went home, but there was an 
underlying difference that Tom 
felt rather than saw. The few 
words he had met at home sent 
him away hard and desperate; 
Chauncey's unbridled reproaches broke 
him to pieces, doubled him up, and set 
him sobbing like a whipped child. 

Chauncey kept still then, and did not 
interfere. But when Tom looked up, at 
length, he saw Chauncey bent forward, 
looking at him with his face between his 
hands. And from the face between his 
hands looked out a haggard misery. 

'' \ am a failure," Tom complained, — 
** I ought to know. And I'm a fraud, too. 
I suppose you've heard of it, like every- 
body else. I lost the money playing 
cards; there wasn't anything else to do in 
that cursed hole. But thev needn't have 

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been so hard on me when I went home. 
It was Frank and Nelly that were the 
worst. Nelly said she'd rather have heard 
that I was dead, and Frank put me out. 
The old man was awfully cut up, but I 
think 1 could have made it up with him if 
I had seen him alone. And I know Kate 
was sorry; but she wasn't home. I've got 
the letter here that she wrote me; I've 
read it a hundred times, but I never an- 
swered it. Frank is no saint himself, as 
I know. He said I had disgraced them, 
and they disowned me forever. I said I 
would disgrace them then, and I guess I 
have. But I might have done worse yet 
if it hadn't been for Kate." 

Chauncey still looked at him from be- 
tween his hands. 

** Don't mind me, Tom," he said; ** I 
wasn't preaching at you so much as at 
myself. It's I that am the failure. I got 
turned out, too, and I haven't stood up 
against it any better than you. I've been 
racing and raving about the country for a 
couple of years, and haven't done a decent 
thing. And I'm the worst kind of a fraud. 
I'm on my way now to preach at Thanks- 
giving and tell the people all the things 
we've <jot to be thankful for, and there isn't 
a thing in the world that I'm thankful for 
myself. See here, Tom; I've got it in my 
pocket, all written out Oh, it's beauti- 
ful! It shows you what great gains we've 
made, what blood and tears our liberty 
has cost, what noble characters and fami- 
lies generations of brave living have bred 
(like the Standishes, for example), and all 
the rest. And I don't care, to-night, if 
chaos comes again; I know the world is 
full of griefs too bitter for tears and 
wounds too deep to bleed. We're down 
in the ditch together, and it won't do any 
good for us to call names." 

And so these two confessed poor sin- 
ners humbled and bemoaned themselves 
far into the night, and crept sick-hearted 
into bed as the dawn began to come in 
from the sea. The city was all bustle and 
sunshine when they rose from their unre- 
freshing sleep. They went down and ate 
breakfast together, then wandered aim- 
lessly about the town. It brought back 
the memory of a holiday they had spent 
there as joyous boys; and they took the 
freak of going about to some of the same 
sights and shows, laughing as loudly as 
then, but with a different humor, as may 
be supposed. 

So the day passed, and Chauncey showed 
no sign of proceeding on his journey. He 
had not named his destination, but had in- 

timated that he was due farther north the 
night previous; and now it was the day 
befpre Thanksgiving. He had not gone 
into any particuJars, but it had been borne 
in upon Tom that here was a keener spirit 
than his own, quite as likely as not to go 
to pieces in the strait it was in. Chauncey 
left the lead to him all day, and in the 
evening Tom told Chauncey it was time 
to go and get his things to take the night 

So Chauncey went along with him, paid 
his bill, and they went up together to the 
northern train. Chauncey went to the 
ticket-office, and when he came back Tom 
held out his hand. 

" 1 won't forget this," he said, his voice 
turning thick as he spoke. ** You're the 
first one that hasn't despised me; you've 
done me a good turn. I'm going to do 

Chauncey did not take his hand. 

**I've got your ticket," he said. ** I 
won't go unless you do." 

Tom said there was no reason for his 
going; and Chauncey repfied, then they 
wouldn't go. He did not know what he 
was going to do with Tom or with himself 
Quite probably he perceived vaguely that 
throwing the lead on Tom had a good 
effect; and he persisted in it, half reck- 
lessly, half purposely. That was charac- 
teristic of his doubting and subtilizing 
intellect. Tom argued, hesitated, then 
went with him as the gates were about to 
close. They arrived between three and 
four in the morning, and went to the near- 
est hotel. Chauncey had kept the tickets, 
and Tom took no notice and did not know 
where they were to. 

On the previous morning Chauncey 
Smith had naturally been the subject of 
talk at the breakfast table in the Standish 
mansion. He had been expected the pre- 
ceding night. Emily Varick was there. 
She had been a school friend of Kate's, and 
in that way became acquainted with Kate's 
brother. Captain Frank, whom she admired 
as one of the doers of heroic things and 
a handsome, courtly fellow personally. 
Frank was led to speak of his acquaintance 
with Chauncey in the far West and the 
rather singular kind of missionary he 

" I used to think he was cut out for a 
soldier or trapper. He was a great rider 
and a splendid shot, and 1 don't think 
that he has any such thing as fear in his 
composition. I used to wonder at him; 
we never thought of him in that way in 
the old times. He used to be quite natty, 

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and his strong point was his head. There 
wasn't any white man out there the Indi- 
ans were as much afraid of as Parson 
Smith. I saw him knock down one of the 
biggest braves, one day, with his naked 
hand. And when the Shanahan family 
were cut off by the hostiles, nobody else 
would go, because it seemed sure death, 
and it would have been sure death to any 
one else. Smith lodged the women in a 
sort of chamber which he beat down in the 
middle of a thicket, where there was only 
a path for one to come in at a time; and 
he lay and guarded that path with a repeat- 
ing rifle, and dropped every redskin that 
showed himself, till he beat them off and 
gained time for the troops to come up. 
Vet he didn't seem to take much pleasure 
in anything; he was waspish in his temper 
and a kind of rough in his talk and dress. 

I used to think something had happened 
to him, but most likely he was only out of 

They did not know that Emily Varick 
knew Chauncey Smith, and she said noth- 
ing; but there was no more interested 
hearer of this account of him, as may be 

Chauncey and Tom came out of the 
hotel as the bell of the old church was 
ringing on Thanksgiving morning. Tom 
then first discovered that he was in the 
familiar old place, and it staggered him a 
good deal. They strolled along, looking 
about them silently, and came to the 
church door. Then Tom said: 

** I won't go in now, but I'll wait for 
you. Maybe I'll come in by and by." 

Chauncey hesitated, then went up the 
aisle and the pulpit stairs. The sexton 

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came and asked him if he was Mr. Smith, 
saying they had given him up and an old 
resident minister was expected to preach. 
Chauncey told him to send the old gentle- 
man up; and he presently came, shook 
hands, and asked if he should conduct the 
opening services, and Chauncey said he 
should like it. Then he saw the people 
gathering as in a dream. • He saw the Stand- 
ishes come down the aisle, each glancing 
up at him, and among them one who took 
his thoughts away from all the rest. The 
dream drifted on. Through it presently 
organ music rose and rolled; 
an anthem of many voices 
filled the house; the tones of 
prayer and scripture followed 
from the old gray-head beside 
him. And then he became 
aware that the people were 
waiting for him to speak. 

The sermon he had pre- 
pared was in his pocket, and 
he took it out mechanically, 
but did not open it; all that 
fact and logic was simply im- 
possible. The phrase came 
into his mind, ** It shall be 
given you in that same hour 
what ye shall speak." And he 
began in a low voice that 
never became loud, but grew 
more and more distinct as 
it took hold of the people, and 
hushed tliem by its suppressed 
passion and conviction. 

He alluded to the obvious 
causes for thankfulness, the 
undeniable gains of progress, 
our precious freedom and the 
great debt to the dead who 
wrought it out for us, and the 
honorand emulationwe rightly 
show to those who personally 
represent their noble tradi- 
tions of character and courage. He said 
that those who could uphold the heritage 
of honored names prospered only by the 
tenure of continued noble living, and not 
by any show of pride or state. He said 
that, after all, the individual life was the 
one essential thing, to which all the rest 
was but accessory; that in Job's day as 
in ours a man's life was a march from 
mystery to mystery, that still the earth 
is full of sorrow and sin, that the strength 
of the strongest is a breaking staff and 
the knowledge of the wisest but to see 
the vastness of the unknown. He said 
that all inventions and institutions came 
to nothing if they did not result in making 

men the more to do justice and love 
mercy and truth, and that perhaps jus- 
tice between man and man, when all was 
considered, was not far removed from the 
charity that is not puffed up but suffers 
long and forgives as it hopes to be for- 
given; that the mother who watches heart- 
sick, night after night, and hopes against 
hope, for the return of the prodigal to his 
right mind, reproaching him only by her 
wan face and tireless solicitude, does as 
much as another to bring him to feel the 
bitterness of feeding with the swine and to 

I aM not going t<.) makkv captain SrANDlSH. 

save his soul and her own. And he closed 
with the quotation: " I say unto you, that 
joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that 
repenteth, more than over ninety and nine 
just persons, which need no repentance." 

The service drew to an end, and the 
congregation dispersed. The Standishes 
waited while the old minister spoke with 
Chauncey; and when they came down 
from the pulpit together. Captain Frank 
went forward to meet them. Kate Stand- 
ish stood by her father in the aisle, tall, 
and strikingly like the gray-haired admiral 
with his straight and gracious dignity ; and 
now there was a certain wistful regret in 
both their faces, and neither of them 

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spoke. The place grew empty while they 
waited for Frank to come with Chauncey, 
and Frank*s sister, Mrs. Haven, chatted 
with MissVarick in an undertone. Kate's 
attention was attracted to a young man 
near the east door, partly hidden by a pillar 
against which lie leaned, with his back 
toward them. Presently she moved slowly 
down the aisle, keeping her eyes upon the 
stranger. She came quite near him by 
degrees, then stood still regarding him 
until he turned his face, as if by a painful 
effort, without looking up. She went for- 
ward, came full in front of him; and then 
he raised his eyes and smiled faintly. 

** Oh, Tom ! " she cried, and threw her 
arms about his neck. 

Chauncey had slipped out at the rear 
door, and Frank joined the family and 
came down the aisle with them. Aston- 
ished at Kate, they came near and found 
her sobbing on Tom's neck. Frank took 
hold of her arm and spoke sternly, com- 
nnanding her to come away; but Tom 
straightened up then, put his arm about 
her, and faced the tall captain. 

** Stand off," he said. *' She is my sis- 
ter as much as yours." 

Frank had assumed a good deal of 
power in the family of late years, and his 
father had given way to him. But days 
like this always brought the old admiral 
bitter longings for his lost boy, which the 
words he had just heard had not made less; 
and he interposed now with a tremulous 
authority not to be gainsaid. 

" Let her alone; it is her brother. He 
is my son; and if he has come back peni- 
tent, he shall not be turned away." 

And Tom was penitent enough, and went 
home to his father's house, where all but 
Frank and Mrs. Haven received him with 
varying degrees of cordiality. Frank did 
not come to dinner at all, but had an inter- 
view with his father alone afterward, and 
then went and talked with Miss Varick. 
He told her how much he regretted this 
unfortunate affair on her account; said 
that his father had been wrought upon by 
the impertinent personalities of that fel- 
low Smith and refused to hear reason; 
that it was, of course, very painful to him, 
but it was his duty as* the future head of 
the farnily to protest in its honor by leav- 
ing the house. He was sorry to cut short 
her visit, but as his future wife, she would, 
of course, wish to leave with him, and he 
would accompany her to the city in the 
morning. To his surprise, Miss Varick 
dissented from these views and arrange- 

The captain, who was very angry, under 
a show of courtly bearing gave her the 
night to consider, and said he would take 
her" answer in the morning as an intimation 
that she did or did not wish to continue 
their present relation. 

Emily Varick did not sleep much that 
night. Early in the morning. Captain 
Frank sent her a ceremonious note, ask- 
ing if she desired his escort into town; and 
she returned a more simple reply, to the 
effect that she was very sorry, but could 
not go with him that day. He read it and 
turned away, and ordered himself to be 
driven to the train alone. 

Emily went into Kate's room and talked 
it over with her, both being much con- 
cerned, and some tears were shed on both 
sides. Kate told her friend more fully 
about Tom, and enlarged upon Chauncey's 
generous service, of which Tom had been 
talking to her. He had found him at the 
hotel again, and urged him to remain, and 
this morning had gone down to him with 
an invitation from the admiral. Tom 
came back alone, found Kate with Miss 
Varick, and told her that Chauncey sent 
his regrets, but said there were reasons 
personal to himself that made it impos- 
sible for him to come. Tom said he was 
going up to his father, and then would 
return to the hotel. Miss Varick turned 
to him then, and said : 

" When you go back to the hotel, tell 
him that I wish him to come." 

Tom looked his surprise, but bowed and 
went on up-stairs. Kate looked at Kmily. 

** Do you know Chauncey Smith ? " 

And Emily answered, " Yes." 

Kate made no further inquiry except by 
a long, grave look in her face; but when 
Tom came up and told her Chauncey was 
below, she took Emily with her and went 
down. She walked straight across to 
Chauncey, gave him her hand, and said 

" 1 am very glad, indeed, to see you, and 
very grateful. I will go and tell my 
father. Here is some one you know." 

She went out and shut the door. Chaun- 
cey did not move or speak until Emily 
came across and said, with embarrass- 

" I am glad you came. I wanted to say 
to you that I think you have acted a very 
generous and unselfish part in this affair, 
knowing, as you must, that you ran the 
risk of forfeiting an excellent position by 
doing and saying what you did. You must 
be glad now. And I wanted to say that I 
have heard of your noble bravery and de- 

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votion in the West, and that — and that 

He stood looking down at her. After a 
pause, he said in a low tone: 

" There is not a word of truth in all 

She sat down then, and both were 
silent. After a while he asked: 

*' Would you mind if 1 tell you the 
truth ? " 

And she answered, " Yes, tell me." 

" I went to the West on your account; 
I was restless at home, and 1 was restless 
and reckless out there. I earned the dis- 
like of the missionaries, and was impatient 
and overbearing with the Indians. I didn't 
care for my life, and they thought me 
brave. I didn't care for anything but you. 
I did no good out there, and have been 
working as a farm-laborer this year, wast- 
ing the talents and education that were 
given me. On my way here I heard about 
Tom, and that you were going to marry 
Frank Standish. I was sorry about Tom, 
of course, but should not have done him 
any good if I had not been desperate my- 
self. I could not have come here and 
preached as I intended, knowing about 
you. Tom did as much to bring me as I to 
bring him. In truth, I suppose it was my 
hunger to see you that brought us both." 

" You should not talk so; if we analyzed 
motives in that way, all honor would dis- 

She turned away and stood by the win- 
dow a little while, then came back part 

" I thfnk I said some foolish things to 
you, which I am afraid did you harm. I 
am very sorry, and want to do anything 
I can to repair the wrong. I am going to 
tell you something -about myself, on the 
condition that you do not take me to mean 
anything more than exactly what I say, 
and that you say nothing in reply, but go 
away and get back to honest work at your 
vocation, and do not come to see me for a 
year. I am not going to marry Captain 

Chauncey stood still, incapable, for a 
time, of taking in the meaning of those 
dozen syllables tliat changed the aspect 
and attitude of all the universe. 

" I am sorry you are troubled," he said. 
" Can I do anything for you ? " 

" You forget the condition," she re- 

" I did not agree to the condition. I 
have been selfish and blind, and x want 
you to say you forgive me. It was be- 
cause I cared so much for you that I could 
not think of anything — I could not care 
for anything else in the world besides you. 
Don't you think you could forgive me for 
that ?" 

He was sufficiently serious, yet there was 
a suggestion of humor in his words that 
marked the returning sanity of his mind 
and made Emily laugh through quick- 
springing tears, stirred by the same ob- 
scure touch in the kindred fountains of 
sorrow and mirth. Then she got up quickly 
and went toward the door; but Chauncey 
followed and detained her. 

** Emily," he pleaded, "a year is such 
a long time. If I gel well to work before 
that, may I come and tell you ? Say in 
six months ? " 

"Well," she answered, " I suppose you 
will have it your own way." 

He took her hand from the knob and 
held it a moment tight in his own, looking 
at her earnestly. Then he opened the 
door for her, stood aside, and let her go 

Tom went with him to the train at his 
departure, and they shook hands warmly 
yet soberly at parting. Tom thanked him 
again, and expressed his determination to 
redeem the past. And Chauncey said: 

** I owe you at least as much as you owe 
me. W'e've climbed out of the ditch to- 
gether, Tom. We haven't either of us got 
to the top of the hill or in sight of it yet, 
but the straight road lies before us, and we 
both know the taste of ditch water well 
enough not to want to roll in again if we 
can help it." 

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By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, 

Author of " The Gates Ajar," ** A Singular Life," etc. 


A MAKER of books with any tendency 
towards the activities of moral re- 
form may be at some peculiar disadvan- 
tages. As I look back upon the last 
twenty-five years of my own life, I seem 
to myself to have achieved little or noth- 
ing in the stir of the great movements for 
improving the condition of society which 
have distinguished our day. Yet I am 
conscious that these have often thrust in 
my study door and dragged me out into 
their forays, if not upon their battlefields. 
The grandfather who belonged to the un- 
derground railway and the grandfather of 
the German lexicon must have contended 
in the brain cells or heart cells of their 
unconscious descendant, as our ancestors 
do in the lives of all of us; for the re- 
former's blood and the student's blood 
have always had an uncomfortable time 
of it together in my veins. 

It is almost impossible to understand, 
now, what it meant when I was twenty- 
five for a young lady, reared as I was on 
Andover Hill, to announce that she should 
forthwith approve and further the enfran- 
chisement and elevation of her own sex. 
Seen beside the really great martyrdoms 
and dedications of the ** causes" which 
throb through our modern life, this seems 
an episode only large enough to cause a 
smile. Yet I do not, to this hour, like to 
recall, and I have no intention whatever 
of revealing, what it cost me. In fact, it 
seems to have been my luck to stumble 
into various forms of progress to which 1 
have been of the smallest possible use. 
yet for whose sake I have suffered the dis- 
comfort attending all action in moral im- 
provements without the happiness of 
knowing that this was clearly quite worth 

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The creed is short, though it has taken 
a long time to formulate it. 

I believe in the life everlasting, which is 
sure to be; and that it is the first duty of 
Christian faith to present that life in a 
form more attractive to the majority of 
men than the life that now is. 

I believe in women, and in their right 
to their own best possibilities in every de- 
partment of life. 

I believe that the methods of dress 
practised among women are a marked 
hindrance to the realization of these pos- 
sibilities, and that they should be scorned 
or persuaded out of society. 

I believe that the miseries consequent 
on the manufacture and sale of intoxicat- 
ing liquors are so great as to command 
imperiously the attention of all dedicated 
lives; and that, while the abolition of 
American slavery was numerically first, 
the abolition of the liquor traffic is not 
morally second. 

1 believe that the urgent protest against 
vivisection which marks our immediate 
day, and the whole plea for lessening the 
miseries of animals as endured at the hands 
of men, constitute the ** next ** great moral 
question which is to be put to the intelligent 
conscience, and that only the educated 
conscience can properly reply to it. 

I believe that the condition of our com- 
mon and statute laws is behind our age to 
an extent unperceived by all but a few of 
our social reformers; that wrongs mediae- 
val in character, and practically resulting 
in great abuses and much unrecorded suf- 
fering, are still to be found at the doors of 
our legal system; and that they will remain 
there till the fated fanatic of this unde- 
veloped ** cause " arises to demolish them. 

I am uncertain whether I ought to add 
that I believe in the homoeopathic system 
of therapeutics. I am often told by 
sceptical friends that 1 hold this belief on 
a par with the Christian religion, and 1 am 
not altogether inclined to deny the sar- 
donic impeachment ! When our bodies 
cease to be drugged into disease and sin, 
it is my personal impression that our souls 
will begin to stand a fair chance; perhaps 
not much before. 

Too brief a creed ! Yet still too short 
a life to practise it ! But may the clover 
refuse to grow over my grave, and the 
flowers laid there by the dearest hands 
shrink from it, if I outlive the impulse of 
my heart to keep step with the onward 
movement of human life, and to perceive 
the battle afar off, charging when and 
where I can. 

Justice Holmes, the son of our great 
poet, in a recent Decoration Day .address, 
struck a paean in praise of the "splendid 
carelessness of life*' which war taught us. 
Give us such splendid carelessness in 
moral as in physical danger, and the world 
will spin fast towards the stars ! 

I have intimated that the claims of my 
study have interfered with the demands 
which social reform would otherwise have 
made upon my life. This is an inevitable 
fact, imperfectly to be understood except 
by people whose business is to stay in a 
study. There is a puzzled expression 
sometimes cast upon one by men and 
women — but especially by women — whom 
one holds in the highest honor, whose 
own existence is dedicated to the moral 
agitation of the platform and the conven- 
tion and to the machinery of organiza- . 
tion. Mine is not, nor has it ever been. 
My intellect may go with them, and my 
heart may throb for them, but my time 
and my vitality have always been dis- 
tinctly the property of my ideals of liter- 
ary art; ideals which are not the less im- 
perious to me because I know better than 
any of my critics how impossible it has 
been for me to reach them, where they — 

*' Swing: like lamps in the Judj^^ment Hall 

On the eve of the Day of the Last Awaking." 

'• Do not trouble her. She works in an- 
other way from ours,*' said Mrs. Liver- 
more gently, one day, to some unknown 
agitator who was abusing rather than en- 
treating me into the performance of some 
platform exhibition for the sake of the 
cause. I blessed the great woman who 
defended me from the small one, and I 
think of her words and manner gratefully 
to this day. 

And this leads me to say, by the way — 
if 1 may spare a paragraph for the confes- 
sion — that it is fortunate for the real use- 
fulness and power of women in public 
address that their eminent success in this 
direction has never in the least depended 
upon my individual contributions to its 
history. In the course of my life I have 
made, indeed, the most conscientious and 
courageous efforts to defy my own tem- 
perament in this respect. I have read, 
and preached, and lectured; possibly I 
may have martyred myself in this manner 
fifteen or twenty times. The kindest of 
audiences, and my full quota of encour- 
agement, have not, and has not, been able 
to supply me with the pluck required to 
add visibly to this number of public ap- 

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pearances. Before an audience I am an 
abject coward, and I have at last concluded 
to admit the humiliating fact. The solid 
ampunt of suffering which I have endured 
on such occasions is as disproportionate 
as it is ridiculous. Once I was rash 
enough to pledge myself to deliver a short 
course of literary lectures before a coedu- 
cational university, where 1 was sure of 
that admiring and uncritical sympathy 
which young students give to a teacher to 
whom, for any reason, they feel at all 
drawn. For six disastrous weeks before 
this simple experience I dwindled with 
terror, day and night; and I came to that 
audience of boys and girls as if they had 
been a den of tigers and I a solitary dis- 
abled gladiator, doomed at their claws. 

I contrived to live to the end of that 
**course*of lectures,** hiding my agonies 
with such hypocritical dissimulation that 
I was told their existence was not sus- 
pected by my audience. Whether the 
students were any wiser for that literary 
instruction I do not know; but I was. 
The inevitable miseries of life are enough, 
I said. I will never ornament them with 
the superfluous again. To the lecture 
bureaus and the charity entertainments of 
our elocutionary land I have since that 
occasion offered one monoconous reply: I 
am not a platform woman. Go thou in 
peace, but, I pray thee, have me excused. 

Dr. Bushnell's strong and vicious 
phrase, **the reform against nature," 
which is so often misapplied in opposition 
to the higher interests of women, some- 
times finds its fit survival; and I meekly 
suggest this as one of the contingencies 
which it seems created to cover. 1 glory 
in the success of a modest and high- 
minded woman in public address. 1 am 
proud of her to the last shrinking nerve in 
my own organization. She seems to me 
something phenomenal, to be admired in 
silent awe. Hut this is a reform against 
«ry nature; and I have retreated from the 

I have said (to return to our interrupted 
thought) that the duties of a student and 
writer have often encroached upon my 
power to throw my life into moral reforms; 
but I am anxious to add that my interest 
in moral reforms has never, to my con- 
sciousness, encroached upon my power — 
such as that has been — to write, or upon 
those habits of study which are the key to 
the combination lock of all successful 
writing. On the contrary, I am dis- 
tinctly aware that such sympathies with 

the moral agitations of our day as have 
touched me at all have fed, not famished, 
my literary work. I think that most 
writers who have trodden a similar path 
would say as much; but there is more in- 
volved in such testimony than would seem 
at first sight. Let me suspend the thought, 
however, while I allow myself a moment 
of more purely personal musing. 

Upon reviewing the list of books which 
my* long-suffering publishers of the emi- 
nent and friendly house which has borne 
with me for thirty years attribute to my 
pen, I find in the whole of it but one 
which is confessedly and componently 
written to further an ethical reform. 
This is a little pamphlet on the dress of 
women. It is nothing more nor less than a 
tract; and never claimed to be. A tract, 
though it spoke with the rhetoric of men, 
of artists, or of angels, and though it had 
compassed the circulation of a yellow 
novel or a spelling-book, is in no sense 
literature, nor even literary art; nor ever 
claims to be. No artist or artisan of the 
school of art for art's sake can be more 
acutely aware of axioms like these than 
his fellow-student who, from a diametri- 
cally opposite conceptiog of the nature and 
province of literature, dips his pen now 
and then into the hot blood of some battle 
with skulking error which preachers and 
philanthropists and men of science have 
passed by upon the other side and left 
for the teller of tales or the singer of song 
to trouble himself wherewith. 

If I am reminded how many of my 
stories have been written with an ethical 
purpose, that is quite another accusation, 
and one which I have not, from any point 
of view, the wraith of a wish to deny. 

I have been particularly asked, in clos- 
ing these papers, to say a few words about 
my own theory of literary art. However 
unimportant one's personal fraction of 
achievement may be, it is built upon the- 
ory of some kind; and the theory may be 
considered of as much or as little interest 
or value as the work achieved. 

** I have never gone — I do not go — so 
deep as that," said one of our foremost 
novelists to me, many years ago, when I 
asked him why he did not handle some 
situation which had presented itself to me 
as peculiarly adapted to his strong and 
delicate pen. But he spoke gravely, and 
too thoughtfully for the lightness of his 
words. I was not surprised when, long 
afterwards, I noticed that he had become 
absorbed in some of the most serious of 
sociological questions, and that a bonk of 

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his no longer held itself in graceful scorn 
apart from the study of the higher and the 
deeper lawc which govern human life. 
But the phrase of his stayed by me. He 
would not go "so deep as that"? Yet 
this was no inditer of society verse, no 
builder of uproarious paragraphs, no dab- 
bler in comedy, whose profession it was to 
make a man laugh after dinner, or a 
woman smile when she had sat down to cry. 
(Heaven preserve the lightsome race, for 
we need them when we can spare the 
tragic artist.) He of whom I speak was 
an artist in fiction; of dignitv, versatility, 
and fame. 

What manner of artist were ne, I make 
bold to ask, who would not "go as deep 
as that"? Graceful, elaborate, subtle, 
ingenious, charming, he may be. Perfect, 
I suggest, he is not, and he cannot be; 
no, nor even complete in the artistic sense 
of the term, who refuses to portray life 
exactly as it is. 

In a word, I believe it to be the province 
of the literary artist to tell the truth about 
the world he lives in: and I suggest that, 
in so far as he fails to be an accurate truth- 
teller, he fails to be an artist. 

Now, there is something obviously very 
familiar about this simple proposition; 
and, turning to trace the recognition down, 
one is amused to perceive that here is al- 
most the precise language of the school of 
writers to which one distinctly does not 
belong. Truth, like climate, is common 
property; and I venture to suggest that 
the issue between the two contending 
schools of literary art to-day is not so 
much one of fact as of form; or, perhaps 
I should rather say, not so much one of 
theory as of temperament in the expres- 
sion of theory. 

A literary artist portrays life as it is, or 
has been, as it might be, or as it should 
be. We classify him as the realist, the 
romanticist, or the idealist; though I am 
not sure but our classification is more de- 
fective than his ability to meet it. Sepa- 
rate, for instance, the first of these clauses 
from the formulation. Let us say, it is 
the duty of the artist in fiction to-day to 
paint life as it exists. With this inevitable 
observation who of us has any quarrel ? 

The quarrel arises when the artist de- 
fines his subject and chooses his medium. 
The conflict begins when the artist proffers 
his personal impression as to what life is. 
"Your work," said Hall Caine before the 
Century Club, "is what you are." Just 
here, I venture to suggest, lies the only 
important, uncontested field left in a too 

familiar war. Most of the controversy 
between our schools of art goes "firing 
wild," because it fails to perceive the true 
relations of this one simple feature of re- 

We are all agreed, I submit, that we 
should picture life as it is. If I may re- 
turn to the definitive words, our difference 
is not so much one of artistic theory as of 
the personal equation. Our book reveals 
what life is to us. Life is to us what we 
are. Mr. Howells, in his charming papers 
of last autumn on literary Boston, has 
given us some of the latest phrases of the 
school of art whose chief exponent in 
America he undoubtedly is. Of our great 
New Englanders — Hawthorne, Emerson, 
Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes, 
Mrs. Stowe — he says: " Their art was 
Puritan. So far as it was impressed . . . 
it was marred by the intense ethicism that 
pervaded . . . and still characterizes the 
New England mind. . . . They still help- 
lessly pointed the moral in all they did. 
It was in poetry and in romance that they 
excelled. In the novel, so far as they at- 
tempted it, they failed. . . . New Eng- 
land yet lacks her novelist, because it was 
her instinct and her conscience to be true 
to an ideal of life rather than to life it- 
self." Of the greatest of American 
novels, he concludes by saying that " it is 
an address to the conscience and not to 
the taste; -to the ethical sense, not the 
aisthetical sense." 

This is not the place, nor does it offer 
the space, in which to reply with anything 
which I should call thoroughness to such a 
view of the nature of art. But it seems 
to be the place for me to suggest, at least, 
as much as this: 

Since art implies the truthful and con- 
scientious study of life as it is, we con- 
tend that to be a radically defective view 
of art which would preclude from it the 
ruling constituents of life. Moral char- 
acter is to human life what air is to the 
natural world — it is elemental. 

There was more than literary science in 
Matthew Arnold's arithmetic when he 
called "conduct three-fourths of life." 
Possibly the Creator did not make the 
world chiefly for the purpose of providing 
studies for gifted novelists; but if He had 
done so, we can scarcely imagine that He 
could have offered anything much better 
in the way of material, even though one 
look the moral element squarely in the 
face and abide by the fact of its tremen- 
dous proportion in the scheme of things. 
The moral element, it cannot be denied, 

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Elizabeth stuart p helps. 


predominates enormously in the human 
drama. The moral struggle, the creation 
of character, the moral ideal, failure and 
success in reaching it, anguish and ecstasy 
in missing or gaining it, the instinct to ex- 
tend the appreciation of moral beauty 
and to worship its Eternal Source — these 
exist wherever human being does. The 
whole magnificent play of the moral nature 
sweeps over the human stage with a force, 
a splendor, and a diversity of effect which 
no artist can deny if he would, which the 
greatest artist never tries to withstand, 
and against which the smallest will pro- 
test in vain. 

Strike *'ethicism*' out of life, good 
friends, before you shake it out of story! 
Fear less to seem ** Puritan " than to be 
inadequate. Fear more to be superficial 
than to seem *' deep.'* Fear less to point 
your moral than to miss your opportu- 
nity. It is for us to remind you, since it 
seems to us that you overlook the fact, 
that in any highly formed or fully formed 
creative power the ** ethical" as well as 
the ** aesthetical sense" is developed. 
Where ** the taste" is developed at the 
expense of ** the conscience " the artist is 
incomplete. He is, in this case, at least as 
incomplete as he is where the ethical 
sense is developed at the expense of the 
aesthetic. Specialism in literary art, as in 
science, has its uses, but it is not sym- 
metry; and this is not a law intended to 
work only one way. 

It is an ancient and honorable rule of 
rhetoric, that he is the greatest writer 
who, other things being equal, has the 
greatest subject. He is, let us say, the 
largest artist who, other things being 
equal, holds the largest view of human 
life. The largest view of human life, we 
contend, is that which recognizes moral 
responsibility, and which recognizes it in 
the greatest way. 

In a word, the province of the artist is 
to portray life as it is, and life is moral re- 
sponsibility. Life is several other things, 
we do not deny. It is beauty, it is joy, 
it is tragedy, it is comedy, it is psychical 
and physical pleasure, it is the interplay of 
a thousand rude or delicate motions and 
emotions, it is the grimmest and the mer- 
riest motley of phantasmagoria that could 
appeal to the gravest or the maddest brush 
ever put to palette; but it is steadily and 
sturdily and always moral responsibility. 
An artist can no more fling off the moral 
sense from his work than he can oust it 
from his private life. A great artist (let 
jne repeat) is too great to try to do so. With 

one or two familiar exceptions, of which 
more might be said, the greatest have laid 
in the moral values of their pictures just 
as life lays them in; and in life they are 
not to be evaded. There is a squeamish- 
ness against " ethicism " which is quite as • 
much to be avoided as any squeamishness 
about '* the moral nude in art" or other 
debatable question. The great way is to 
go grandly in, as the Creator did when He 
made the models which we are fain to 
copy. After all, the Great Artist is not a 
poor master; all His foregrounds stand 
out against the perspective of the moral 
nature. Why go tiptoeing about the easel 
to avoid it ? 

** Helplessly to point the moral " is the 
last thing needful or artistic. The moral 
takes care of itself. Life is moral struggle. 
Portray the struggle, and you need write 
no tract. In so far as you feel obliged to 
write the tract, your work is not well done. 
One of the greatest works of fiction ever 
given to the world in any tongue was " Les 
Mis^rables. " Are those five books the less 
novels because they raised the mortal cry 
of the despised and rejected against the 
deafness of the world ? By the majesty 
of a great art, No! 

Did Victor Hugo write a tract ? He 
told an immortal story. Hold beside it 
the sketches and pastels, the etchings, the 
studies in dialect, the adoration of the 
incident, the dissection of the cadaver, 
which form the fashion in the ateliers of 
our schools to-day! 

It has seemed to me, to return to the 
personal question, that, so far as one is able 
to command attention at all, one's first 
duty in the effort to become a literary 
artist is to portray the most important, 
not altogether the least important, feat- 
ures of the world he lives in. The last 
thirty years in America have pulsated with 
moral struggle. No phase of society has 
escaped it. It has ranged from social ex- 
periment to religious cataclysm and to 
national upheaval. I suggest that even 
moral reforms, even civic renovations, 
might have their proper position in the 
artistic representation of a given age or 
stage of life. I submit that even the re- 
ligious nature may be fit material for a 
work of art which shall not be refused the 
name of a novel for that reason. Such ex- 
pressions of "ethicism" are phases of 
human life, are elements of human nature. 
Therefore, they are lawful material for 
any artist who chooses them, who under- 
stands them, and whose art is sufficient for 
their control. If he has sacrificed truth 

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or beauty to didactics he is, in so far, no 
artist. But because lie selects for his can- 
vas, whether from mere personal aptitude 
or from a color sense which leads him to 
prefer the stronger values, the moral 
elements of life, he shall not for that reason 
be denied the name of artist. **Omit 
eternity in your estimate of area," said a 
great mathematician, **and your solution 
is wrong.** Omit the true proportions of 
moral responsibility in your estimate of 
beauty, you who paint for '* Art's sake,*' 
and your art is in error. 

There is one form of fiction which, I 
think, is imperfectly understood by stu- 
dents and critics, to which, as it happens, 
1 have given some special attention, and 
which is, therefore, peculiarly interesting 
to me. I mean the short story. The 
difficulties in the way of creating a good 
novel are sufficiently obvious. I question 
whether they are as severe as those in the 
case of the short story. The short story, 
in its present stage of evolution, is a 
highly developed piece of workmanship, 
and will, I think, yet become a far more 
exquisite one than we at present compass. 
A good short story is a work of art which 
daunts us in proportion to its brevity. It 
would not be easy for one who has not 
"served his time out** at this form of 
creation to understand the laws of con- 
struction involved in it and the rigidity 
of obedience demanded by them. Per- 
haps I ought fairly to say, in venturing to 
offer this assertion, that, personally, I 
make a very hard time of it over a short 
story. I do not know how to write one 
easily or quickly. ** Those things?'' said 
a friend to me once, and he a learned 
man, accustomed to study from fourteen 
to eighteen hours a day at his own profes- 
sion. " Why, I supposed you got those 
off in a few hours! " 

It has always taken me at least from a 
month to six weeks to finish a magazine 
story. I confess that I **toil terribly** 
over them. It makes little difference 
whether the motif comes in a blinding 
flash, or in a slow, insulated electric cur- 
rent: the construction and execution re- 
main inexorable ideals, frowning above 
attention, patience, vitality, energy, until 
the work is done. One who honors this 
vehicle of thought is often ill with the 
strain before a magazine tale of forty 
pages of manuscript can be apparently 
completed. The work upon such a story 
is never done. Revision calls the vision 
to account in that iron exaction from one's 

self which is so much more remorseless 
than the exaction that any critic can make 
upon one. 

Fortunately, perhaps, the editor calls 
for his copy, and the laboring pen must 
drop its loving task. The story goes to 
press. Then come the days and nights 
of wishing that it had stayed at home! 
Then the steady action of the brain, 
which has for weeks stiffened about the 
story, goes on till it meets the reaction 
awaiting all strenuous labor. I recast, 
remodel, retouch, destroy the whole thing 
a dozen times in my mind, and recreate it ; 
scathing myself that I ever suffered it to 
leave the safe protection of the little 
pasteboard pad, held across the lap, on 
which I write. The proof-sheets come: at 
once a species of relief and of torment. 
The changes which can and which cannot 
be made in the text combat each other. 
No proof leaves the study without three 

I look upon a short story, properly 
fitted for the higher magazines of our day, 
as one of the very finest forms of expres- 
sion. No inspiration is too noble for it; 
no amount of hard work is too severe for 
it. It is my belief that there is a future 
for the short story, which all our experi- 
ments and achievements are building with 
a gradual and a beautiful architecture. 

Is the natural growth of this way of 
telling a story in part a concession to the 
restlessness of our times, in which all men 
are driven by ** the whip of the sky ** and 
leisure is a lost art ? Shall we sometime 
come to the point where people will no 
longer think themselves able to read 
books? Will the novel dwindle to the 
novelette (that dreariest of efforts to do 
a thing and not do it at the same time) ? 
Will the scientific volume shrink to the 
essay in the last review ? Will all the 
classics in fiction some day be short sto- 
ries ? Who can prophesy? Not I; and 
would not, if I could. 

Perhaps the question oftenest asked of 
any writer by ** the great unknown " of 
his readers is which of his own writings 
he personally prefers. It has always 
seemed to me rather a foolish question; 
for it is not of the slightest consequence 
what an author thinks about his own 
work: he may have his opinion as to what 
ought to be the best thing he has done; 
but his readers will decide for him what is 
the best — or the worst — that he has offered 

** The public," Thackeray used to say, 
** is a jackass." With this great author- 

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ity I feel forced to differ a little. On the 
whole, I have a profound respect for the 
sense of the reading public. If large 
numbers of intelligent people like a book 
— one may believe in one's soul that it is 
the poorest thing one has done — but one 
is forced to think that there was something 
worth while about it. If they dislike a 
book, I am more than ready to suspect 
that there is a reason for it, though I may 
labor under the personal delusion that it 
is my chef-cTccuvre, 

Still, since there seems to be a wide- 
spread natural wish to know how authors 
discriminate among their own works, I do 
not know that it is any more unreasonable 
a demand to comply with than the mania 
for autographs. 

And, by the way, if I may take a mo- 
ment's recess from a subject which will 
not be the worse for a respite, this may be 
as good a place as any other in which to 
say that I have been reluctantly forced, 
for dear life, to decline the distribution 
of autographs by mail, except for the 
gratification of the sick and for charities. 
The demand having reached a point where 
I had no longer strength or time to com- 
ply with it, I was forced to adopt a course 
not at heart as ungracious as it may seem. 
Good Lord, deliver us from ten, twenty 
cards to an envelope! And preserve us 
from the crises when the autograph epi- 
demic strikes a school or a college, like 
the measles, and runs through! When 
autograph bed-quilts and autograph aprons 
vie with autograph lamp-shades and auto- 
graph table-cloths, a writer who cannot 
command secretary, typewriter, or any 
aid whatever to the mechanical part of 
his profession, finds himself at bay. 
When, one day, I received a peremptory 
order from some remote and unknown in- 
dividual for autograph prayers^ I resorted 
to the protest of all overworked and un- 
derpaid laborers in our times — I struck. 

To come back to our bisected para- 
graph: If I am to say for which of my 
short stories I have any especial prefer- 
ence, the list would be sadly brief — ** The 
Madonna of the Tubs," perhaps, and 
** Jack, the Fisherman," ** The Supply at 
Saint Agatha's," **The Bell of Saint 
Basil's," and possibly one other. These 
indicate to my aspiration the astral bodies 
of something which I should have liked to 
do, if I could have done it. 

Among the books which I have written 
in the last twenty-five years there are too 
many which were cast in very early youth, 
when an unpractised pen and unformed 

ideas of art compassed nothing that I like 
to recall, or to have others remember. 
The stories known as " The Gates " series 
have a certain interest to me, for the rea- 
son that they continue to this day to find 
more readers than any or all other books 
I have written, and that in chronological 
proportion. ** Beyond the Gates" and 
"The Gates Between" were written in 
maturer life than the first: I have a little 
tenderness for these two dreams of the 
life to be. "The Story of Avis" is a 
woman's book, and an author would care 
for it in proportion as she cared for her 
own sex. Perhaps, on the whole, I have 
written nothing which I should be so sorry 
to have seriously misunderstood, or am so 
glad to find friends for, as the last story: 
"A Singular Life." 

This brings me to say, gladly, how 
much I owe, in the little share of the hard 
work of my times which I have done, to 
the picturesque, warm-hearted people of 
the sea, among whom I have spent the 
last twenty summers. The tide does not 
rise through my pen as it did through 
Celia Thaxter's — who, I think, seldom pub- 
lished a poem which did not contain an 
allusion to the sea; but I have neighbored 
the life of the coast too long not to feel 
myself a part of it. I am told that cer- 
tain " material " in Gloucester is pointed 
out as the original of scenes or of characters 
in some of my stories; and I should like 
to take this opportunity to say that, while 
I may paint in the tints or outlines of 
rocks and beaches, downs and harbor, 
fleet and wharf, I never draw portraits of 
my neighbors or of my friends. They 
have taught me much, however, of a kind 
of knowledge of which it would be im- 
possible for any writer to divest himself. 
I honor their courage, their generosity, 
their patience in hardship, and their pluck 
in overcoming it; and I like that some- 
thing wild and salt in their natures akin 
to the winds and the waves in which they 
live. In so far as their qualities have 
washed up into my stories, the debt is dis- 
tinctly mine. The story of " A Singular 
Life" came out of the depths of the sea 
and of a heart that has long loved the sea 
people. Bayard is my dearest hero. 

Our Gloucester home itself has suffered 
a " sea change " within the last five years. 
The choice spot on the chosen side of the 
harbor became, in time, a Babel in which 
only those "who sleep o* nights" could 
rest. The tramp and the tongue of the 
summer army devastated Paradise. The 
wand of the house-mover — most startling 

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of modern magicians — waved over the cot- 
tage; and to-day we find ourselves wafted 
from shore to farm: from stormy tides, 
both salt and human, we have come to 
anchor in — 

" Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood.*' 

How confusing and bewitching is the ex- 
perience, no one can divine who has not 
moved his house, and gone on living in 
it! Through windows which used to gaze 
on Norman's Woe and Boston Light and 
the tossing eastern shore, and the fleets 
champing at their roads like tethered sea- 
horses at their bits, we look to see ** the 
daisies dressed for the dance*' with the 
clovers, and the cattle slowly, winding 
across the downs beyond the rope-gate 
which — with the genuine native Glouces- 
ter instinct — we found ourselves quite 
naturally constructing out of the sheets of 
our fishing-boat, which we do not call a 
yacht, which tugs at her mooring off the 
pier, six minutes away. Beyond the door 
on which the spray used to dash in the 
autumn gales, lies the tapestry of the 
marshes, a vast Persian rug, unfolded in 
all the dull, deep shades that Oriental 
weavers love, against the feet of the cliffs 
— whose gray shoulders mark the fascinat- 
ing foreground of the downs. 

Happy the flitting that stirs from home 
to home, and never from home to hotel- 

There is a hillside in the Garden City of 
Massachusetts where we have built the 
most modest of houses into the most lux- 
urious of landscapes. All our splendor is 
outside. "Oh," said a shivering cock- 
ney, " these places where there is climate, 
and nothing else! " To such a visitor 
our "poem of places" might seem a 
view, and nothing else. But town life has 
not spoiled the whole of our day and gen- 
eration; and enough remain who have eyes 
to see and nerves to feel the free horizon, 
the pure, electric air, the gracious sweep of 
hill and valley outline, the rose-garden of 
the sunrise, the conflagration of the sunset, 
the banner of the woods and meadows. 

Poverty itself is rich in a country home: 
and plain New England comfort and econ- 
omy we consider to be in princely circum- 
stances. Our upholstery hangs in our 
silver birches and bronze chestnuts, our 
red oaks and olive pines. Our Wilton 
and Axminsterlie in our clovers and snow- 
drifts. Our bric-k-brac shines on the 
boughs of our apple-trees when the blos- 
som blushes. Our jewels blaze on the 
tips of our pine-fronds when the ice- 

storms glaze and the sun of the winter 
thaw is hot. Our galleries are filled with 
the masterpieces of May and of October, 
framed in quiet study windows whose 
moods we choose to fit with ours. 

We can never quite want for society 
when our pine-groves talk; they have 
taught us their language, and we need no 
translator when the winds are abroad. 
The piano rings to the accompaniment of 
grand winter storms from which only the 
true country lover never shrinks; and the 
books on their shelves or tables turn lov- 
ing faces to the readers who do not count 
the evenings dull in the society of these 
loyal and lifelong friends. The country- 
side without and the fireside within open 
the book of home together; and the word 
they read is Peace. 

It is impossible for us to sing too loud 
the song of country life. For a student, 
we believe it to be the one way of living. 
Perhaps, to be just, 1 should say subur- 
ban life — since it is but twenty-five minutes 
from Boston to our door; and the world 
is always with us if we want it. 

In point of fact, one may not want it 
very much. The distractions, the exhaus- 
tions, the savage noises, the demands of 
town life are, for me, mortal enemies to 
thought, to sleep, and to study; its ex- 
tremes of squalor and of splendor do not 
stimulate, but sadden me; certain phases 
of its society I profoundly value, ' but 
would sacrifice them to the heaven of 
country. quiet, if I had to choose between. 

In this shelter of snow and silence we 
spend eager winters; for our hardest 
work, like that, perhaps, of most people 
of our calling, is done between October 
and June. Life seems to grow busier, I 
find, as middle age strikes step with one. 
"I have always been thinking," said a 
gentle, careworn woman to me once, 
" that the time would come when things 
would grow easier; it never has; perhaps 
it will yet." Perhaps it did; for she died 
that year. 

But we, like so many others who think 
more of working than of dying, care only 
to push on steadily, wishing less for ces- 
sation of toil than for strength to keep at 
it; and for wisdom to make it worthy of 
the ideal of labor and of life which we 
believe to be the most precious gift of 
heaven to any soul. When one has gone 
as far as one can in search of it, will it 
come, like the father in the parable, though 
yet a great way off, to meet one, and 
shorten the remainder of the way ? 

The fog was breathing off Cape Ann 

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when I put my pen to the first words of 
these broken recollections. The coast 
was hidden. The sea was calling. He 
asked grave questions. The fog is breath- 
ing over the inland rolling country as I 
write this closing page. The blue and 
purple mists of a soft November storm, 
that cannot make up its mind whether to 
stay or go, smoke far along the valley. 
The outlines of the woods and distance 
are blurred as if with an imperious brush. 
Half the meaning of the gentle scene is 
hidden. The sea is too many miles away 
to hear him. I am the one who does the 
calling, who asks the questions now. But 
strong silence answers me. 

Since out of life we all learn a few 
things well, we find it natural to try to 
make them over to other lives; and we 
should choose for our telling, not the most 

brilliant lessons, but those that have been 
educative to ourselves — those that will 
make it easier to live, and more possible 
to live happily, and with the eyes focussed 
upon a true horizon. 

Perhaps, in my honest soul, I am won- 
dering if these fragments will have done 
as much as this for any reader of all the 
patient number. 

But the mist is on the hills as on the 
valleys, and the outlines of the landscape 
all are hidden. I can see but a little way. 

Is it the fog that reminds me ? Per- 
haps ! But that, or something else, drags 
out of my pen the poignant words of 
Zangwill, who said of a certain writer, 
that '* he had concealed himself behind an 
autobiography." If one has done as 
much as that, perhaps one has met the 
chief conditions of the case. 


By Anthony Hope, 
Author of "The Prisoner of Zcnda," "Phroso," etc. 


I HAD been telling Phiiippa March ex- 
actly how matters stood between 
Cousin Flo and myself. 

** It's really a little awkward, you know," 
I ended, smiling. 

"Awkward!" said Phiiippa, who had 
listened to me quite gravely. " Awkward, 
Mr. Vansittart ? I call it disgusting.** 
And her clear blue eyes flashed scorn. 

Now I myself did not consider it ex- 
actly disgusting, so I said nothing more 

" Perhaps I oughtn't to have mentioned 
it to you. But it seemed amusing in a 
way. Of course, it's a secret." 

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't like it 
known," observed Phiiippa, with mean- 

I sat smoothing my hat and smiling. 

" What are you smiling at ? " she asked, 
sharply. " Oh, I wonder how you and 
people like you " (by which she meant 
Cousin Flo) " can make a jest of it as you 
do!" And she began to walk up and 

" A jest of what, Miss March ? " 

" Why, of — of — of love and so on, Mr. 

"Oh! of love?" said I, meditatively, 
as I deposited my hat on the table. 

" That's serious, surely, if anything in 
the world is? And you make fun of it 

"Well, it . makes a fool of me," I 

Phiiippa gave me a look and walked 

" You're quite right," said I. "It's — 
it's uncommon bad form. I shall tell Flo 

" You were just as bad yourself — 

"Why worse?" 

" You were the man. You began it. 
You encouraged her." 

Flo does not give the impression of 
needing encouragement, but I let that 
pass. In fact, I was much interested in 
Philippa's opinion. 

" You're right," I said again. " It is a 
serious thing." 

" It's a holy thing," said Phiiippa, from 
the middle of the room. 

"It is," I agreed, meeting her earnest 
gaze. " With the right person, it is; with 
the wrong — " 

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" It's a desecration,'* interrupted Phi- 

** I'm so glad I talked to you about it, 
Miss March. You take such a jolly — 1 
mean, such a splendidly high view of it. 
You elevate the whole thing so." And I 
rose and joined Philippa, who was now 
standing on the hearth-rug, where the sun 
caught her hair through the drawing- 
room window. 

*' Have you read this ? " asked Philippa, 
suddenly, taking three volumes from the 
mantel-piece. *' It's simply magnificent." 

" I don't think I have. What is it ? " 

** ' Incomprehensa,' " answered Phi- 
lippa. ** By the author of * Too Many by 
Half,' you know." 

'* What's it about?" 

"A girl," said Philippa, with kindling 
eye, " who gave her whole life to — But 
what's the use of talking about it to 
you ? You're laughing again." 

" Upon my honor, I just screwed up my 
mouth because — because of the sun, you 

" Gave her whole life to saving a man 
not in the least worthy of her." 

'* What a pity!" said I, trying to say 
the right thing, 

" A pity! It's just that that's so splen- 

" Oh, yes, of course — in one point of 
view. Yes, it would be. Miss March." 

" And he never understood her! " 

** Liked some one else, did he ? " 

"Oh, no. He loved her—" 

" Come, he had some good — " 

"In his way," ended Philippa, with 
measureless disdain. "That made it 

I began to feel uncomfortable; yet I had 
another feeling. Philippa is wonderfully 
striking when she looks haughty and 

" I shall read it," said I. " It's a fine 
idea. Pity things like that don't happen 
in real life! In real life nobody tries to 
help a fellow." 

I think I achieved some pathos in this 
remark, for Philippa turned a softened 
glance upon me. 

" He's just allowed," I continued, "to 
go on making an — making all sorts of 
blunders, I mean — and nobody cares 
enough to do anything." 

" It's very hard to help some people," 
said Philippa, sadly. 

" But what's her name — " 

" Incomprehensa, Mr. Vansittart." 

"Yes. Thanks. Incomprehensa tried, 
all the same." 

"Yes, she did," said Philippa; and a 
pause followed. 

" But a book's one thing and life's an- 
other," I observed, bitterly. 

" It oughtn't to be," said Philippa, in a 
low voice; and she looked away towards 
the window. " I don't think it would be 
with — with everybody." 

"A fellow feels, don't you know. Miss 
March, that he would be better if any- 
body took any interest in him, you know 
— I mean, sensibly — not all for a lark, as 
Flo does." 

" She's not very serious herself, is 
she?" asked Philippa, with a slight, pa- 
tient smile. 

" That's the worst of it," said I. " So, 
of course, she's no use. I often feel that 
if I had some one to — well, at any rate, to 
talk to about such things — " 

"What things, Mr. Vansittart?" 

" Oh, well — oh, well — Come, you know 
what I mean, Miss March." 

And Philippa said softly, 

" Yes, I think I do, Mr. Vansittart." 

"If," I resumed, "I might come and 
talk \.oyou sometimes — " 

"I — I'm often at home," murmured 

" And hear what you think about it, you 
know, and see your — I mean, hear your 

" If you really think it would be 

" Oh, it would — no end, I assure you. 
Miss March. It would make me a differ- 
ent fellow — upon my word, it would. It 
would elevate me. I am sure it would 
elevate me like anything." 

Philippa blushed — maybe only because 
I was implying a compliment to her moral 
worth. I continued to regard her with 
admiring eyes. 

" It would make me very happy if I 
thought — " she said. 

"And — and, Miss March," I inter- 
rupted, encouraged by her tone, "per- 
haps you might find there was some good 
in a chap, after all, and — " 

" I'm sure I should, Mr. Vansittart." 

" And then perhaps some day you might 
come to care for — " 

I had got thus far (and, after all, it was 
most of the way) when Philippa suddenly 
drew back, and, flushing a fine color, 
asked in grand indignation, 

" Have you forgotten your cousin, Mr. 
Vansittart ?" 

It was exactly what I had done. I had 
clean forgotten Flo. 

"You must have, I think," she went 

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on, ** or you would hardly venture to hint 
to me — '* 

** Look here, Miss March," I broke in, 
'* it's all nonsense about Flo, you know. 
She doesn't half mean it, and I don't — " 

** I understood that you had asked — " 

'* Well, so I did," I admitted in desper- 
ation. ** I say, Philippa — I mean. Miss 
March — if I can square it with — " 

" If you can whatV 

'* If I can honorably — " 

*' Not another word, please, Mr. Vansit- 
tart! How can I listen while your cous- 
in — ?" She broke off, turning away. But 
I took a step after her. 

'* If my cousin were not — " I began, in 
low, persuasive tones. 

"Not another word, please," whis- 
pered Philippa. 

" There it is! " I cried tragically. " I'm 
left to myself. You won't hold a finger 
out to me! " 

PhiJippa did not do what I suggested in 
a literal sense, but she allowed me to see 
her profile instead of the back of her 

" Please go away now," said she. 

" I'll go," said I, " if — " 

" No, no; go, please! " 

" If you'll say one word to me! " 

"One word?" I just heard from Phi- 
lippa, as I leant my head forward to catch 

"Yes, one word. Then I shall have 
strength to — to tackle — I — I mean to go 
like an honest man to Flo and — and do it, 
you know." 

There was a pause. I stood expectant. 
At last Philippa spoke. 

" I never thought of this," she said. 
• "Of course, you didn't," said I. As 
a matter of fact, I had not thought of il 

" I — I do think there's some good in you 
—a little." 

" Ah, you're too — " 

" Just a little, which under good influ- 
ences — " 

" Yours would be angelic! " 

" Hush, hush!" 

" Say one word," I implored. 

And Philippa, her profile — which is a 
most admirable one — still presented to 
me, spoke the one word I asked. 

" Perhaps," said Philippa. 

I gave a cry of joy. 

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*• Now go," added Philippa. 

As a gentleman I was bound to go. I 
took my hat and walked straight to the 
door, a smile of radiant happiness on my 
face. Just as I reached it, Philippa spoke 

" Mr. Vansittart! " 


" You — you'll see your cousin soon ? " 

Somehow I felt less radiant. My smile 

"Good-by," said Philippa. 

" Good-by," said I, and I opened the 

"Shall you see her to-night?" asked 

I paused a moment; then I said, •" I'll 
try," and I shut the door. 

I went downstairs whistling softly. 
Then I lit a cigarette. I wanted it. And 
I said, as I walked away, 

" I wonder if I'm in a tight place." 

For it seemed possible that I was. So I 
took the night to think it over. 


IN the doorway I met Captain Worsley. 
The occurrence did not, at the mo- 
ment, strike me as significant. I was en- 
grossed with the prospects of the coming 
interview. How should I break to Flo 
that I had at last found my true haven, 
and that the nonsense between herself and 
me must end ? 


Flo was sitting on the sofa. I walked 
up to her with a shame-faced air. 

" I've come to tell you something, Flo," 
said I, in a grave tone. 

"Oh, bother! I'm busy," said Flo. 

" But it's important. When you hear 

" Won't to-morrow do, Dick ? " 

" No," said I. I was wound up; I 
should probably be incapable of it to- 
morrow. ** I have come, Flo, to beg your 
pardon for — " 

" Oh, I didn't mind. I knew it was only 
your nonsense, Dick." 

" My nonsense ? " said I. " Oh, I don't 
mean that. I mean since that, Flo, you 
remember — " 

" Look here, my dear boy," inter- 
rupted Flo, " I'm thinking about some- 
thing most important — something I've got 
to make up my mind about, and I can't 
listen to you." 

LIpon this, being somewhat annoyed, I 
sat down, crossed my legs, and observed 

" Well, I only came to tell you that I 
was in love with Philippa March." 

Flo turned on me swiftly, her pre-occu- 
pation entirely vanishing. 

" I thought you'd listen," I observed, 
complacently. "Yes, and it's all right, 
if I can square you. Hullo, Flo, you've 
done your hair different to-day! I rather 
like it that way." 

Flo was staring at me with wide-open 
eyes. (I don't know whether I've men- 
tioned that her eyes are brown ; they 

"It's all right if — ?" she repeated, 
as though she had not heard aright. 

" If I can square you, you know," said 
I. " Because, you see, in my rooms the 
other day — " 

" And you told that March girl ? " 

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"I think I must have, from what she 
said," I stammered, feeling rather guilty. 

'* And you came here by her ad- 
vice — ? " 

** She thought it only fair to you,*' I 
said, hastily. 

** To get rid of me ? ** ended Flo. 

*' Now, do be reasonable, there's a good 
girl," I urged, soothingly. 

Flo wrose to her feet and walked to the 

** Excuse me a moment,'* said she, sit- 
ting down and taking a pen. 

** Glad she takes it so coolly," said 1 to 
myself, and I fell to watching her as she 
wrote. Certainly I liked the new way of 
doing her hair; in fact, I preferred it to 
Philippa's way; there was a coquetry 
about it; Philippa's hair was severe. A 
chap doesn't always want bracing up. 

**Read that," said Flo, rising and 

sweeping down on me with a written note 
in her hand. 

So I read it. It was short. " Yes 

Florence." I turned it over in my hand. 

"If," said Flo, with unlimited dignity, 
**you had not happened to call, I should 
have written to you in the course of this 
afternoon — '* 

" 'J'his note ? " I asked, looking at it in 
a puzzled way. 

" No, not that note. I should have 
written to release you from your promise 
to me." 

"My dear Flo!" I said, radiant. 
" Then thafs all right. How confoundedly 
lucky! Why, I've been making myself 
beastly unhappy, and feeling like a brute, 
when all the time there was nothing in it! 
Philippa will be awfully glad." And I 
beamed upon Flo. 

"And to inform you," she continued, 

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in the same cold voice, "of my engage- 
ment — " 

** Hullo! *' I cried, sitting straight up. 

*' To Captain VVorsley." 

*• That beast! '* 

*• Although you're my cousin, Richard, 
you have hardly the right — *' 

But I was not in the mood to listen. I 
was walking up and down the room. And 
I laughed bitterly. 

" That's a girl all over! *' said I. "You 
encourage me — hang it, you accept me — 
yes, you did practically; and then, with- 
out aAvord to me, you go and take a sweep 

" Well, and what did you do with Phi- 
lippa March?" cried Flo, facing me in 

" I have come here, 
like a man, to — 

" Square me," sug- 
gested Flo. 

" To arrive at an 
understanding with 
you. If you had 
claimed the fulfilment 
of my promise, I 
should have — I should 
have considered the 
matter, Florence." 

** You're very 
good," said Flo, her 
nose in the air. " But, 
as you see, I don't 
claim it." 

I looked at Flo. It 
was all over between 
us. I did not wish to 0^ 

part bad friends. 

" You seem to have 
no regrets, Flo," I observed, a little rue- 

" Really, I don't see why I should," 
said Flo. 

" Oh, I know I'm not much of a chap," 
I confessed, humbly; "but with a girl 
who let me down easy, and didn't expect 
too much of me, you know — " 

" Is that why you went to Philippa 
March?" asked Flo, suddenly. 

"Who made allowances forme," I pur- 
sued, not noticing the interruption; "and 
didn't ask perfection of me — " 

"Just what Philippa March would ilo,'' 
observed Flo, with conviction. 

I paused in my walk. Flo sat down on 
the sofa. I sat down on the sofa. 

There was a long silence. I was the 
first to»break it. 

" Well, I'm sure 1 hope you'll be happy 

with that fellow. He seems a glum sort 
of a dog, though." 

" But he's so good, Dick! " 
" I must say he's notover-amusing, Flo. " 
"There are better things than that, 

" I mean one wouldn't call him clever." 
*• N — no. Perhaps not clever^ Dick." 
I turned round towards Flo. 
" But, of course, all that's nothing if 
you love him," I observed. 

"And you, of course, don't notice the 
little faults I see in Miss March ? " 
" Of course not." 
" Yes — of course not." 
After an interval, Flo said, laying a 
hand on my arm, " I'm so glad we're part- 

"It's all for the 
best," said 1, gently 
touching Flo's hand. 
" Parting friends, 
I was going to say, 
Dick. We shouldn't 
have got on well to- 

"**I expect we 
should have quar- 
relled, Flo." 

**Of course, we 
should have had some 
good times — " 
" Ripping! " 
** Trotting about 
together, and staying 
on the river — " 
"I say!" 

" And running over 
to Paris—" 


" And — and I don't 
think Percival — Captain Worsley-;-cares 
much about that sort of thing." 

" 1 know it's poison to Phil — to Miss 

There was a silence longer than any of 
the previous ones. 

Then I said — and I must observe that I 
am not in the habit of doing it before 
ladies — I said: 

"Oh, d n!" 

" Dick! " cried Flo. 

I rose. I pointed to Flo's note, which 
lay on the table. 

"Let's have it over," said I, stern- 
ly. " Put the beastly thing in an en- 

Flo went to the writing-table. 

"Address the beastly thing," I com- 

Flo took quite a long while addressing 

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it; for it must have been a full minute 
before she asked: 

** Dick, is Jermyn Street VV. or S. W. ? 
I — I — I don't know." 

*'S. W.,*' said 1, in gloomy and tragic 

"Thank you, Dick. I've done it 

"Done it! I should think you have," 
I groaned. "So have I!" 

"Will you post it?" asked Flo, and 
she stretched her hand out behind her, 
with the letter between her finger and 
thumb. But she kept her head the other 
way, and appeared to be studying the blot- 

Well, I went and took the note, and I 
stole back to the hearth-rug. 

Flo did not move. 

" What a strange lottery is life! " I 
mused. "Who would have thought of 
Worsley being your husband! " 

" Or Philippa March your wife! " came 
from the writing-table. 

" It seems incredible," I murmured. 

" Almost," came from the writing-table. 

There was a nice bright fire in the grate. 
I stood and watched the jumping flame. 
Flo rose from the writing-table, and, cross- 
ing, stood by me; and we both watched 
the jumping flame. 

"Do you remember," asked Flo pres- 
ently, " how we used to tell fortunes from 
the fire?" 

" Yes; and to see faces there ? " 

" Yes. I remember, Dick. I don't see 
anything there now." 

" I should like to see something," said I. 

" Would you ? What ? " asked Flo. 

Now, as we happened to be standing, 
my hand, which held the captain's letter, 
was in immediate proximity to Flo's hand, 
which, as I chanced to observe, held her 

"Very much indeed," said I, and I 
touched Flo's hand with the corner of the 

"Oh!" gasped Flo. 

I advanced my hand (which, as I say, 
contained the letter) slowly towards the 
fire. Flo watched it with a fascinated 
gaze; she did not move. My hand hov- 
ered over the fire; a bright, sudden flash 
of flame blazed up triumphantly. 

"Look, look! Now!" I cried, 
do you see there now ? " 

Flo turned to me Nvith a swift 
under moist eyes. 

" Why, you're — ! " I cried. 

" There's an eyelash in my eye,' 
Flo. "And, Dick, how silly you are! 
shall have to write it again! " 

" In the same way ? " 

There was yet another pause. 

" I suppose," Flo then observed, " that 
nobody ever writes a letter twice in quite 
the same words, do they, Dick ? " 

I said they did not. 

I went downstairs the happiest man 
alive. And, I pledge my word, it was not 
till I reached the corner of the street that 
the thought struck me, and I cried aloud, 
in dismay: 

" By Jove, I haven't done it! " 

In the co.urse of talk one is so apt to for- 
get things. 





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By Cy Warman, 
Author of **A Thotisand^nile Ride on the Enirinc of a 'Flyer,'" etc. 

with a 
tie of it 
s days. 
: is able 
1 snow- 
own a 
• snow- 
_ ..ese ma- 
chines are as large as a 
coach, and as heavy as a locomotive. The 
front end is funnel-shaped, and instead of 
throwing the snow away it swallows it, and 
then spurts it out in a great stream like 
water from a hose at a fire. Inside the 
house or car there is a boiler as large as a 
locomotive boiler, with two big cylinders, 
to furnish power to revolve a wheel in the 
funnel-shaped front end. This wheel is 
like the wheel of a windmill, except that 
the fans or blades are made of steel and 
are quite sharp. As the plow is driven 
through the drifted snow by a locomotive 
— sometimes by two or three of them — the 
rapidly revolving wheel slices the snow 
from the hard bank, draws it into the steel 
chest, where the same rotary motion drives 
it out through a sheet-iron spout. 

Once at Alpine Pass, on a summer 
branch of the Union Pacific, I saw one of 
these machines working in six feet of snow 
that had been there six months and was so 
hard that men walked over it without 
snowshoes. It was about the middle of 
May; the weather was almost warm at 
midday, but freezing at night. A num- 
ber of railroad and newspaper men had 
gone up there, eleven thousand feet above 
the sea, to witness a battle between two 
rival excavators. The trial was an excit- 
ing one, and lasted three days. Master 
Mechanic Egan, whose guest I was, was 
director-general, and a very impartial 
director, I thought. The two machines 
were very similar in appearance; but in- 
stead of a wheel with knives, one had a 
great auger in front, the purpose of which 
was to bore into the snowdrift and draw 
the snow into the machine, as the chips 

are drawn from an auger-hole by the re- 
volving of the screw. The discharging 
apparatus was similar in the two, and like 
that already described. 

There was a formidable array of rolling- 
stock on the two sidings at the foot of the 
mountain where we had our car and where 
we camped nights. On one side track 
stood one of the machines, with three 
engines behind her; on another, the other, 
with the same number of engines. You 
could tell the men of the one from the 
men of the other, for the two armies dwelt 
apart, just as the Denver police kept clear 
of the State militia in Governor Waiters 

It was perfectly natural for the men on 
the different machines to be loyal to their 
respective employers and a little bit jeal- 
ous of the rival crew; but I was surprised 
to see how quickly that feeling extended 
to the crews of the half-dozen locomotives, 
all working for the same railroad company 
and in no way interested in the outcome. 

On the morning of the first day of the 
trial, when the six engines came down the 
track from the coal-yards, a trainman 
stood at the three-throw switch, and gave 
a locomotive to each of the two machines 
alternately. They all knew where they 
belonged, and they kept the same place, 
each of them, until the battle was over. 

There was no betting, but there was a 
distinct "favorite" from the start; and 
when the iron horses were all hooked up, 
the men on the "favorite" began, good- 
naturedly enough, to "josh" the other 

Mr. Egan decided that one of the ma- 
chines should go forward, and when it 
stuck, stalled, or stopped, for any reason, 
should at once back down, take the siding, 
and give the other a chance. 

It was nearly noon when the railway 
officers and the reporters climbed to the 
storm deck of the first machine, and the 
commander gave a signal to start. The 
whistle "off brakes" was answered by the 
six locomotives and the little engine that 
brought up the rear with the special train. 

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The hungry machine gathered up the light 
drifts which we encountered in the first 
few miles, and breathed them out over 
the tops of the telegraph poles. At a 
sharp curve, where there was a deep drift, 
the snow-plow left the track, and we were 
forced to stop and back out. The en- 
gineers looked sullen as they backed 
down to let the other crew pass, and the 
fresh men laughed at them. The snow 
was lighter now, so that instead of boring 
into it, the second plow only pushed it and 
piled it up in front of her, until the whole 
house was buried, when she choked up 
and laid down. Now the frowns were 

transferred to the faces of the second crew, 
and the smiles to the other. 

For two days we see-sawed in this way, 
and every hour the men grew more sullen. 
The mad locomotives seemed to enter into 
the spirit of the fight; at least it was easy 
to imagine that they did, as they snorted, 
puffed, and panted in the great drifts. 
Ah, 'twas a goodly sight to see them, 
each sending an endless stream of black 
smoke to the very heavens, and to hear 
them scream to one another when about 
to stall, and to note with what reluctance 
they returned to the side track. 

In the little town at the foot of the hill 

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the rival crews camped at separate board- 
ing-houses. This was fortunate, for it 
would not have been safe for them to live 
together. Even the enginemen, by the end 
of the second day, were hardly on speak- 
ing terms. Bob Stoute said that somebody 
had remarked that the two hundred and 
sixty-five wouldn't make steam enough to 
ring the bell. He did not know who had 
said 4t, but he did know that he could 
*' lick " him. After supper that evening, 
when the ** scrappy" engineer came out 
of Red Woods saloon, he broadened the 
statement so as to include ** any * rotary ' 
man on the job, see ? ** 

When we went into the field on the 
morning of the third day, not more than 
seven miles of snow remained between us 
and the mouth of the Alpine tunnel, where 
the race would end; for the tunnel was full 
of snow. All the forenoon the hot engines 
steamed and snorted and banged away at 
the great sea of snow that grew deeper 
and harder as we climbed. The track was 
so crooked that the plows were off the rail 
half the time; so that when we stopped for 
luncheon we had made less than three 

The least promising of the two machines 
was out first after dinner; and as the snow 
was harder up here, she bid fair to win 
great credit. She rounded the last of the 
sharp curves that had given us so much 
trouble, successfully. But as the snow 
grew deeper, she smothered, choked up, 
and stalled. Then even her friends had 
to admit that "she was not quite right,*' 
and the enginemen looked blacker than 
ever as they backed down and took the 

Up came the rival, every engine blow- 
ing off steam, the three firemen at the 
furnace doors, the engineers smiling and 
eager for the fray. As she turned into 
the tangent where the other had stalled, 
the leading locomotive screamed **off 
brakes," and every throttle flew wide 
open. Down, down, went the reverse 
levers, until every engine in the train was 
working at her full capacity. While wait- 
ing in the siding, the engineers had 
screwed their "pops," or relief valves, 
down so that each of the engines carried 
twenty pounds more steam than usual. 
There were no drifts now, but the hard 
snow lay level six feet deep. The track 
was as good as straight — only one long 
curve — and the pilots would touch timber 
line at the mouth of the tunnel. The road 
here lay along the side of the mountain, 
through a heavy growth of pine. The 

snow was granulated, and consequently 
very heavy. By the time they had gone a 
hundred yards, a great stream of snow 
was flowing from the spout out over the 
telegraph wires, over the tops of the small 
spruces and pines, crashing down through 
their branches until the white beneath 
them was covered with a green carpet of 
tree twigs. On and on, up and up, the 
monster moguls pushed the plow. Higher 
and higher rose the black smoke; and 
when the smoke and the snow came be- 
tween the spectators and the sun, which 
was just now sinking behind the hill, the 
effect was marvellously beautiful. Still on 
they went through the stainless waste, nor 
stopped nor stalled, until the snow-plow 
touched the tunnel-shed. 

The commander gave a signal to " back 
up; " and with faces wreathed in smiles and 
with their machine covered with cinders, 
snow, and glory, the little army drifted 
down the hill. The three days' fight was 
at an end, and the Rotary was the victor. 

But I started to write about pilot plows 
and old-time snow-bucking — when we used 
to take out an extra insurance policy and 
say good-by to our friends as we signed 
the call-book. On a mountain division of 
a Western road, some ten years ago, I 
had my first experience in snow-bucking. 
For twenty-four hours a pilot plow and 
flanger had been racing over the thirty 
miles of mountain, up one side and down 
the other. As often as they reached the 
foot of the hill they received orders to 
" double the road." 

It was Sunday afternoon when the caller 
came for me. Another engine had been 
ordered out to help push the snow-plow 
through the great drifts, that were getting 
deeper and deeper every hour. Ten miles 
out from the division station, at the foot 
of the mountain proper, we side-tracked 
to wait the return of the snow-plow. 

The hours went by, the night wasted 
away, Monday dawned, and no news of 
the snow brigade. All we could learn at 
the telegraph office was that they were 
somewhere between Shawano and the top 
of the hill, — presumably stuck in the 
snow. All day and all night they worked 
and puffed, pushed and panted ; but to no 
purpose. Now, when they gave up all 
hope of getting through, they attempted 
to back down; but that was equally im- 
possible. The heavy drifts in the deep 
cuts were not to be bucked away with the 
rear end of an engine. 

Tuesday came, and found us still watch- 
ing and waiting for the snow-plow. Other 

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engines came up from the division station 
with a work-train and a great army of 
trackmen with wide shovels. A number 
of railroad officers came, and everybody 
shovelled. We had no plow on our side of 
the hill, and had to buck with naked en- 
gines. First we tried one, then two, then 
three coupled together. The shovellers 
would clear off a few hundred yards of 
track, over which we would drive at full 
speed. As our engine came in contact 
with a great drift, all the way from eight 
to eighteen feet deep, she would tremble 
and shake as though she :i7as about to be 
crushed to pieces. 

Often when we came to a stop, only 
the top of the stack of the front engine 
was visible. The front windows of the 
cabs were all boarded up to prevent the 
glass from being smashed. For three 
or four days the track was kept clear be- 
hind us, so that we could back out and tie 
up at night where there was coal and 
water. All this time the snow kept com- 
ing down, day and night, until the only 
sign of a railroad across the range was 
the tops of the telegraph poles. Toward 
the last of the week we encountered a 
terrific storm — almost a blizzard. This 
closed the trail behind us, and that night 

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we were forced to camp on the mountain 
side. We had an abundance of coal, but 
the wiiter in the tanks was very low. By 
shovelling snow into them when we were 
stuck in the deep drifts, we managed to 
keep them wet. 

For three or four days — sometimes in 
the dead hours of the night — we had 
heard a mournful whistle away up on the 
mountain side, crying in the waste like a 
lost sheep. I'his was a light engine, as 
we learned afterward, that had started 
down the hill, but got stuck in the storm. 
For four d lys and nights the crews were 
imprisoned in the drifts. They had only 
a few pieces of hard bread, which they 
soaked in snow-water and ate. More than, 
once during the f()urth day they had looked 
into the tailow-bucket, and wondered if 
they could eat the tallow. 

On Sunday morning, just a week from 
the day on which I had signed the call- 
book, the sun shone clear and bright. 
The crew with the big pilot plow had 
reached the summit; and now a new dan- 
ger confronted the lone engine whose cry 
had gone out in the night like the wail of 
a lost soul. The big plow was coming 
down the hill with two locomotives behind 
her; and if this crew remained on the main 
Ime, they would be scooped into eternity. 
When the storm cleared away they found 
that they were within a few feet of the 
switch target. If they could shovel out 
the snow and throw the switch, it would 

let them on to a spur. Hungry and weak 
as they were, they began with the fire- 
man's scoop to clear the switch and shovel 
away from the wheels, so that the engine 
could start herself. All the time they 
could hear the whistles of the three en- 
gines, now whistling *' down brakes," 
*' back up," and ** go ahead," as they ham- 
mered away at the deep drifts. At last the 
switch was forced open, the engine was in 
to clear; but not a moment too soon, for 
now came the great plow fairly falling 
down the mountain, sending a shower 
of snow over the lone engine on the 

We, too, had heard and seen them com- 
ing, and had found a safe siding. When 
the three half-starved and almost desper- 
ate engineers came to the clear track we 
had made, the great engines, till now held 
in check by the heavy snow, bounded for- 
ward down the steep grade at a rate that 
made us sick at heart. Each of the loco- 
motives on the side track whistled; but the 
wheels were covered with ice and snow, 
and even with levers reversed, they seemed 
to slide as fast. Fortunately, at the next 
curve there was a heavy drift — so deep 
that the snow-train drove right through it, 
making a complete tunnel arched over with 
snow. Thus, after eight days, the road 
was opened, and eight sections of the 
passenger train came slowly and carefully 
down the mountain and passed under the 


By Hamlin Gariand. 

Oi'T of the city, out of the street ! Out of the hurry, away from the heat 

Out in the wind and the sjrasses. And clamor of iron wheels and hoofs, 

Where the bird and the daisy wooing meet, Out of the stench and scorching heat 

And the cloud like an eagle passes. We come as a dove to its native roofs. 

Far from the roaring street. Far from the thunderous street. 

Into the silence of cool-breathed leaves. 

Where the wind like a lover 
Murmurs, and waits to listen, and weaves 

His arms in the leafy cover — 
Back to a world of stubble and sheaves 

We flee from the murderous street ! 

• From " Prairie Soag*," by Hamlin GarUnd ; by permission of Stone A Kimball, publishers. New York. 

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This picture shows Jenny Lind's arrival in New York City ; another shows her singing before her wonderful audience 

at her first concert in Castle Garden, when people nearly went music-mad and hundreds listened in row-boats. 

The whole scene, with the pictures, is described by Hon. A. Oakey Hall in the first of The Ladies' 

Home Journal's series of "Great Personal Events," in the current (November) issue. 

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One of the incidents portrayed by Stephen Fiske in the story of his personal experience " When the Prince of Wales 

was in America," written for the " Great Personal Events" series, which begins in the 

current (November) issue of Thb Ladibs' Homb Journal. 

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From the original dajjuerrcotypc, owned by Mrs. Louisa Bogjjs of Macon. Mo. Mrs. Boggs is the 
widow of Henry Boggs, who was Grant's partner in the real estate business in St. Louis during the winter 
of 1858-59. This portrait has been in her possession since i860. It is one of a number of portraits and docu- 
ments brought to light by Mr. Hamlin Garland in his industrious search for material preparatory to the 
series of studies in Grant's life which begin publication in this number of McCluke's. Except Mrs. Boggs 
and her immediate j cquaintance, no one knev of its existence until Mr. Garland discovered it. It was 
probably taken about 1843, just after Grant's g -aduation from West Point. It resembles a daguerrcotj^pc 
owned by Mrs. George W. Childs, which was reproduced in McCll're's Magazine for May, 1894. 

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McClure's Magazine. 

Vol. VIII. 

DECEMBER, 1896. 

No. a. 



By Cyrus C. Adams. 

|N April 7th, last year, 
Dr. Fridtjof Nansen 
stood among the ice 
hummocks of the 
Arctic Ocean at a 
point about 195 
miles nearer the 
North Pole than any 
man had ever been before. He could see 
nothing from the top of the highest ice hill 
save these hummocks and ridges, stretching 
away to the horizon like frozen waves. The 
scene had the one condition needed to 
crown it as the most utterly desolate waste 
that can be conceived. It was wholly void 
of all forms of life. No Polar explorer had 
ever before entered an area where the air, 
the ice, the land or the sea depths support 
no living thing ; but for the last 150 miles 
of his journey north, by ship or sledge, 
Nansen had not found the slightest trace 
of life in the air, on the ice, or in the ocean 
depths. Somewhere near the eighty-fourth 
parallel, he seems to have passed beyond 
the pale of the life zones into an area around 
the Pole where nature is wholly inorganic 
and inert. 

At the point he had reached, Nansen was 
within 261 statute miles of the North Pole. 
He was nearer this long-sought goal of 
many explorers than New York city is to 
Mount Washington. It was almost within 
his reach, and yet it was the same elusive 
object that had mocked so many Arctic 
wayfarers. He had set out from his vessel, 
twenty-four days earlier, with only one 
hundred days' provisions for himself and 
his comrade, and a month's supply for the 
dogs, all he could carry over those rugged 
ice floes. At the rate he had advanced it 

would take him two months more to reach 
the Pole ; and there could be little satisfac- 
tion in standing on the apex of the north- 
ern hemisphere with all his dogs gone, only 
two weeks' supply of food left, and no 
game within hundreds of miles. If Nan- 
sen were not prudent as well as daring, the 
world would never have known his fate. 
He turned back in time, traversed the ter- 


From a photograph by L. Szacinski, Christiania 

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From a photofl^raph by L. Szacinski, Christiania. 

rible ice to Franz Josef Land, and brought 
home a story of great achievements, marred 
by no accident, the result of splendid effort 
and unsurpassed good luck, never before 
combined in such large measure by an 
Arctic enterprise. 

Almost exactly three years elapsed after 
Dr. Nansen, with his staunch ship and ten 
•comrades, passed out of view into the 
Arctic ice, before they came back to the 
-civilized world. Not a- man had been ill, 
not a timber had been injured in the 
** Fram's " giant frame, and full supplies for 
three years were still on board. They had 
traversed an area of 50,000 square miles of 
unknown waters. They had discovered a 
wide sea of oceanic depth, overthrowing 
the theory of the prevailing shallowness of 
the Arctic. They had traced this wide 
sea for hundreds of miles, and found it to 
be over two miles deep. They had made 
other discoveries of much interest to the 
world ; and when they divided forces on 
the ice, the sledges to go north for any fate 
in store for them, the ship to drift whither 
the wind listed, impelled for seventeen 
months by a kindly destiny over widely 
diverse routes, they arrived, at last, within 
a period of seven days, on the coast of 
Norway, their work completed and their 
triumph secure. Did Arctic explorers ever 
have better fortune or more richly deserve 
it than Dr. Nansen and his brave men ? 

But " God helps them that help them- 
selves." As far as man can do, Nansen 
made even pitiless Arctic conditions serve 

his purposes. He owes his brilliant success 
largely to years of minute and careful prep- 
aration. Last year many famous Arctic 
experts were at the Geographical Congress 
in London. It was interesting to see their 
faith in Nansen. They criticised the theory 
he had gone north to test. They doubted 
the existence of the Arctic current which he 
thought would waft the ** Fram *' across the 
Polar sea. They feared that his vessel 
would be crushed like an eggshell among 
the grinding floes. But they had met the 
man ; and his sound sense, scientific attain- 
ments, practical ideas, thorough Arctic stud- 


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ies, physical stamina, and enthu- 
siasm had won their confidence 
and admiration. Somehow or 
other, they believed Nansen was 
coming back with a story of splen- 
did work done. 

How few who achieve great 
things win recognition at his early 
age ! Nansen is only thirty-five 
years old. He was bom near 
Christiania, Norway, educated in 
its university, trained as a zo5lo- 
gist, and the year he was twenty- 
one was marked by the completion 
of his school life, a trip in East 
Greenland seas for zoological 
specimens, and his appointment 
as Curator in the Natural History 
Museum at Bergen. At twenty- 
seven the scientific papers he had 
written won him the degree of 
Ph.D.; and a year later all the 
world knew him as the first man 
to cross Greenland, which he de- 
scribed in two volumes, writing 
another on the Eskimos. Since 
then his time has been almost 
wholly absorbed by his polar 

Nansen began to plan this 
voyage when he was twenty-three 
years old, nine years before he 
started. Many a hint for his 
great undertaking came to him 
while cruising in East Greenland 
waters, and during his memorable 
crossing of Greenland on the ice 
cap in 1888. He spent that win- 
ter among the west coast natives, 
and what he learned of Eskimo 
ways of living was invaluable to 
him later. He mastered the diffi- 
cult art of managing the kayak, 
or Eskimo skin boat, which he 
said was " the best one-man vessel 
in the world ; " and when he and 
Johansen set out for Spitzber- 
gen, last spring, from the little 
island in Franz Josef Land where they had 
wintered, two kayaks, weighing twenty 
pounds each, carried them and their meagre 
outfit across all bits of open water. They 
were larger than the little Greenland skin 
boat, but were modelled after and propelled 
like it. 

During his Greenland winter, too, Nansen 
lived much with the Eskimos, sleeping in 
their rude huts of stone and turf in spite of 
the dirt, discomforts, and off ensiveness ; join- 
ing their Nimrods in the hunt on land and 
sea, and taking lessons from them in the art 


Drawn by W. M. Burgher after a photograph by W. C. Frabritius & Son, 

of handling dog teams. He believed that an 
Arctic explorer should be able to live, if need 
be, as the natives do, depending for every- 
thing upon the country he lives in. He 
found his theory true, and he is alive to-day 
because he was able to live just like the 
Eskimos. When the two men landed on 
their little island in August, last year, they 
had no dogs, no food, no shelter, and no 
clothing except the raggedwoollen garments 
they were wearing ; but they did have guns 
and ammunition. Bear and sea game were 
in abundance. They became Eskimos for 

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NANSEJs; ABOI'T 1893. AGE 31. 

From a photo^jraph by J. Thomson, London. 

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the time, and had no more fear of suffering 
from hunger and cold than they would have 
had at home. They killed walrus and bear. 
They built a hut of stone and turf, roofed 
it with walrus hides, and made a door of 
bear skin. Their larder, lacking variety to 
be sure, was always well filled. Bear meat 
was the staff of life. Oil and fat were their 
fuel and lights, and furs carpeted their floor 
and supplied their winter clothing and sleep- 
ing bags. It was not an ideal existence, but 
after nine months of it the explorers were 
as hardy and strong as men could be. 

From his childhood Dr. Nansen has been 
an athlete, a hunter, and an expert skiboler, 
or snow-shoe traveller. He is more than 
six feet tall, with muscles like iron, and the 
medals he won made him known, long ago, 
as a champion of sport in Norway. These 
qualities, with the courage and endurance 
they imply, besides skill in kayak and ski 
travel, and ability to live as the Eskimos 
do, have had no small part in making his 
success. He has the grip of a giant, as a 
misguided pickpocket learned to his sor- 
row when he toyed with the Norseman's 

watch-chain. Nansen had just arrived in 
London to tell the geographers there about 
his polar project. He saw a great crowd 
at Buckingham Palace, and pushed to the 
front rank just as the Princess of Wales 
arrived to hold a drawing-room. As he 
waved his hat with the crowd, he felt a 
twitch at his chain, and grasped the wrist of 
the too familiar person. He cheered and 
waved until enthusiasm subsided, meanwhile 
holding an umbrella firmly under the arm 
to which the thief was attached, and then 
handed his prisoner over to a policeman. 
Nansen said he merely held the man tightly ; 
but the fellow was howling with pain, and 
declared he would rather go to prison than 
have his bones crushed. 

But, first of all, Nansen is a man of sci- 
ence. He had mastered all that had been 
done by Arctic explorers ; and when, with 
unsurpassed practical sense, he made such 
arrangements for his journey as to be able 
to advance hundreds of miles into the 
wholly unknown regions around the North 
Pole, it was his penetrating scientific genius 
that gained an insight into the^unknown. 
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Drawa hy Victor S. Perard after a drawing by Otto Sinding. 

That is the reason he has brought back 
such a harvest of valuable facts, many of 
which relate to pure science. We shall 
refer to some of the most striking facts* It 
is now known of his work as a whole, that 
he has made most significant and interesting 
discoveries and studies in Arctic geography, 
geology, marine h^rolog}^ meteorology, 
terrestrial magnetism, and biology ; but of 
course some time will elapse before his 
results can be published in detail for the 
study of experts. 

Nearly everything Nansen predicted 
about his journey has come true. He said 
he expected to cross the unknown polar 
area, and he has done it. He foretold ex- 
actly the general direction in which his ship 
would drift while fast in the ice, but it is 
not certain that he correctly assigned the 
cause of this drift. He believed he would 

enter a marine current that would carry his 
ice-imbedded vessel to the northwest. The 
most that can now be said of this theory is 
that he has discovered nothing to disprove 
it ; but he has found that the polar ice cap, 
once thought to be a fast ice sheet, is in 
continuous drift under the influence of the 
prevailing winds, and as the most persistent 
winds are from the southeast, the mean di- 
rection of the " Fram's " drift was north- 
west. Nansen invented the model of the 
" Fram," making her hull round and slip- 
pery like an eel, with no corners or sharp 
edges for the ice to seize upon. She is the 
strongest vessel ever used in Arctic explora- 
tion. He said that pressure would simply 
lift her on the ice, and so her bottom, near 
the keel, was made almost flat in order that 
she might not capsize while on the ice sur- 
face ! and her screw and rudder were also 

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ingeniously protected. The many 
experts who said her design would 
not save the " Fram *' from instant 
destruction were mistaken ; for she 
met these resistless ice pressures, 
and they merely lifted her out of 
her cradle, and she rested safely 
on the surface. 

Nansen said that, owing to the 
probable predominance of water in 
the far north, he expected to fmd 
there higher temperatures than 
along the north coast of Asia. This 



From a photograph by L. Szacinski, Chris- 

remark a - 
ble pre- 
has been 
The low- 
est tem- 
on the 
was sixty- 
one and 
below ze- 
ro, Fah- 
renheit, while farther south, in the Kara Sea, 
sixty-three degrees below zero, and at the 
mouth of the Lena River ninety-four degrees 
below zero have been 

The explorer, of 
course, was not ex- 
pecting to find a 
great sea two miles 
deep, and his sound- 
ing^ apparatus was 
wholly inadequate 
for measuring such 
depths ; but Nansen, 
like the late A. M. 
Mackay, on whose 
shoulders Living- 
stone's mantle fell in 
Africa, is a man to 
make means where 
none exists. Mackay 
made houses and 
boats without tools 


or nails save those he fashioned in the 
heart of Africa ; and so Nansen made a 
sounding apparatus of the most modern 
sort, procuring his iron wire from a cable. 
Dr. Nansen's greatest discovery on this 
voyage, like his greatest discovery in 
Greenland, was made in spite of inadequate 
appliances. He proved, in 1888, that inner 
Greenland contains one of the poles of cold 
of the earth, although none of his thermome- 
ters was able to show the lowest degrees of 
cold he experienced. 

Arctic explorers love to name the land 
features they discover after eminent per- 
sonages or the friends and supporters 01 
their enterprises. Dr. Nansen cannot have 
this pleasure, for in all his long journey he 
discovered no land except a few little islands 
near the Asian coast. Nansen has proved, 
in connection with the " Jeannette " expe- 
dition, that no large 
land masses thickly 
stud the Asian Arctic 
ocean as they do the 
North American po- 
lar area. 

Where is the North 
polar continent that 
once, figured on the 
maps ? It is not so 
long ago that the 
renowned geogra- 
pher Petermann be- 
lieved he had good 
reason for faith in 
its existence. The 
Pole w^s probably in 
this continent, and 
he thought that tow- 
'•" ering rocks near Be- 

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On March 14, 1895, Dr. Nansen, with a single companion, Lieutenant Johansen, left his ship behind him and pushed 
toward the Pole on foot. It was then that he got farther north than any man before him. He was unable to return to 
the " Pram," and he and Johansen made their way to Franz Josef Land, where they fell in with the Jaclcson-Harmsworth 
Polar Expedition, found comfortable lodging and a ship to bring them home. 

ring Strait, now known to be an island, might 
be one of the termini of the great land mass. 
Faith in this theory gradually weakened the 
farther men penetrated into the " White 
North;" and now Nansen has thrown a 
flood of light upon the question. The 
ocean depths he has found to the north of 
Franz Josef Land and Spitzbergen, the dis- 
appearance of animal life in that region, 
the structure of the ice, which is plainly 
formed at sea and not on land, and the free 
movement of the ice masses driven, as they 
are, in any direction by the prevailing winds, 
point inevitably to the conclusion that the 
man who reaches the North Pole will prob- 
ably fmd no land there, but a 
deep sea instead, covered by 
closely packed and drifting ice. 
The deep sea trough that was 
ever under the *'Fram" as she 
drifted to the north of Franz 
Josef Land and Spitzbergen 
shows that these lands have no 
northern extension. The near- 
est known land to the Pole is 
that which Lock wood and 
Brainard discovered, in 1882, 
north of Greenland. 

Up to last August the world 
had supposed that the North 
Polar Sea was for the most 
part a shallow basin with cold 
water in its depths. But Dr. 
Nansen reports a remarkable 

fact that is hardly less interesting than 
the deep sea, his greatest discovery — that 
is, that the water about 600 feet below the 
surface is above the freezing point, while 
the upper layer of water is invariably below 
the freezing point ; and this warmer water 
below 600 feet (north of Spitzbergen below 
3,000 feet) appears to extend to the very 
bottom. In view of this fact, some accepted 
theories as to the life of the globe and the 
circulation of ocean waters will require re- 
vision . 

We can hardly imagine the tedium and 
monotony of that long, slow drift over a 
lifeless sea, with no change in nature's 


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Reproduced by permission of Mr. Alfred Harmsworth, of the Jackson-Harmsworih Polar Ex|>edition. 

aspect, save the alternation of hummocks 
with almost level floe ice ; and the sea, 
more than a third of each year, enfolded in 
the gloom of Arctic twilight and darkness. 
The fact that every member of his party, 
from first to last, was well and fit for service, 
under trying and depressing conditions, is 
brilliant proof that Nansen hit the mark 
with his new ideas of planning the work 
and augmenting the comfort of an Arctic 
party. All his ideas as to hygiene, methods 
of travel, and so on, succeeded, and his 
men maintained for three years the life and 
energy needed to do scientific work. 

Some people laughed at Nansen *s plan to 
dispel the darkness around the ship with an 
electric plant, but it was a great success. 
Here was one spot in the Arctic waste all 
aglow with vivid light. Nansen painted or 
photographed by an arc lamp in the saloon. 
With every puff of air the windmill was set 
going to keep the dynamo charged ; and 

when wind failed, the boys manned the 
capstan, four at a time, and supplied the 
needed power. Heat and light were requis- 
ites which, Nansen said, he could not do 
without and keep his men in good heart 
and strength. Their cabin was warm, and 
so was their clothing, and they had light in 
plenty until the last winter, when, to the 
general regret, the electric plant was dis- 
pensed with, because portions of the appa- 
ratus were needed for snow-shoes and run- 
ners. Nansen feared the scurvy, but his 
precautions averted an attack from this 
ghastly enemy. 

A phonograph helped to cheer the hours 
of leisure. The explorer could not take 
his wife, but he had her songs with him. 
It had been his intention to follow the ex- 
ample of our own Arctic hero. Civil Engi- 
neer Peary, and take his wife with him. 
Fru Nansen is a charming woman, the 
daughter of a Norwegian naturalist, fond 

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of the robust recreations of her country, 
and as adventuresome as her husband. 
Both were confident that she had strength 
for the voyage, but at the last moment all 
his comrades begged him to leave his wife 
behind, and Nansen decided to grant their 
request. Fru Na -sen could not go, but 
her lovely voice was often heard in the 
little cabin. A gifted vocalist, well known 

to Scandinavian audiences, she sang all her 
husband's favorite songs into the phono- 
graph, and there was the cheeriest of music 
on shipboard ; and a baby's prattle, too, for 
the little daughter had several remarks for 
her papa on the phonographic record. Liv 
is her name, and it has been a name of 
good omen ; for she was called Life when 
the day of parting h^d begun (o cast jt§ 

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Reproduced by permission of Mr. Alfred Harmsworth, of the Jackson-Harmsworth Polar Expedition. 

shadow over the modest cottage, and that 
name was the prayer of the young wife and 
husband that, after the perilous and uncer- 
tain years had passed, the little trinity 
might again be gathered in their home. 
Sunshine and gladness now illumine the 
little cottage near Christiania. 

While the news of Nansen's safe return 
was flashing round the world, one of his 
compatriots, Hansen by name, sent out by 
a geographical society, was scouring the 

coasts of Asia for traces of him. He was 
to learn if the natives of North Siberia had 
heard anything of the ** Fram," or whether 
the explorer had called at the New Siberian 
Islands for the food supplies which Baron 
Toll had cached for him. There was no 
news of Nansen along the 3,000 miles of his 
fellow-countryman's route ; and when Han- 
sen reached the farther end of the telegraph 
wire he doubtless learned excellent reasons 
why he was coming home empty-handed. 

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From " W. V. Her Book," 
by William Canton : Sione 
Ac Kimball, publishers. 
New York. By special per- 


By William Canton. 

This gospel sang the angels bright : 
Lord Jhesu shall be born this night ; 
Born not in house nor yet in holly 
Wrapped not in purple nor in pall, 
Rocked not in silver y neither gold ; 
This word the angels sang of old ; 
Nor christened with white wine nor red ; 
This word of old the angels said 
Of Him which holdeth in His hand 
The strong sea and green land. 

This thrice and four times happy night— 
These tidings sang the angels bright — 
Forlorn, behvixen ear and horn^ 
A babe shall Jhesu Lord be born, 
A weeping babe in all the cold ; — 
This word the angels sang of old— 
And wisps of hay shall be his bed ; 
This word of old the angels said 
Of Him which keepeth in His hand 
The strong sea and green land. 

O babe and Lord, Thou Jhesu bright, — 
Let all and some now sing this night — 
Betwixt our sorrow and our sin. 
Be thou new-born our hearts within ; 
New-born, dear babe and little King, 
So letten some and all men sing — 
To wipe for us our tears away ! 
This night so letten all men say 
Of Him which spake, and lo I they be- 
The green land and strong sea. 

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From the painting by Josephine Wood Colby. Reproduced by the special permission of the artist, and now first 


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By Charles Henry Hart, 

Author of "The Orif^inal Portraits of Washington," " Stuart's I^nsdowne Portrait of Washinjfton," etc. 

THE State Normal School at West 
Chester, Pennsylvania, has become 
possessed of the varied collections of the 
Chester County Cabinet of Natural Science. 
As is not infrequently the case with such 
institutions, the Cabinet of Natural Science 
had received many gifts of valuable objects 
not germane to its special pursuits, and 
these, with its natural science cabinets, now 
belong to the State Normal School. Among 
such objects was the portrait of Washing- 
ton, by Charles Willson Peale, here pre- 
sented to the public for the first time. 

There are at least forty original portraits 
of Washington known to have been painted 
from life, with a score more claiming like 
distinction. To Charles Willson Peale be- 
longs the honor of having painted Wash- 
ington from life a greater number of times 
than any other artist. He had not less 
than fourteen different sittings from Wash- 
ington, if we can accept the numeration 
given by his son Rembrandt. In May, 
1772, while Washington was still a Virginia 
colonel, he wrote from Mount Vernon : 
" Inclination having yielded to impor- 
tunity, I am now, contrary to all expecta- 
tion, under the hands of Mr. Peale ; but 
in so grave, so sullen a mood — and now 
and then under the influence of Morpheus 
when some critical strokes are making — 
that I fancy the skill of this gentleman's 
pencil will be put to it in describing to the 
world what manner of man I am." In 
September, 1795, when Washington was in 
his second term as President of the United 
States, Stuart, meeting Mrs. Washington, 
urged her to hasten to her husband's pro- 
tection, as he had just left him where they 
were " Pealing him on the right side and on 
the left, behind and before." The allusion 
in this jest of Stuart's was to the fact that 
Charles Willson Peale, his younger brother 
James, and his sons Rembrandt and Rapha- 
elle, were each availing themselves of this, 
Washington's last sitting, to delineate his 
features. Between these two, so widely 
separated in time, Peale unquestionably 
secured numerous other sittings. 

This complacency to Peale on W^ashing- 
ton's part was due, in the first place, no 

doubt, to the fact that the first portrait he 
had painted was done by Peale. This was 
just as Washington was entering his forty- 
first year. Then Peale himself was a faith- 
ful soldier in the Revolution, and did much 
to relieve the tedium of winter quarters at 
Valley Forge by painting portraits of many 
of the officers. It was at this time and 
place that he painted, on a piece of bed-tick- 
ing, the portrait now reproduced ; and de- 
spite the unfavorable conditions under 
which it was painted, it may safely be pro- 
nounced the most vivid and life-like por- 
trait of Washington that Peale achieved. 
An examination of the canvas, which is 
twenty-three by twenty-eight inches, out of 
the frame, shows that it has been cut down 
from a larger picture ; and this will account 
for what seems a somewhat awkward pose. 
It was presented to the Chester County 
Cabinet in 1841, by the eminent artist, John 
Neagle of Philadelphia. How and when 
Mr. Neagle acquired it, we do not know ; 
nor why he took it away from his own city, 
to bury it in a country town. But we do 
know that he presented it as " An original 
portrait of Gcnl, Washington^ in revolution' 
ary costume, taken by C, IV. Peale^ at Valley 

This certificate from John Neagle means 
more than it would from many other men. 
He was not only distinguished as a portrait 
painter, but he was a most exact and con- 
scientious man, as is evidenced by the care- 
ful inscriptions on many of his own paint- 
ings. He was past thirty when Charles Will- 
son Peale died, had lived in the same city 
with him, and belonged to the same artistic 
coterie. We may therefore rest assured that 
he did not inscribe this portrait as "original," 
and taken " at Valley Forge," without good 
and sufficient evidence, if the remnant of old 
bed-ticking that served for a canvas did 
not tell us the same tale. Its originality, 
too, is clearly attested by its freedom, sim- 
plicity, and directness, its natural expression 
and dignified repose — all of which plainly 
tell that painter and sitter faced each other 
while it was being limned. Beyond this it 
can be accepted as a truthful delineation 
of the unidealized Washington — the Corn- 

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From a photof^aph of the original painting?, Uken expressly for McClikk's MAtiAiiNE by C. S. Bradford, West Ches- 
ter, Pennsylvania, and copyrighted by him September ;»6, 1896. The original painting is the property of the State 
Normal School, West Chester, Pennsylvania. 

mander-in-Chief at the head of the army 
and in camp. Peale seems never to have 
duplicated it, although he repeated most of 
his other portraits of Washington many 
times. Perhaps it was with him as it was 
with Stuart and his portraits of the same 
subject — he did not know which one really 

was the best. A close comparative study, 
however, of this Valley Forge head with 
Peale's well-known whole length portraits, 
having Nassau Hall in the background, 
leads me to the conclusion that it was 
his chief guide for the head in these pict- 


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By Ian Maclarkn, 

Author of " Beside the Bonnie Bf ier Bush," etc. 

CHRISTMAS fell on a Sunday the year 
Dr. Davidson died, and on the pre- 
ceding Monday a groom drove up to the 
manse from Muirtown Castle. 

"A letter. Doctor, from his lordship*' 
— John found his master sitting before the 
study fire in a reverie, looking old and sad 
— ** and there's a bit boxie in the kitchen." 

**\Vill you see, Joh§, that the messen- 
ger has such food as we can offer him ? " 
and the Doctor roused himself at the sight 
of the familiar handwriting; ** there is 
that, eh, half fowl that Rebecca was keep- 
ing for my dinner to-day ; perhaps she could 
do it up for him. I ... do not feel 
hungry to-day. And, John, will you just 
say that I'm sorry that . . . owing to cir- 
cumstances, we can't offer him refresh- 
ment ? " On these occasions the Doctor 
felt his straitness greatly, having kept a 
house in his day where man and beast had 
of the best. 

** What dis for the minister of Drum- 
tochty an' his . . . hoose 'ill dae for a 
groom, even though he serve the Earl o' 
Kilspindie, an' a' ken better than say ony- 
thing tae Becca aboot the chuckie; " this 
he said to himself on his way to the 
kitchen, where that able woman had put 
the messenger from the Castle in his own 
place, and was treating him with conspicu- 
ous and calculated condescension. He 
was a man somewhat given to appetite 
and critical about his drink, as became a 
servant of the Earl; but such was the at- 
mosphere of the manse and the awfulness 
of the Doctor's household that he made a 
hearty dinner off ham and eggs, with good 
spring water, and departed declaring his 
gratitude aloud. 

** My dkak Davidson, — Will you distribute the 
enclosed trifle among your old pensioners in the 
Glen as you see fit, and let it come from you, who 
would have given them twice as much had it not 
been for that confounded bank. The pxjrt is for 
yourself, Sandeman's '48 — the tipple you and I have 
tasted together for many a year. If you hand it 
over to the liquidators, as you wanted to do with the 
few bottles you had in your celler, I'll have you up 

before the sheriff of Muirtown for breach of trust 
and embezzlement, as sure as my name is 
" Your old friend, 

*' Kilspindie. 
" P. S. — The Countess joins me in Christmas 
greetings, and charges you to fail us on New Year's 
Day at your peril. We are anxious about Hay, who 
has been ordered to the front." 

The Doctor opened the check and 
stroked it gently; then he read the letter 
again and snuffed, using his handkerchief 
vigorously. After which he wrote: 

'* Dear Kilspindie,— It is, without erception, 
the prettiest check 1 have ever had in my hands, 
and it comes from as good a fellow as ever lived. 
You knew that it would hurt me not to be able to 
give my little Christmas gifts, and you have done 
this kindness. Best thanks from the people and 
myself, and as for the |X)rt, the liquidators will not 
see a drop of it ; don't believe any of those stories 
about the economies at the manse which, I suspect, 
you have been hearing from Drumtochty. Deliberate 
falsehoods ; we are living like fighting cocks. I'm 
a little shaky — hint of gout, I fancy — but hope to be 
with you on New Year's Day. God bless you both, 
and preserve Hay in the day of battle. 
" Yours afTectionately, 

"Alexander Davidson." 

" Don't like that signature, Augusta," 
said the Earl to his wife; *'it's true 
enough, for no man has a warmer heart, 
but he never wrote that way before. 
Davidson's breaking up, an' ... he 'ill 
be missed. I must get Manley to run out 
and overhaul him when he comes down. 
My belief is that he's been starving him- 
self. Peter Robertson, the land steward, 
says that he has never touched a drop of 
wine since that bank smashed; now that 
won't do at his age, but he's an obstinate 
fellow, Davidson, when he takes a thing 
into his head." 

The Doctor's determination — after the 
calamity of the bank failure — to reduce 
himself to the depths of poverty was won- 
derful, but Drumtochty was cunning and 
full of tact. He might surrender his in- 
vested means and reserve only one hundred 
pounds a year out of his living, but when 

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he sent for the Kildrummie auctioneer and 
instructed him to sell every stick of furni- 
ture, except a bare minimum for one sit- 
ting-room and a bedroom, Jock accepted 
the commission at once, and proceeded at 
eleven miles an hour — having just bought 
a new horse — to take counsel with Drums- 
heugh. Next Friday he dropped into the 
factor's office — successor to him over 
whom the Doctor had triumphed gloriously 
— and amid an immense variety of rural 
information, mentioned that he was ar- 
ranging a sale of household effects at 
Drumtochty Manse. Jock was never 
known to be so dilatory with an advertise- 
ment before, and ere he got it out Lord 
Kilspindie had come to terms with the 
liquidator and settled the Doctor's belong- 
ings on him for life. 

The Doctor's next effort was with his 
household, and for weeks the minister 
looked wistfully at John and Rebecca, till 
at last he had them in and stated the situ- 

"You have both been . . . good and 
faithful servants to me, and I may say 
. . . friends for many years, and 1 had 
hoped you would have remained in the 
manse till ... so long as I was spared. 
And I may mention now that I had made 
someslight provision that would have . . . 
made you comfortable after I was gone." 

*' It wes kind o' ye, sir, an' mindfu'." 
Rebecca spoke, not John, and her tone 
was of one who might have to be firm and 
must not give herself away by sentiment. 

**It is no longer possible for me, 
through . . . certain events, to live as I 
have been accustomed to do, and I am 
afraid that I must ... do without your 
help. A woman coming in to cook and 
. . . such like will be all I can afford." 

The expression on the housekeeper's 
face at this point was such that even the 
Doctor did not dare to look at her again, 
but turned to John, whose countenance 
was inscrutable. 

"Your future, John, has been giving 
me much anxious thought, and I hope to 
be able to do something with Lord Kil- 
spindie next week. There are many quiet 
places on the estate which might suit 
..." then the Doctor weakened, "al- 
though I know well no place will ever be 
like Drumtochty, and the old manse will 
never be the same . . . without you. But 
you see how it is . . . friends." 

" Doctor Davidson," and he knew it 
was vain to escape her, " wi' yir permis- 
sion a' wud like tae ask ye ane or twa ques- 
tions, an' yc'U forgie the leeberty. Dis 

ony man in the pairish o' Drumtochty ken 
yir wys like John ? Wha 'ill tak yir mes- 
sages, an' prepare the fouk for the veesi- 
tation, an' keep the gairden snod, an* see 
tae a* yir trokes when John's awa ? Wull 
ony man ever cairry the bukes afore ye 
like John?" 

"Never," admitted the Doctor, 
" never." 

" Div ye expect the new wumman 'ill 
ken hoo mickle stairch tae pit in yir stock, 
an* hoo mickle butter ye like on yir 
chicken, an' when ye change yir flannels 
tae a day, an' when ye like anither blanket 
on yir bed, an' the wy tae mak the cur- 
rant drink for yir cold ? " 

" No, no, Rebecca, nobody will ever be 
so good to me as you've been " — the Doc- 
tor was getting very shaky. 

" Then what for wud ye send us awa, 
and bring in some handless, useless tawpie 
that cud neither cook ye a decent meal 
nor keep the manse wise like ? Is't for 
room ? The manse is as big as ever. Is't 
for meat ? We 'ill eat less than she 'ill 

"You know better, Rebecca," said the 
Doctor, attempting to clear his throat; 
" it's because . . . because I cannot 
afford to . . ." 

" A' ken very weel, an' John an' me hev 
settled that. For thirty year ye've paid 
us better than ony minister's man an' 
manse hoosekeeper in Perthshire, an' ye 
wantit tae raise oor wages aifter we mair- 
rit. Div ye ken what John an* me hev in 
the bank for oor laist days ? " 

The Doctor only shook his head, being 
cowed for once in his life. 

" Atween us, fvse, hundred and twenty- 
sax pund." 

" Eleven an* sevenpence," added John, 
steadying his voice with arithmetic. 

" It's five year sin we askit ye tae py 
naethin' mair but juist gie's oor keep, an' 
noo the time's come, an' welcome. Hev 
John or me ever disobeyed ye or spoken 
back a' thae years ? " 

The Doctor only made a sign with his 

" We 'ill dae't aince, at ony rate, for ye 
may gie us notice tae leave an' order us 
oot o' the manse; but here we stop till 
we're no fit tae serve ye or ye hae nae 
mair need o' oor service." 

" A homologate that" — it was a brave 
word, and one of which John was justly 
proud, but he did not quite make the most 
of it that day. 

" I thank you from my heart, and . . . 
I'll never speak of parting again," and 

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for the first time they saw tears on the 
Doctor's cheek. 

"John/' Rebecca turned on her hus- 
band — no man would have believed it of 
the beadle of Druratochty, but he was 
also ..." what are ye stoiterin' roond 
the table for ? It's time tae set the Doc- 
tor's denner; as for that chicken," and 
Rebecca retired to the kitchen, having 
touched her highest point that day. 

The insurrection in the manse oozed 
out, and encouraged a conspiracy of re- 
bellion in which even the meekest people 
were concerned. Jean Baxter of Burn- 
brae, who had grasped greedily at the 
dairy contract of the manse, when the 
glebe was let to Netherton, declined to 
render any account to Rebecca, and the 
Doctor had to take the matter in hand. 

** There's a little business, Mrs. Baxter, 
I would like to settle with you, as I hap- 
pen to be here." The Doctor had dropped 
in on his way back from Whinny Knowe, 
where Marget and he had been talking of 
George for two hours. ** You know that 
I have to be, eh . . . careful now, and 
I . . . you will let me pay what we owe 
for that delicious butter you are good 
enough to supply." 

"Ye'ill surely tak a look roond the 
fields first. Doctor, an* tell's what ye 
think o* the crops; " and after that it was 
necessary for him to take tea. Again and 
again he was foiled, but took a firm stand 
by the hydrangea in the garden, and John 
Baxter stood aside that the affair might 
be decided in single combat. 

** Now, Mrs. Baxter, before leaving I 
must insist," began the Doctor with au- 
thority, and his stick was in his hand; but 
Jean saw a geographical advantage, and 
seized it instantly 

" Div ye mind, sir, comin* tae this gair- 
den five year syne his month, and stannin' 
on that verra spot aside the hydrangy ? " 

The Doctor scr^nted danger, but he 
could not retreat. 

" Weel, at ony rate, John an* me dinna 
forget that day, an' never wull, for we 
were makin' ready tae leave the home o' 
the Baxters for mony generations, an' it 
wes you that stoppit us. Ye 'ill maybe 
no mind what ye said tae me." 

•'We 'ill not talk of that to-day, Mrs. 
Baxter . . . that's past and over." 

** Aye, it's past, but it's no over, Doc- 
tor Davidson; na, na, John an' me wesna 
made that wy. Ye may lauch at a fulish 
auld wife, but ilka kirnin' (churning) day 
ye veesit us again. When a'm turnin' the 
kirn a' see ye conain* up th^ rpad, an* a* 

gar the handle keep time wi' yir step; 
when a' tak oot the bonnie yellow butter 
ye're stannin' in the gairden, an' then a' 
stamp ae pund wi' buttercups, an* a' say, 
* You're not away yet, Burnbrae, you're not 
away yet ' — that wes yir word tae the gude 
man; and when the ither stamp comes 
doon on the second pund and leaves the 
bonnie daisies on't, * Better late than 
never, Burnbrae; better late than never, 
Burnbrae.' Ye said that afore ye left, 
Doctor." • 

Baxter was amazed at his wife, and the 
Doctor saw himself defeated. 

** Mony a time has John an' me sat in 
the summer-hoose an' brocht back that 
day, an' mony a time hev we wantit tae dae 
somethin' for him that keepit the auld 
roof-tree abune oor heads. God forgie 
me. Doctor, but when a' heard ye hed 
gien up yir glebe ma hert loupit, an' a' 
said tae John, * The'ill no want for butter 
at the manse sae lang as there's a Baxter 
in Burnbrae.' 

"Dinna be angry, sir." But the flush 
that brought the Doctor's face unto a 
state of perfection was not anger. "A' 
ken it's a leeberty we're takin', an' maybe 
a'm presumin' ower far, but gin ye kent 
hoo sair oor herts were wi' gratitude, ye 
wudna deny us this kindness." 

" Ye 'ill lat the Doctor come awa noo, 
gude wife, tae see the young horse," and 
Doctor Davidson was grateful to Burnbrae 
for covering his retreat. 

This spirit spread till Hillocks lifted 
up his horn, outwitting the Doctor with 
his attentions, and reducing him to sub- 
mission. When the beadle dropped in 
upon Hillocks one day, and, after a hasty 
review of harvest affairs, mentioned that 
Dr. Davidson was determined to walk in 
future to and from Kildrummie Station, 
the worthy man rose without a word, and 
led the visitor to the shed where his mar- 
vellous dog-cart was kept. 

"Div ye think that a' cud daur?" 
studying its general appearance with diffi- 

" There's nae say in' hoo it wud look wi* 
a wash," suggested John. 

"Sail, it's fell snod noo," after two 
hours* honest labor, in which John conde- 
scended to share, "an* the gude wife 'ill 
cover the cushions. Dinna lat on, but 
a'll be at the gate the morn afore the Doc- 
tor starts. " And Peter Bruce gave it to be 
understood that when Hillocks convoyed 
the Doctor to the compartment of the 
third rigidly and unanimously reserved for 
hii|i, his manner, both of walk and con- 

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versation, was changed, and it is certain 
that a visit he made to Piggie Walker on 
the return journey was unnecessary save 
for the purpose of vain boasting. It was 
not, however, to be heard of by the Doc- 
tor that Hillocks should leave his work at 
intervals to drive him to Kildrummie, and 
so there was a war of tactics, in which the 
one endeavored to escape past the bridge 
without detection, while the other swooped 
down upon him with the dog-cart. On the 
Wednesday when the Doctor went to 
Muirtown to buy his last gifts to Drum- 
tochty, he was very cunning, and ran the 
blockade while Hillocks was in the corn- 
room, but the dog-cart was waiting for him 
in the evening — Hillocks having been 
called to Kildrummie by unexpected busi- 
ness — and it was a great satisfaction after- 
wards to Peter Bruce that he placed 
fourteen parcels below the seat and fast- 
ened eight behind — besides three which 
the Doctor held in his hands, being fragile, 
and two, soft goods, on which Hillocks 
sat for security. For there were twenty- 
seven humble friends whom the Doctor 
wished to bless on Christmas Day. 

When he bade the minister good-by at 
his gate. Hillocks prophesied a storm, and 
it was of such a kind that on Sunday 
morning the snow was knee deep on the 
path from the manse to the kirk, and had 
drifted up four feet against the door 
through which the Doctor was accustomed 
to enter in procession. 

** This is unfortunate, very unfortu- 
nate,** when John reported the state of 
affairs to the Doctor, ** and we must just do 
the best we can in the circumstances, eh ? ** 

*'What wud be yir wull, sir?** but 
John's tones did not encourage any con- 

" Well, it would never do for you to be 
going down bare-headed on such a day, 
and it's plain we can't get in at the front 
door. What do you say to taking in the 
books by the side door, and 1*11 just come 
down in my top coat when the people are 
gathered; *' but the Doctor did not show a 
firm mind, and it was evident that he was 
thinking less of himself than of John. 

*'A'll come for ye at the usual oor,** 
was all that functionary deigned to reply, 
and at a quarter to twelve he brought the 
gown and bands to the study — he himself 
being in full black. 

*' The drift 'ill no tribble ye, an' ye 'ill 
no need tae gang roond; na, na," and 
John did not quite conceal his satisfaction, 
*' we 'ill no start on the side door aifter 
five and thirty years o' the front." 

So the two old men — John bare-headed, 
the Doctor in full canonicals and wearing 
his col lege cap — came down on a fair path- 
way between two banks of snow three feet 
high, which Saunders from Drumsheugh 
and a dozen ploughmen had piled on either 
side. The kirk had a severe look that 
day, with hardly any women or children 
to relieve the blackness of the men, and the 
drifts reaching to the sills of the windows, 
while a fringe of snow draped their sides. 

The Doctor's subject was the love of 
God, and it was noticed that he did not 
read, but spoke as if he had been in his 
study. He also dwelt so affectingly on 
the gift of Christ, and made so tender an 
appeal unto his people, that Drumsheugh 
blew his nose with vigor and Hillocks 
himself was shaken. After they had sung 
the paraphrase. 

To Ilim that lov'd the souls of men. 
And washed us in His blood," 

the Doctor charged those present to carry 
his greetings to the folk at home aqd tell 
them they were all in his heart. After 
which he looked at his people as they 
stood for at least a minute, and then lift- 
ing his hands, according to the ancient 
fashion of the Scottish Kirk, he blessed 
them. His gifts, with a special message 
to each person, he sent by faithful messen- 
gers, and afterwards he went out through 
the snow to make two visits. The first 
was to blind Marjorie, who was Free Kirk, 
but to whom he had shown much kindness 
all her life. His talk with her was usually 
of past days and country affairs, seasoned 
with wholesome humor to cheer her heart, 
but to-day he fell into another vein, to 
her great delight, and they spoke of the 
dispensations of Providence. 

** * Whom the Lord loveth. He chas- 
teneth,' Marjorie, is a very instructive 
Scripture, and I was thinking of it last 
night. You have had a long and hard 
trial, but you have doubtless been blessed, 
for if you have not seen outward things, 
you have seen the things ... of the 
soul." The Doctor hesitated once or 
twice, as one who had not long travelled 
this road. 

" You and I are about the same age, 
Marjorie, and we must soon . . . depart. 
My life was very . . . prosperous, but 
lately it has pleased the Almighty to . . . 
chasten me. I have now, therefore, some 
hope also that I may be one of His chil- 

" He wes aye gude grain, the Doctor," 

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Marjorie said to her friend, after he had 
left, '* but he's hed a touch o* the harvest 
sun, an' he's been ripening." 

Meanwhile the Doctor had gone on to 
Tochty Lodge, and was standing in the 
stone hall, which was stripped and empty 
of the Carnegies forever. Since he .was a 
laddie in a much-worn kilt and a glengarry 
bonnet without tails, he had gone in and 
out the Lodge, and himself had seen four 
generations — faintly remembering the Gen- 
eral's grandfather. Every inch of the 
house was familiar to him, and associated 
with kindly incidents. He identified the 
spaces on the walls where the portraits of 
the cavaliers and their ladies had hung; he 
went up to the room where the lairds had 
died and his friend had hoped to fall on 
sleep ; he visited the desolate gallery where 
Kate had held court and seemed to begin 
a better day for the old race; then he re- 
turned and stood before the fire-place in 
which he had sat long ago and looked up 
to see the stars in the sky. Round that 
hearth many a company of brave men and 
fair women had gathered, and now there 
remained of this ancient stock but two 
exiles — one eating out his heart in poverty 
and city life, and a girl who had, for weal 
or woe, God only knew, passed out of the 
line of her traditions. A heap of snow 
had gathered on the stone, where the 
honest wood fire had once burned cheerily, 
and a gust of wind coming down the vast 
open chimney powdered his coat with 
drift. It was to him a sign that the past 
was closed, and that he would never again 
stand beneath that roof. 

He opened the gate of the manse, and 
then, under a sudden impulse, went on 
through deep snow to the village and 
made a third visit — to Archie Moncur, 
whom he found sitting before the fire read- 
ing the "Temperance Trumpet." Was 
there ever a man like Archie ? — so gentle 
and fierce, so timid and fearless, so modest 
and persevering. He would stoop to lift 
a vagrant caterpillar from the cart track, 
and yet had not adjectives to describe the 
infamy of a publican ; he would hardly give 
an opinion on the weather, but he fought 
the drinking customs of the Glen like a 
lion; he would only sit in the lowest seat in 
any place, but every winter he organized — 
at great trouble and cost of his slender 
means — temperance meetings which were 
the fond jest of the Glen. From year to 
year he toiled on, without encouragement, 
without success, hopeful, uncomplaining, 
resolute, unselfish, with the soul of a saint 
and the spirit of a hero in his poor, de- 

formed, suffering little body. He humbled 
himself before the very bairns, and allowed 
an abject like Milton to browbeat him 
with Pharisaism; but every man in the 
Glen knew that Archie would have gone 
to the stake for the smallest jot or tittle of 
his faith. 

** Archie," said the Doctor, who would 
not sit down, and whose coming had 
thrown the good man into speechless con- 
fusion, ** it's the day of our Lord's birth, 
and I wish to give you and all my friends 
of the Free Kirk — as you have no minister 
just now — hearty Christmas greeting. 
May peace be in your kirk and homes 
. . . and hearts. 

•* My thoughts have been travelling 
back of late over those years since I was 
ordained minister of this parish and the 
things which have happened, and it seemed 
to me that no man has done his duty by 
his neighbor or before God with a more 
single heart than you, Archie. 

** God bless you." Then on the door- 
step the Doctor shook hands again and 
paused for a minute. ** You have fought 
a good fight, Archie — I wish we could all 
say the same ... a good fight." 

For an hour Archie was so dazed that 
he was not able to say a word, and could 
do nothing but look into the fire, and then 
he turned to his sisters, with that curious 
little movement of the hand which seemed 
to assist his speech. 

" The language wes clean redeeklus, 
but it wes kindly meant . . . an' it maks 
up for mony things. . . . The Doctor 
wes aye a gentleman, an' noo ... ye can 
see that he's . . . something mair." 

Drumsheugh dined with the Doctor that 
night, and after dinner John opened for 
them a bottle of Lord Kilspindie's wine. 

**It is the only drink we have in the 
house, for I have not been using anything 
of that kind lately, and I think we may 
have a glass together for the sake of Auld 
Lang Syne." 

They had three toasts, ** The Queen," 
and **The Kirk of Scotland," and "The 
friends that are far awa," after which — 
for the last included both the living and 
the dead — they sat in silence. Then the 
Doctor began to speak of his ministry, 
lamenting that he had not done better for 
his people, and declaring that if he were 
spared he intended to preach more fre- 
quently about the Lord Jesus Christ. 

" You and I, Drumsheugh, will have to 
go a long journey soon, and give an ac- 
count of our lives in Drumtochty. Per- 
haps we have done our best as men can, 

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and I think we have tried; but there are 
many things we might have done other- 
wise, and some we ought not to have done 
at all. 

** It seems to me now, the less we say in 
that day of the past the bettet. . . . We 
shall wish for mercy rather than justice, 
and" — here the Doctor looked earnestly 
over his glasses at his elder — *' we would 
be none the worse, Drumsheugh, of a 
friend to . . . say a good word for us 
both in the great court." 

'* A've thocht that masel " — it was an 
agony for Drumsheugh to speak — **mair 
than aince. Weelum MacLure wes . . . 
ettlin' (feeling) aifter the same thing the 
nicht he slippit awa, an* gin ony man cud 
hae stude on his ain feet . . . yonder, it 
wes . . . Weelum." 

The Doctor read the last chapter of the 
Revelation of St. John at prayers that 
evening with much solemnity, and there- 
after prayed concerning those who had 
lived together in the Glen that they might 
meet at last in the City. 

** Finally, most merciful Father, we 
thank Thee for Thy patience with us, and 
the goodness Thou hast bestowed upon 
us, and for as much as Thy servants have 
sinned against Thee beyond our knowl- 
edge, we beseech Thee to judge us not 
according to our deserts, but according to 
the merits and intercession of Jesus Christ 
our Lord." He also pronounced the bene- 
diction — which was not his wont — and he 

shook hands with his two retainers; but 
he went with his guest to the outer door. 

**Good-by, Drumsheugh . . . you have 
been ... a faithful friend and elder." 

When John paid his usual visit to the 
study before he went to bed, the Doctor 
did not hear him enter the room. He was 
holding converse with Skye, who was 
seated on a chair, looking very wise and 
much interested. 

" Ye're a bonnie beastie, Skye" — like 
all Scots, the Doctor in his tender moments 
dropped into dialect — " for a' thing He 
made is verra gude. Ye've been true and 
kind to your master, Skye, and ye 'ill miss 
him if he leaves ye. Some day ye 'ill die 
also, and they *ill bury ye, and I doubt 
that 'ill be the end o 'ye, Skye. 

"Ye never heard o' God, Skye, or the 
Saviour, for ye're juist a puir doggie; but 
your master is minister of Drumtochty, 
and ... a sinner saved ... by grace." 

The Doctor was so much affected as he 
said the last words slowly to himself that 
John went out on tiptoe, and twice during 
the night listened — fancying he heard Skye 
whine. In the morning the Doctor was 
still sitting in his big chair, and Skye was 
fondly licking a hand that would never 
again caress him, while a miniature of 
Daisy — the little maid who had died in her 
teens, and whom her brother had loved 
till his old age — lay on the table, and the 
Bible was again open at the description of 
the New Jerusalem. 

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From a fresco in the sacristy of St. Peter's, Rome ; painted by Melozzo da Forli (born, 1438 ; died, 1494). Reproduced by 

permission of Braun, Clement & Co. 


By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

With timbrel and with tabor, with viol and with lute, 

Bend out of heaven, dear Spirits, across your frosty height. 

For the crown of every labor, and of every flower the fruit, 
The happy earth inherits, Love being born to-night ! 

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From a fresco in the sacristy of St. Peter's, Rome ; painted by Melozzo da Forli. Reproduced by permission of 

Braun, Clement & Co. 

Over the vast abysses of nothingness and gloom, 

Where the old gods go reeling iit the cry of the new name, 

Lean from your untold blisses, and make the midnight bloom 

With your throbbing gladness stealing in a thousand points of flame. 

O Angel of all Innocents, your viol make more sweet; 
O Angel of all Lovers, touch tenderly your lute; 
O Angel of all Heroes, your rapturous tabor beat; 

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From a fresco in the sacristy of St. Peter's, Rome ; painted by Melozzo da Forli. Reproduced by permission of 

Braun, Clement & Co. 

O Angel of all Triumph, sound your timbrel's swift pursuit; 

For you hear the Voice above you, like the breath of some strong flute: 

"To-night, to-night, Great Love is born, and joy is absolute!" 

Forget, O strains untiring, (}ethsemane's dark cup, 

Foretell not the heart-breaking despair of Calvary's height. 

For with boundless sweep and gyring all the universe moves u|), 
The depth, the dark forsaking with this primal Christmas nig 

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From a fresco in the sacristy of St. Peter's, Rome ; painted by Melozzo da Forli. Reproduced by permission of 

Braun, Clement & Co. 

While sinking at the warning of the clear and mighty cry, 

Shall the evil that is hoary, with the dooming that was meet, 

In the void of night and morning like a dream dissolve and die, 
And death grow into glory now Love makes Life complete! 

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grant's birthplace, at point pleasant, OHIO. 

"From a copyrighted photograph by F. L. Dickinson, Cincinnati, Ohio. The house is still standing, but it has been 
femoved to Columbus, Ohio, where it is carefully preserved as a relic in an enclosing structure of stone, iron, and glass. 


By Hamlin Garland, 

Author of "Main-travelled Roads," "Prairie Folks," etc. 


ULYSSES GRANT was born in a cabin 
home standing in a little village on 
the north bank of the Ohio River, at a 
point about twenty-five miles east of Cin- 
cinnati. This cabin stood comparatively 
unchanged until about ten years ago, when 
•it was taken down and removed to Columbus 
as a relic. It was a one-story building of two 
very small rooms, with an outside chimney 
at one end in the manner of Southern cot- 
tages. In one room the family lived in 
•day-time, cooking at the big fireplace, and 
eating at a pine table. In the other room 
they slept. 

It was almost as humble in appearance 
as the house in which Abraham Lincoln 

• In writing this article upon the early life of Grant, I 
have gathered my material so far as possible by personal 
interviews with men and women who knew him. I have 
referred to "The Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant " and 
•to Richardson's " Personal Life of U. S. Grant " for confir- 
mation and for the seauence of events. I am indebted to 
Mr. Chambers Baird ot Ripley, for assistance in collecting 
notes concerning Grant's school-days in Ripley and Mays- 
Tllle. I have also quoted from a series of letters written to 
rthe " New York Ledger " in 1868 by Jesse Grant, 

first saw the light. The village was called 
Point Pleasant, and it was indeed a beauti- 
ful place. Below the door the Ohio River 
curved away into blue distance, and behind 
it rose hills covered with tall woods of oak 
and walnut and ash. At that time the river 
was the great highway, and over its steel- 
bright surface the stern-wheel steamers 
" Daniel Boone " and " Simon Kenton " 
plied amid many flat-boats, like immense 
swans surrounded by awkward water-bugs. 
At this time Point Pleasant had hopes of 
being a metropolis. It was deceived. It 
is to-day a very small village, at whose 
wharf only an occasional steamer conde- 
scends to stop. In 1820 it contained among 
other industries a tannery, and the fore- 
man of this tannery, an ambitious, stalwart 
young fellow, called Jesse Grant, had been 
in business for himself some years before 
at Ravenna, and was looking for a chance 
to begin again. Sickness had broken up 
his industry and had swept away his sav- 
ings — savings which represented the most 
unremitting toil and the mc^rigorous self- 
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From an origrinal photojjraph owned by Helen M. Burke. La Crosse, Wisconsin. 

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The school which Grant attended was taught by John D. White, and amonf? Grant's schoolmates were Aufpist V. Kautz^ 
afterwards General Kautz ; Daniel Ammen, afterwards Admiral Ammen ; Chilton A. White, since prominent in politics; 
and Carr B. White, afterwards General White. 

denial — but he was once more accumulating 
money, and was nearly ready for a second 

He married, in 1821, a slender, self-con- 
tained young girl, named Hannah Simpson 
— a girl of most excellent quality, hand- 
some, but not vain, and of great steadiness 
of purpose. In 1822 his first son was born, 
and in 1823 Jesse Grant decided upon 
Georgetown as the best point to set up a 
tannery of his own. His keen perception 
of the commercial changes going on de- 
cided this movement. Georgetown was the 
county-seat of the new County of Brown, 
and had the further advantage of being 
situated in a wilderness of tan-bark. More- 
over, it was growing, while Point Pleasant 
was being overshadowed by Ripley. George- 
town thus became the boyhood home of 
Ulysses Grant. 

The Grant family made a powerful im- 
pression upon the citizens of Georgetown 
at once. Jesse Grant was a strong man 
physically and mentally — though possessed 
of many idiosyncrasies. He was nearly six 
feet in height, and alive to his finger tips. 
His head was large, and his face largely 
modelled, but his eyes were weak and near- 
sighted. He looked the transplanted New 
Englander he was, square of jaw, firm of lip. 

He came of a strong family of most ad- 
mirable record. His father and grand- 

father had been soldiers in the Colonial and 
Revolutionary wars respectively, his grand- 
father attaining the rank of captain. His 
father was a lieutenant of militia at Lexing- 
ton, and fought through the entire Revo- 
lutionary War. The Grants had been Con- 
necticut Yankees for several generations, 
and Jesse brought the vigor, hardihood, and 
shrewd economy of his forebears to the less 
thrifty Ohio border. He took a prominent 
position in the village at once. He loved to 
talk, to make speeches, and to argue. He 
held advanced ideas, and he wrote rhymes. 
He had the gentle art of making enemies as 
well as friends. He was pronouncedly of 
the North, his neighbors were mainly of the 

Hannah Simpson, the gentle wife, had no 
discoverable enemies. She was almost 
universally beloved as a Christian woman 
and faithful wife and mother. It took 
longer to know her, for she was the most 
reticent of persons. ** Ulysses got his reti- 
cence, his patience, his equable temper 
from his mother," is the verdict of those 
who knew both father and mother. Others 
go further and say : *' He got his sense from 
his mother.'* 

In truth the Simpsons were a fine old 
family They were quite as martial as the 
Grants, were as closely identified with the 
early history of America, and were possessed 

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From an original phoioKraph owned by Helen M. Burke of La Crosse, Wisconsin. 

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apparently of greater self-control. Hannah 
Simpson was the daughter of John Simpson, 
a man with the restless heart of a pioneer, 
who had left his ancestral home in Pennsyl- 
vania, near Philadelphia, and had settled in 
Clermont County, Ohio, a few years before. 
He had built a brick house and opened a large 
farm, and his position was most honorable in 
his town of Bantam. Hannah Simpson, his 
daughter, seems to have gathered up and 
carried forward to her son Ulysses the best 
qualities of her people. That she was a 
remarkable woman, all her neighbors bear 
testimony. She never complained of any 
hardship or toil or disappointment. She 
seldom laughed, and her son Ulysses once 
said, "I never saw her shed a tear in my 
life. " She was as proud of her family history 
as her husband was of his, but she said noth- 
ing about it. She never argued, never 
boasted, and never gossiped of her neigh- 
bors. Her husband bore testimony to her 
high character in words well chosen : " Her 
steadiness, strength of character have been 
the stay of the family through life." Her 
old neighbors call her **a noble woman." 

In 1823, as now, Georgetown was inhab- 
ited by native families ; that is to say, by 
families at least two removes from the old 
world, as a roster of the names will show. 
Many were from Kentucky and Virginia, 
and the town partook almost equally of 
South and North in respect of customs, 
speech, and political prejudices — possibly at 
that time the South predominated. The 
town was laid out around the court-house 
square in Southern fashion. It was a town 
hewn out of a mighty forest of trees. To 
this day the fringes and fragments of wood, 
and especially the stumps, testify of the 
giants of other days. The soil was fat and 
productive, as the settler could well per- 
ceive by measuring the giant oaks which 
had risen out of it ; and he set himself to 
work like some valorous but inconsiderate 
and inconsiderable insect to gnaw down the 
forest and let in the sunlight upon his corn 
and potatoes. 

The life which the boy Ulysses touched 
was therefore primitive, unrefined, element- 
al. The village was almost as rude as 
the farms — a mere cluster of cabins. The 
houses were small, unadorned, and over- 
crowded with children. The women cooked 
at the open fireplaces with pots and cranes, 
with *' reflectors " and " dutch-ovens " as 
luxuries. The ceilings were very low, the 
walls bare, the furniture rude and scanty. 
The interiors were without a single touch 
of refining grace save when at night the 
fireplace threw a golden glory over the 

rough plaster and filled the corners of the 
room with mystery of shadow play. 

The women spun and wove and dyed 
their own garments. The men wore jeans 
and hickory, while "store-clothes" were a 
mark of great extravagance or gentility. 
Doctors and judges and clergymen were 
sometimes seen apparelled in the magnifi- 
cence of ** boughten clothes " on feast-days 
and Sundays. 

Newspapers were few and came irregu- 
larly and were very dull ; but they were 
read with minute care. Life was timed to 
the slow pulsing to and fro of the clumsy 
stage and to the stately languor of the 
stern-wheel steamers whose booming roar 
sounded clamorously in the night from the 
river mist ten miles away. The fact that 
Georgetown was an inland town and that 
it was a farming community kept it com- 
paratively free from broil and bloodshed, 
rude though it was. It had also repose and 
a certain security of life which was a com- 
pensation for its remoteness. 

Ripley, down on the Ohio River ten miles 
away, was the principal market, and was con- 
sidered entitled to regular stops on the part 
of the steamers that swung to with elaborate 
and disdainful courtesy in answer to signals 
from the lesser towns. From Ripley or Hig- 
ginsport, Georgetown was reached by stage 
over hill and through deep wood. Ulysses 
Grant lived for sixteen years in this locality, 
and upon his boy mind was impressed the 
faces, the speech, the manners, and the daily 
habits of these people. He loved the town 
with the love men have for the things thus 
clothed upon with childish wonder, which 
never lose their halo, but remain forever 
sweet and marvellous. 

They were a plain people of unaesthetic 
temperament, sturdy of arm and resolute of 
heart, as befitted woodsmen. Nonsense^ 
they could not abide ; and they were quick 
to perceive Jesse Grant's " foolish pride " in 
his first-born son. They were amused 
at his name " Ulysses," which they soon 
parodied into " Useless." ** How did you 
come to saddle such a name on the poor 
child ? " some of them asked. 

The story was curious. As related by 
the father afterward, it appeared that the 
common difficulty of choosing a name for 
the babe arose. Multitudes of suggestions 
only confused the young parents the more, 
until at last it was proposed to cast the 
names into a hat. This was done. A 
romantic aunt suggested Theodore. The 
mother favored Albert, in honor of Albert 
Gallatin. Grandfather Simpson voted for 
Hiram, because he considered it a handsome 

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From a photof^raph taken especially for McClurb's Magazine, and now first 

name. The drawing resulted in two 
names, Hiram and Ulysses. 

" Ulysses," it is said, was cast into 
the hat by Grandmother Simpson, who 
had been reading a translation of F^n- 
elon*s ** Telemachus," and had been 
much impressed by the description of 
Ulysses given by Mentor to Telema- 
chus. ** He was gentle of speech, be- 
neficent of mind.'* ** The most patient 
of men." " He is the friend of truth. 
. He says nothing that is false, 
but when it is necessary he concedes 
what is true. His wisdom is a seal 
upon his lips, which is never broken 
save for an important purpose." The 
boy was named Hiram Ulysses Grant, 
but the father always called him Ulys- 
ses and never Hiram. ** My Ulysses " 
was a common expression of his, and 
the rude jesters of the village mocked 
his utterance of it. 

Other children came to the Grants — 
Simpson (three years younger), Clara, 
Virginia, Orvil (nearly thirteen years 
younger), and Mary, the youngest of 
them all ; but Ulysses remained the 
father's pride, and upon him he builded 
all his hopes. 

Ulysses developed early into a self- 
reliant child, active and healthy. He 
came at the age of seven to share in 
the work about the house and yard. 
He began to pick up chips and to 

carry in the wood for the 
big fireplaces, quite like 
the son of a farmer ; in- 
deed his earliest traits 
were neither military nor 
bookish. He was called 
** Lys," or in the soft 
drawl of the South, ** Lys- 
sus " ; his playmates had 
not yet begun to find it 
worth while to tease him 
about his name. He 
had a wonderful love for 
horses, and as soon as he 
could toddle he delighted 
to go out across the yard, 
where at the hitching- 
poles, before the finish- 
ing-room of the tannery, 
several teams were almost 
always to be found on 
pleasant days. He crawled 
about between the legs of 
the dozing horses, and 
swung by their tails in 
perfect content, till some 


From a photograph taken especially for McClire's Magazine, and 
now first published. 

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timid mother near 
by rushed to Mrs. 
Grant with excit- 
ed outcry : ** Mrs. 
Grant, do you know 
where your boy is ? 
He's out there 
swinging on the tails 
of Loudon's horses." 
But Mrs. Grant 
never seemed to 
worry about Ulysses 
in the least. She 
was not of those 
mothers whose ma- 
ternal love casts 
a correspondingly 
deep shadow of ag- 
onizing fear. **When 
Ulysses was sick she 
gave him a dose of 
castor oil, put him to 
bed, and went calmly 
about her work, 
trusting in the Lord 
and the boy's con- 
stitution," as one 
neighbor expressed 


Mrs. Grant saw 
that Ulysses under- 
stood horses, and 
that they understood 
him ; so she inter- 
fered very little in 
his play with the 
teams across the 

way. She was too busy to have an eye to 
his restless activity. She was the wife of a 
pioneer, with all the harassment and toil 
and disappointment of such a lot ; but she 
never wept, and never lost her balance — 
and this wonderful gift of self-mastery she 
gave her eldest son. 

At eight years of age he began to drive 
a team and to break bark into the hopper 
of the bark-mill.* The bark-mill, it may be 
explained, was precisely like a big coffee- 
mill put in action by a horse attached to a 
crooked sweep. Into a big iron hopper it 
was the boy's duty to break the long slabs 
of bark with a mallet. The strips as they 
came from the woods were several feet in 
length, and in order to reach the grinding 
machinery they needed to be broken into 
pieces four or five inches long. This was 
wearisome business, especially when the 

• W. T. Galbrcath, of Ripley, who worked for Jesse Grant 
when Ulysses was a child of ei^ht, says: " Ulysses used lo 
get up early in order to sex. his breakfast and ride thcjiorse 
town to the tannery, where I was 



he'd get of! and sit and whittle an< 
return ride at noon." 

„ bark. There 
talk— waiting for the 

paw- paws were ripe and the hawk was 
indolently floating on the western wind. 
The mill stood under a shed where there 
was nothing to see ; and, besides, the boy 
doing the work was obliged to keep his 
head out of the way of the sweep and to 
see that the horse kept a steady gait. " If 
you stopped to think how many strips were 
ahead of you, it was appalling." 

Breaking bark did not please Ulysses so 
well as driving the team which hauled the 
bark from the woods, and he escaped it in 
every way possible. His father states : * 
** When I said to him, we shall have to go 
to grinding bark, he would get right up 
without saying a word and start straight 
for the village, and get a load to haul or 
passengers to carry, or something or other 
to do, and hire a boy to come and grind 
the bark. " He was sometimes able to per- 
suade the girls to help him by exalting the 
privilege, in the way of Tom Sawyer, and 
by earnestly detailing the need there was 

♦ Jesse Grant's letters to the *' New York Ledger." 

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Dr. Rogers was the Grant family physician at Point Pleasant, Ohio. 

John D. White was the teacher to whom Grant owed most of his early instruction. He kept a subscription school in 
Georgetown between 1828 and 1839. He was the father of Carr B. White and Chilton A. White, who were among Grant's 
earliest playmates. 

Jacob W. Rand and W. W. Richeson kept the special school at Maysville, Ky., which Grant attended during the 
winter of 1836-37. 

Daniel Ammen, whose distinguished service in the navy through the war raised him to the rank of rear^dmiral, was 
born and reared in or near Georgetown, and was Grant's schoolmate and life-long friend. 

Judge James A. Marshall, a cousin of Grant, still lives in Georgetown, where he is a highly respected lawyer. He 
is a man of careful speech, and his estimate of the Grant family is of great value. 

Chilton A. White is still living in Georgetown, and we are indebted to him for valuable reminiscences of Grant. He 
has been a prominent citizen of Southern Ohio for many years, having served as a State Senator and member of Congress. 

of his riding on the sweep behind the 
horse. This was great generalship, and 
across the space of half a century his old- 
time playmates still remember his roguish 
triumph. He was always on hand also when 
the wheat was being threshed, for he got a 
chance to ride a horse then. 

All around him during those years the 
mighty battle with the forest went on. 
Axes rang incessantly, trees crashed and 
fell, columns of smoke rose to the sky at 
mid-day, and splendid fires glowed at 
night. It was like the attack of brownies 
on a chained and helpless army of giants. 
The steam sawmill had not yet added its 
devouring teeth to the destruction of the 
trees — it was mainly hand work. Ulysses 
took active part in this devastation. He 
helped strip the bark from the oaks, and 
set fire to the stumps and the heaps of 
branches. He drove team when the bark 
was carried to the mill, and he lent a hand 
to roll the useless logs into piles to be 

burned. There was something splendid 
in this work, while the tannery grew more 
and more repulsive to him, and secretly he 
made up his mind never to be a tanner. 
He would grind bark in the yard, if need 
were, but to scrape hides or even handle 
them was out of the question. He never 
came nearer to being a tanner than this. 

About a mile to the west of the village 
square a little stream called White Oak 
Creek runs through a deep, wide couUe or 
valley. In those days the stream was a 
strong, swift current, and there were mills 
for grinding corn and wheat located along 
its banks, and the farmers came in caravans 
from the clearings far to the north with 
grain to be ground, and at night they 
camped like an army corps in the splen- 
did open forest of the bottom-lands. It 
was a beautiful experience to see these 
camp-fires gleaming all over the lowlands ; 
to hear the mules and horses call for sup- 
per ; to see the smoke curling up, and to 

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hear the hearty talk and laughter of the proclamation of Ulysses's unusual capabili 

men. This was ^a favorite playing-ground 
for the boys, and Ulysses longed to join 
these caravans. 

The creek was full of fish at that time. 
There were swimming-holes which became 
skating.ponds in due season, and all good 
things to eat grew on these bottom-lands. 
Then, too, the teams filed past on their 

ties. His praise of his son grew wearisome 
to other fathers. His faith received strong 
confirmation, to his thinking, from the 
words of a travelling phrenologist. Of this 
famous incident there are two versions. 
The father's story runs thus : 

" When Ulysses was about twelve years old, the 
first phrenologist who ever made his appearance 

way to HigginspOrt with flour to load on in that part of the country, came to our neighbor 

the flat-boats bound for New Orleans. It 
all had mystery and allurement in it, and 
one of the strongest passions Ulysses Grant 
felt at this time was the wish to travel, to 
go down the Ohio River and see where the 
water went to ; to go up the river and find 
out where the flat-boats came from. He said 
little of this longing, for he was trained to 
hide his emotions. 


Ten years of careful management made 
Jesse Grant one of the well-to-do citizens 
of the town. He had a comfortable brick 
house, he wore gold-bowed glasses, and he 
possessed a carriage, which was not a com- 
mon thing in those days. He owned also 
a draying outfit, which Ulysses , 
began to use when a mere child. 
" At eight and a half years he had 
become a regular teamster," his 
father states, " and used to work 
my team all day, day after day, 
hauling wood. At about ten 
years of age he used to drive a 
pair of horses, all alone, from 
Georgetown, where we lived, to 
Cincinnati, forty miles away, and 
bring home a load of passengers " 

His father did not insist on his 
working about the bark-mill, pro- 
vided he obtained a substitute, 
and readily enough entrusted the 
team to him, and was quite willing 
that he should have a horse of his 
own. Indeed, he allowed him to 
manage the horses and a consid- 
erable part of the farming. Chil 
ton White remembers that he was 
always busy with a team. " He 
was a stout, rugged boy, with a 
good deal of sleight in his work 
with a team. He liked horses, 
and kept his span fat and slick. " 

It was not uncommon even at 
that day for fathers to believe in 
the extraordinary endowments of 
their first-born sons, but Jesse 
Grant seems to have made public 

hood. . . . One Dr. Buckner, ... in order 
to test the accuracy of the phrenologist, asked him if 
he would be blindfolded and examine a head. . . . 
The phrenologist replied that he would. So they 
blindfolded him, and then brought Ulysses forward 
to have his head examined. 

He felt it all over for some time, saying to himself, 
*' It is no very common head ! It is an extraor- 
dinary head ! " At length Dr. Buckner broke in 
with the inquiry whether the boy would be likely 
to distinguish himself in mathematics. 

" Yes," said the phrenologist. " /;/ mathematics 
or anything else. It would not be strange if ive 
should sec him President of the United States.'* 

The village version of the incident is- 
quite different. With all his shrewdness 
and energy, the neighbors say, there was 
a strain of singular guilelessness in Jesse 
Grant. He was credulous and simple — in 
the old meaning of the word simple. , 

According to their report, Doctor Buck- 


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ner was only putting up a practical joke on 
his neighbor Grant. As the timid and 
blushing Ulysses was pushed forward to 
the platform the crowd began to titter, and 
the quick-witted lecturer seized upon the 
situation. It was to him another numb- 
skull son of a doting father. As he mut- 
tered to himself the crowd roared and 
stamped with delight. He spoke over this 
boy's head the same word of prophecy he 
had used in a hundred similar cases. It 
was a perfectly successful joke. The father 
believed the cheering was in honor of his 
son. Thereafter he not only insisted that 
Ulysses was to be a great man, but also 
President of the United States. His faith, 
moreover, expressed itself in deeds — he sent 
Ulysses to school. Ridicule made no differ- 
ence with him ; he stuck to his faith unshak- 
ably, and men are living to-day who laughed 
at him then for his " vain foolishness." 

With all this Jesse Grant was known to 
be a sober man, and an honorable man, and 
Mrs. Grant was considered a fortunate 
woman by her neighbors, in that her hus- 
band was ** such a good provider." The 
Grant hmise was considered one of the 
best furnished in the neighborhood. Mrs. 
Grant was almost as proud of her family as 
her husband, but she never expressed her 
feelings either of pain or pleasure. She 
acquiesced in the plans to make Ulysses 
a great man, and through her efforts he was 
always nicely dressed and ready for school. 
How much further her love went she gave 
little sign. 


From a photograph taken especially for McCllre's Magazine, and now first published. 

The feeling against Jesse Grant devel- 
oped rancor on the part of many of the vil- 
lage boys toward Ulysses, and he suffered 
thereby not a little. According to the tales 
of old residents, the boys " were always lay- 
ing for him," and he was called upon to 
suffer positive abuse. An old citizen of 
Georgetown, Ohio, relates the following in- 
cident : 

" A favorite game with the boys of Joha 
D. White's subscription school, at George- 
town, was mumble-the-peg. Grant couldn't 
play the game very skilfully, and the peg 
always got a few clandestine licks every 
time he was to pull it. On one occasion 
it was driven in so deep that the boys 
thought Lys could never get it out. He 
set to work with his forehead down in the 
dirt, the sun beating hot upon him, and the 
crowd of boys and girls shutting out every 
breath of fresh air. The peg would not 
move. The red-faced, shock-headed, thick- 
set boy, with his face now all over mud, 
had forgotten his comrades and saw only one 
thing in the world, that was this stubborn 
peg. The bell rang, but the boy did not 
hear it. A minute later, after a final effort, 
he staggered to his feet with the peg in his 
mouth. The old schoolmaster was in the 
door oi the schoolhouse, with his long- 
beech switch — the only person to be seen. 
There was glee inside at this new develop- 
ment — here was fun the boys had not 
counted on. Imagine their surprise when, 
as the boy came closer, and the stern old 
schoolmaster saw his face, he set down the 
switch inside the door 
and came outside. One 
boy slipped to the win- 
dow, and reported ta 
the rest. The old man 
was pouring water on 
Lys Grant's hands and 
having him wash his 
face. He gave him his 
red bandanna to wipe 
it dry. What the school 
saw a minute later was 
the schoolmaster com- 
ing in patting this very 
red and embarrassed 
boy on the head." 

And stories are still 
current in George- 
town also which are 
calculated to make him 
out a stupid lad. Of 
such is the famous 
horse-trade story, 
wherein Ulysses is said 
to have raided his own 

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The wooden part of this house, with a farm of 164 acres, was purchased by John Simpson, General Grant's preat- 
grandfatber, in 1763. It was then a bare structure of logs, the clap-board coating not being added until later. The stone 
part was built by John Simpson about 1765. In 1804, at John Simpson's death, his son, John Simpson, General Grant's 
grandfather, bought the property. General Grant's mother, Hannah Simpson, was at this time five or six years old, hav- 
ing been born November 23, 1798, at Whitemarsh, Pennsylvania. The picture shows the house as it stands to-day. It is 
from a photograph owned by Helen M. Burke of La Crosse, Wisconsin, a granddaughter of the second John Simpson and 
a cousin of General Grant. 

bid two points without waiting for answer 
on the part of the seller. As the boy 
was only eight, and eager for the colt, it 
doesn't seem to be conclusive proof of stu- 

In spite of these stories it appears that 
the boys who knew him had a high 
regard for him. He had a way of doing 
things which commanded respect. He had 
travelled a great deal. He had been to 
Cincinnati, to Maysville, to Louisville (to 

* *' In the matter of Grant's famous horse trade with Mr. 
Ralston, the version most current shows great acuteness 
on the part of the boy, in thai, after telling Mr. R. all that 
his father had told him about how to go about the trade, 
he bought the horse for the minimum price of forty dollars. 
The version that Grant himself repeats in his * Memoirs ' 
is that one which says, thai the boy by his stupidity in tell- 
ing just how much he would pay had to pay fifty dollars, 
when really the farmer's price was only forty dollars. 

" Nelson Waterman, who says he was working in a field 
near Ralston's when the boy came down to make the trade, 
savs that there really was no trade. When the boy told 
all that his father had said to him- that if he could not buv 
the colt for forty dollars, pay forty-five dollars ; if he couldn t 
buy it for forty-five dollars, pay fifty dollars— Ralston 
was disgusted with the boy's lack of business ability, and 
would not make any sale to him ; sent him home, in fact, to 
his father without the colt, and with some good fatherly 

*' This accords with the current stories of Grant's early 
stupidity."— Henry J. Hannah, in a letter to the writer. 

transact business for his father), and he had 
a team to drive just as if it were his own. 
These things entitled him to a certain de- 
gree of consideration on the part of his 

" There were, in fact, two sets of boys in 
the town ; one very rough, and one very 
quiet set — that is to say, well-meaning — for 
while they were full of fun and noise, they 
were good, clean boys ; they did not use 
liquor or tobacco, and it was to this com- 
pany that Ulysses belonged. It was his 
habit to associate with boys older than him- 
self, and this, with his staid demeanor, made 
him seem older than his years. At this 
time Ulysses was a plump, short, ruddy, 
staid, manly boy, never given to pranks. 
He never backed out of anything, and 
avoided any prominence ; what he had to 
do he did well and promptly." 

He seldom did anything which could 
even be called thoughtless. "He was the 
soul of honor,"' another playmate bears 
witness. At ten years of age he had become 
a remarkable teamster. He amazed his 

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companions by his ability to manage and 
train horses.* 

He was a successful farmer, and liked it 
very much ; in fact, his life was nearer that 
of a farmer's boy than a tanner's son. His 
father once wrote of him, " He would 
rather do anything else under the sun than 
work in the tannery." Uncle Thomas Jen- 
nings, an old .neighbor, recalls the boy's 
thrift — "While the other boys were at 
play, he was earning a quarter." All reli- 
able testimony points to his being a very 
busy and practical boy. He always had 
pocket money, earned by teaming. He 
worked willingly and steadily at hauling, 
breaking bark, and plowing. " His father 
owned fifty acres of wood -land with some 
tillable land upon it, and Ulysses had much 
to do with farming that land," raising fod- 
der for the cows and horses, and vegetables 
for the house. 

When he was not at work about the tan- 
nery or farm, he was conveying travellers 
to Ripley, to Maysville, to Higginsport, to 
West Union, or to Cincinnati. In this way 
he earned enough money to buy a horse of 
his own. Once when he was about thirteen 
years of age, he took a couple of lawyers 
across country to Toledo. The neighbors 
were astonished to think Uncle Jesse would 
trust his boy to make such a long trip. 

" Aren't you afraid he'll get into trouble 
on the way ? " - 

" Oh, no." replied the proud sire ; ** he'll 
take care of himself." 

To understand to the full the resolution 
and good judgment required on this trip of 
several hundred miles, it must be remem- 
bered that in 1835 there were few pikes or 
bridges, and the streams were much deeper 
to ford than now. Jesse often sent his son 
to make collections or to transact important 
business. The boy certainly did not lack 

♦There was somethinjj mysterious in his power to com- 
municate to a horse his wishes. He could train a horse to 
trot, rack, or pace apparently at will. When he was about 
eleven years of age he made a reputation amonjj the boys 
by ridinjj the trick pony of a circus which came in trailing 
clouds of glorified dust one summer day, like a scene from 
the "Arabian Nights." 

" It was a small animal show and circus," said Judge 
Marshall, "and one part of the entertainment was to turn a 
kangaroo loose in the ring and ask some lively-footed boy to 
catch it. I considered myself a pretty good runner in those 
days, and I tried to catch the kangaroo, to the vast amuse- 
ment of the people looking on. Ulysses, however, was a 
plump boy and not a good runner. He made no attempt at 
the kangaroo, but was deeply interested in the trick pony, 
which had been trained to throw off any boy who attempted 
to riue him. He was a very fat bay pony with no mane, 
and nothing at all to hang to. Ulysses looked on for a while, 
saw several of the other boys try and fail, and at last said, 
' I believe I can ride that pony.' He anticipated the pony's 
attempts to throw him off, by leaning down and putting his 
arms around the pony's neck. The pony reared, kicked, and 
did everything he knew to unhorse Ulysses, but failed ; and 
at last the clown acknowledged the pony's defeat and paid 
the five dollars which he had promised to the boy who 
would ride the ponv. As Ulysses turned away with the five 
dollars in his hand, he said to the boys standing^ round, 
* Why, that pony is as slick as an apple.' " 

for employment, and yet in the midst of 
teaming, grinding bark, and going to school, 
he found'time to have a little fun. 

It was a good boy's country. It produced 
not merely gieat trees, and com and wheat, 
it produced paw-paws, and grapes, and 
May-apples, and blackberries, and hickory 
nuts, and beech-nuts, and all kinds of forage 
for boys. These things in due season they 
plucked and hoarded in the alert seriousness 
of squirrels or young savages. Ulysses was 
often of these parties, and in winter many 
pleasant evenings were spent before the 
hearth cracking nuts in company with the 
White or Marshall boys. He could swim 
well, but was a poor fisherman. He could 
play ball fairly well, and could ride stand- 
ing on one foot upon the back of a gallop- 
ing horse. In winter time he was a daring 
and much-admired coaster down the steep 
street which fell away sharply from the 
square and ran past the tan-yard and the 
Grant homestead. It is a fine country to 
coast in, with many long curving slopes of 
road running under magnificent trees and 
past clumps of brush and over bridges. 

He was a great favorite with the girls, 
though he was not a demonstrative lover. 
He was kind and considerate of them ; 
never rude and boisterous, and never de- 
risive. " He was one of the few boys who 
had a team and sleigh at their disposal, 
and he took the girls a-sleighing," sitting 
silently in the midst of their shrieking and 
chatter. He never teased children younger 
than himself, and he never tortured animals. 
So runs the testimony of the women who 
knew him as a boy. He had the effect 
always of being a good listener, and was 
counted good company, though never an 
entertainer. " He was more like a grown 
person than a lad." 

He was at fifteen a good-looking boy, 
with a large head strong straight nose, 
quiet gray blue eyes, and flexible lips. He 
was short and sturdy, with fine hands and 
feet. " He was not a brilliant boy, but he 
was a good boy," " a refined boy," " the 
soul of honor." ** He never swore or used 
vulgar words, and he was notably consider- 
ate and unselfish." There is little record 
of his fighting, though he was not given to 
running away. 

Of his education in Georgetown little 
can be said. He had been schooled of 
nature and by work and play ; but up to his 
fourteenth year he had attended only the 
winter session of John D. White's subscrip- 
tion school, which " took up " in a long, 
low brick building standing on a knoll to 
the south of the town. Schools in country 

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towns of that day were not taken very seri- 
ously by most of the citizens. To be able 
to read and write and cipher was considered 
very fair attainment. There were those, it 
is true, who wished their sons and daugh- 
ters to study ** Lindley Murray " and higher 
mathematics, but such ambitions were con- 
sidered of questionable virtue. Ulysses 
was a quiet boy at school. " He never 
whispered or spoke in a low voice as if 
afraid to be heard," his old classmate 
A. H. Mark land once said. 

Chilton White recalls that he won high 
admiration in drawing. " He could draw 
a horse and put a man on him." He was 
strong also in mathematics. " Grant was a 
quiet, studious fellow and a good scholar. I 
studied algebra with him, and I remember 
he would never let Carr White or me show 
him the way to do problems, but always 
wanted to work them out himself." * A cer- 
tain wordlessness and lack of dash, together 
with a peculiar guilelessness, drew upon 
him the ridicule of the rude. His language 
was GO simple and bare of all slang and 
profanity that it seemed poor and weak to 
his comrades. He suffered a certain per- 
secution during all his days in George- 


Jesse Grant was a close reckoner in or- 
dinary dealings, but he was more liberal 
with his son than most fathers of the village, 
and the winter that Ulysses was fourteen, 
he sent him to school in Maysville, a larger 
town just across the river in Kentucky, 
fifteen or twenty miles from Georgetown. 
This was done in the hope that something 
a little better might be had in way of school- 

No doubt the boy gladly accepted the 
opportunity, for Maysville was a city to 
him, and besides there were the steamboats, 
the beautiful river, and the wharves with 
their daily passenger and freight traffic. 
It was an old town, filled with houses of the 
old English type, such as Boston and Balti- 
more have in their older streets. It was a 
straggling town, extending along the slop- 
ing bank between the river and the bluffs 
behind. It was on slave soil, but it was 
not without its anti-slavery element even at 
that day. Jesse Grant, it is said, helped to 
found the first abolition society in Kentucky 
in 1823. 

It was a finer place for a boy's life than 
Georgetown. There were boating, swim- 
ming, and fishing in summer, and beautiful 

* O. Edwards, Mayor of Georgetown. 

skating and superb coasting in winter. Of 
his life in Maysville we know little, but his 
old teacher and some of his classmates 
remember him very well, as a very quirt, 
pleasant boy. W. W. Richeson, his teacher, 
was a college-bred man of liberal tastes, and 
his methods as a teacher were peculiar and 
original. He made a strong and gracious 
impression on young Grant. 

In response to a letter from Mr. W. H. 
Haldeman, of the Louisville ** Courier- 
Journal," asking for some of his recollec- 
tions of the school-boy days of General 
Grant, Professor Richeson had these things 
to say : 

" H. U. Grant entered as a pupil in the 
Maysville seminary during the winter 
season of 1836 and 1837. . . . Young 
Ulysses, during his school days at Mays- 
ville Seminary, ranked high in all his class- 
es, and his deportment was exceptionally 
good. He was a member of the Philo- 
mathean Society, to which the juniors of 
the institution belonged. From the secre- 
tary's book I find that * Mr. Grant submitted 
the following resolution : 

Resolved, That it be considered out of order for 
any member to speak on the opposite side to which 
he belongs.' 

" In this record you perceive his consis- 
tency, even at the early age of fifteen. In 
February of the same year (1837) the 
records show that * Ulysses Grant and E. 
M. Richeson were appointed to declaim on 
the ensuing Friday.** At another meeting 
I find that * Mr. Grant submitted the fol- 
lowing resolution: 

Resolved, That any member who leaves his seat 
during debate shall be fined not less than six and 
one-fourth cents.* " 

While he attended the Maysville Semi- 
nary he boarded with the family of his 
uncle, Peter Grant, who was largely en- 
gaged in the salt trade in connection with 
Hewit, Phillips, Adams & Co. Peter Grant 
was accidentally drowned near the mouth of 
the Kanawha River while descending that 
stream with his saline flotilla. 

We have ourselves examined the book 
referred to by Professor Richeson, and find 
it yields a number of interesting glimpses 
of Grant. Apparently Grant entered the 
Philomathean Debating Club for the first 
time at its thirty-third meeting, January 3, 
1837. He took a prominent part at once. 
By a curious coincidence the question for 

♦ When the roll was called at the next meeting, however, 
" H. U. Grant " was absent. He was fin 

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this first evening was, " Resolved, that the 
Texans were not justifiable in giving Santa 
Anna his liberty." In the names of the 
(febaters this night there appears on the 
record H. U. Grant. He was on the af- 
firmative side. He was on the affirmative 
side at the thirty-fourth meeting, with this 
question, "Resolved, that females wield 
greater influence in society than the males." 
The affirmative side won in this case as 
well as the other. At the thirty-fifth meet- 
ing his name appears on the affirmative of 
the question (a very vital one at that time), 
** Resolved, that it would not be just and 
politic to liberate the slaves at this time." 
Again he was on the winning side. At 
the thirty-sixth meeting the name appears 
" U. Grant " on the affirmative side of the 
resolution that ** Intemperance is a greater 
evil than war." 

At the thirty-seventh meeting he was 
elected, together with his friend A. H. Mark- 
land and W. Richeson, as a member of a com- 
mittee ; he also took part in the debate on 
the question, ** Resolved, that Socrates was 
right in not escaping when the prison doors 
were opened to him." He took the affirma- 
tive, and it was again the successful side. 
And in all the succeeding meetings down to 
March 27, 1837, the record shows him to 
have been active ; but after that date his 
name does not appear. The probabilities 
are, that he returned home to help put in 
the crop. There is a fine flavor about this 
club. It had a Latin motto and debated 
the weightiest questions the world has ever 
grappled with. It would seem from its 
record, that Grant was, as his friend Mark- 
land has said, a good debater, but that he 
would rather pay six-and-a-quarter cents 
fine than declaim. 

However, his was not a nature which 
showed its hidden powers early, and he re- 
turned to Georgetown the next spring, not 
very much changed in looks or habit. He 
remained in Georgetown during the ensu- 
ing year, sharing the life and amusements 
of its best young people, attending the vil- 
lage school in the winter. 

Of indoor amusements there were few. 
The better class of people in the village 
took a sombre view of life. Dancing was 
prohibited, the fiddle was seldom heard. 
There were no musical instruments, and 
little singing save of wailing hymns and 
droning psalms. Books were almost un- 
known except volumes of sermons or re- 
ligious essays. On the bureau of the Grant 
sitting-room, it is remembered, there stood 
a little cabinet containing about thirty 
books. What these were, there is no tra- 

dition to tell ; presumably they were not 
poetry or fiction,* though Jesse Grant was 
naturally a lover of reading. Such books as 
came his way he read with care. He kept 
well-informed on subjects of current political 
discussion, and was always ready for an 
argumentative set-to. His individual 
opinions were the result of reading and 
thought, and that they were an offence to his 
neighbors made little difference to him. 
All that he possessed he had worked for ; 
being beholden to no man, he carried him- 
self as a free man among equals. 

He attended the Methodist Church, 
though hardly so devoted in his religious 
life as his wife. There is no record that 
either father or mother ever used any strong 
effort to induce Ulysses to join the church, 
though they insisted on his recognition of 
the Sabbath. His home life was pleasant. 
" I never received a harsh word or suffered 
an unjust act from my father or mother," 
he wrote in later life, and it is a good deal 
to say of any parents. 

His sixteenth year he spent at home in 
George*^own, beloved by his playmates and 
happy in his activity with team and plow. 
His only bugbear was "the beam-room," 
where the reeking hides were stretched and 
scraped. It was a repulsive place to a sensi- 
tive person, and Ulysses expected to be 
called soon to take his place there. 

One day they were short of hands in the 
tannery, and Jesse said : 

" Ulysses, you'll have to go into the 
beam-room and help me to-day." 

Ulysses reluctantly followed, for thus far 
he had escaped that work. As he walked 
beside his father he said : 

** Father, this tanning is not the kind of 
work I like. I'll work at it though," he 
sturdily added, " if you wish me to, until I 
am twenty-one ; but you may depend upon it 
ril never work a day longer at it after that." 
Jesse Grant, being a reasonable man, im- 
mediately replied : 

" My son, I don't want you to work at it 
tto7t> if you don't like it and don't mean to 
stick to it. I want you to work at what- 
ever you like and intend to follow. Now^ 
what do you think you would like? " 

" I'd like to be a farmer, or a down-the- 
river trader, or get an education." He put 
the education last, in his modest way. 

The little farm on which Ulysses had been 
working in years past was rented out, and 
down-the-river trading hardly pleased the 

♦ One of these was probably the famous old Weems' " Life 
of Washinpton," for Jesse Grant speaks of Ulysses reading 
the " Life of Washington " at about seven years of age. The 
lad was not much of a reader, however. ** He cared more 
for horses than fof books," his playmates remember. 

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Grant's special work as a boy in his father's tannery was to feed the bark into the bark-mill and see that the horse that 

turned the mill kept movinjf. 

father, and times being very close he didn't 
see how he could send the boy away to school. 
He thought of West Point, and said : 

** How would you like West Point ? You 
know the education is free there, and the 
government supports the cadets. How 
would you like to go there ? '* 

" First rate,'* Ulysses promptly replied.* 

His life thus far had been such as makes 
a boy older than his years, but it had not 
given him much in way of preparation for 
West Point, and it is probable that he did 
not really imagine himself a successful can- 
didate for the appointment. He said little 
about the plan, for he had suffered too 
keenly already from the ridicule of his 
playmates, who made a never-ending mock 
of his father's prophecy of the son's future 
greatness. There seems no doubt of this, 
though he never alluded to it. \ Undoubt- 
edly this constant derision added to his ret- 
icence and apparent dulness. 

Some of the good people of George- 
town, Ripley, and Batavia, however, go 
far in their attempt to show how very or- 
dinary Ulysses Grant was. A boy of thir- 


♦ From a letter written to the "New York Ledj^er" by 
»5«e Grant in 1868. This docs not agree with the account 
n the " Memoirs" of U. S. Grant, but it seems a very natu- 
ral decision on the boy's part. 

+ This ridicule is alluded to by W. T. Galbreath. Chilton 
White, Nelson Waterman. O. Edwards, and other citizens 
of Brown County. 

teen who could drive a team six hundred 
miles across country and arrive safely ; 
who could load a wagon with heavy logs 
by his own mechanical ingenuity ; who 
insisted on solving all mathematical prob- 
lems himself ; who never whispered or lied 
or swore or quarrelled ; who could train a 
horse to pace or trot at will ; who stood 
squarely upon his own knowledge of things 
without resorting to trick or mere verbal 
memory — such a boy, at this distance, does 
not appear " ordinary," stupid, dull, or 
commonplace. That he was not showy or 
easily valued was true. His unusualness 
was in the balance of his character, in his 
poise, in his native judgment, and in his 
knowledge of things at first hand. 

Even at sixteen years of age he had a 
superstition that to retreat was fatal. When 
he set hand to any plan or started upon any 
journey, he felt the necessity of going to the 
turn of the lane or to the end of the furrow. 
He was resolute and unafraid always ; a boy 
to be trusted and counted upon, — sturdy, 
capable of hard knocks. What he was in 
speech he was in grain. If he said, **I can 
do that," he not merely meant that he would 
try to do it, but also that he had thought his 
way to the successful end of the undertak- 
ing. He was, in fact, an unusually de- 
termined and resourceful boy^->, | 

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By Ri'DYARD KiriiNr,, 
Author of " Plain Talcs from the Hills," ** The Jungle Book," etc. 

F you remember my highly im- 
proper friend Ikugglesmith, 
you will also bear in mind his 
friend McPhee, chief engineer 
of the '* Breslau/' whose din- 
ghy Brugglesmith tried to 
steal. His apologies for the 
performances of Brugglesmith may one day 
be told in their proper place, but the tale 
before us concerns McPhee in his sea-going 
capacities. He was never a racing en- 
gineer, and took special pride in saying 
as much before the Liverpool men; but 
he had a knowledge of machinery and 
the humors of ships that he had worked 
thirty-two years to gain. One side of 
his face had been wrecked through the 
bursting of a pressure-gauge in the days 
when men knew less about pressures than 
they do now, and his nose rose grandly 
out of the wreck, like a club in a pub- 
lic riot. There were cuts and lumps on 
his head, and he would guide your fore- 
finger through his short iron-gray hair 
and tell you how he had come by his 

trade-marks. He owned all sorts of cer- 
tificates of extra competency, and at the 
bottom of his cabin chest of drawers, 
where he kept the photograph of his wife, 
were two or three Royal Humane Society 
medals for saving lives at sea. Profes- 
sionally — it was different when crazy 
steerage-passengers jumped overboard — 
professionally, McPhee does not approve 
of saving life at sea, and he has often 
told me that a new hell is prepared for 
stokers and trimmers who sign for a 
strong man's pay and fall sick the second 
day out. He believes in throwing boots 
at fourth and fifth engineers when they 
wake him up at night with w^ord that a 
bearing is red hot, all because a lamp's 
glare is reflected red from the twirling 
metal. He believes that there are only 
two poets in the world; one being Robert 
Burns, of course, and the other Gerald 
Massey. When he has time for novels he 
reads Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade — 
chiefly the latter — and he knows whole 
pages of **Very Hard Cash*' by heart. 

Copyright, 1896, by Rudyard Kiplint^. 

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In the saloon his table was next to the 
captain's, and he dr^nk only water all the 
while his engines worked. 

He was good to me when we first met, 
because I did not ask him questions and 
believed in Charles Reade as a most 
shamefully neglected author. Later, he 
approved of my writings to the extent of 
one pamphlet of twenty-four pages that 
I wrote for Holdock, Steiner, and Chase, 
owners of the line, when they bought 
some ventilating patent and fitted it to the 
cabins of the ** Breslau,*' '* Spdndau," 
and ** Koltzau:" The purser of the 
** Breslau ** recommended me to Hol- 
dock's secretary for the job, and Holdock, 
who is a Wesleyan Methodist, invited me 
to his house, and gave me dinner with 
the governess when the others had fin- 
ished, and placed the plans and specifica- 
tions in my hand, and I wrote the pam- 
phlet that same afternoon. It was called 
** Comfort in the Cabin," and brought me 
seven pound ten cash down — an important 
sum of money in those days; 
and the governess, who was 
teaching Master John Hol- 
dock his scales, told me that 
Mrs. Holdock had told her 
to keep an eye on me in case 
I went away with coats from 
the hat-rack. The Holdocks 
never approached literature 
in the right spirit, and Mrs. 
Holdock wanted to cut out 
half the poetical quotations 
in the pamphlet till I made 
clear to her husband that 
they were not charged for 
as original matter. McPhee 
liked that pamphlet enor- 
mously, for it was composed 
in the Bouverie- Byzantine 
style, with baroque and ro- 
coco embellishments; and af- 
terwards he introduced me to 
Mrs. McPhee, who succeeded 
Dinah in my heart, for Dinah 
was half a world away, and 
it is wholesome and antiseptic 
to know such a woman as 
Janet McPhee. They lived 
in a little twelve-pound house 
in the dark and distant East, 
close to the shipping. When 
McPhee was away Mrs. Mc- 
Phee read the shipping news 
in the daily papers and called 
on the wives of senior engi- 
neers of equal social stand- 
ing. Once or twice, too. 

Mrs. ^ Holdock visited Mrs. McPhee in a 
brougham with celluloid fittings, and I 
have reason to believe that after she had 
played owner's wife long enough they 
talked scandal. The Holdocks lived in 
an old-fashioned house with a big brick 
garden not a mile from the McPhees, 
for they stayed by their money as their 
money stayed by them; and in summer 
you met their brougham solemnly junket- 
ing by Theydon Bois or Loughton. But 
I was Mrs. McPhee's friend, and she 
allowed me to convey her Westward some- 
times to theatres, where she sobbed or 
laughed or shivered with a simple heart; 
and she introduced me to a new world of 
doctors' wives, captains' wives, and en- 
gineers' wives, whose whole talk and 
thought centred in and about ships and 
lines of ships you have never heard of. 
There were sailing ships, with stewards 
and mahogany and maple saloons, trading 
to Australia, taking cargoes of consump- 
tives and hopeless drunkards for whom a 


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Google ^ 





sea-voyage was recommended; there were 
frowsy little West African boats, full of 
rats and cockroaches, where men died any- 
where but in their bunks; there were 
Brazilian boats, whose cabins could be 
hired for merchandise, that went out loaded 
nearly awash; there were Zanzibar and 
Mauritius steamers, and wonderful recon- 
structed boats that plied to the other side 
of Borneo. These were loved and known, 
for they earned our bread and a little 
butter; and we despised the big Atlantic 
boats, and made fun of the P. and O. and 
Orient liners, and swore by our respective 
owners — Wesleyan, Baptist, or Presbyte- 
rian, as the case might be. 

I had been out of England for some 
months, and had only just come back 
when Mrs. McPhee invited me to dinner 
at three o'clock in the afternoon, and the 
note-paper was almost bridal in its scented 
creaminess. When I reached the house I 
saw that there were new curtains in the 
window that must have cost forty-five 
shillings a pair; and as Mrs. McPhee drew 
me into the little marble-papered hall, she 
looked at me keenly, and cried: 

*' Have ye not heard ? What d'ye think 
o'the hat-rack ?" 

Now that hat-rack was oak; thirty shil- 
lings at least. McPhee came down-stairs 
with a sober foot — he steps as lightly as 
a cat for all his weight when he is at sea 

— and he shook hands in a new and awful 
manner — a parody of old Holdock's style 
when he says good-by to his skippers. 
Being a man who flatters himself that he 
can put two and two together, I perceived 
at once that it must be a legacy. I held 
my peace, though Mrs. McPhee was beg- 
ging me every thirty seconds to eat a great 
deal and say nothing. It was rather a 
mad sort of meal, because McPhee and 
his wife took hold of hands like little 
children (they always do after voyages), 
and nodded and winked and choked and 
gurgled, and hardly ate a mouthful. 

A female servant came in and waited, 
and I nearly fell off my chair, because 
there is not work for two pair of hands in 
that house, and, if there were, McPhee 
could not afford a servant; and Mrs. Mc- 
Phee had told me time and again that she 
would thank no one to do her housework 
while she had her health. But this was a 
servant with a cap, and I saw Mrs. Mc- 
Phee swell and swell under her garance- 
colored gown. There is no small free- 
board to Janet McPhee, nor is garance 
any subdued tint; and with all this unex- 
plained pride and glory in the air I felt 
like watching fireworks without knowing 
the festival. When the maid had removed 
the cloth she brought a pineapple that 
would have cost half a guinea at that sea- 
son (only I knew McPhee ha^ his own way 

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of getting such things), and a Canton 
china bowl of dried lichisy and a glass 
plate of preserved ginger, and a small jar 
of sacred and Imperial chow-chow that 
perfumed the room. McPhee gets it from 
a Dutchman in Buitenzorg, and I think 
he doctors it with liquors. But the crown 
of the feast was some Madeira of the kind 
that you can only come by if you know the 
Wine, and the Man, and the Island. A 
little maize- wrapped fig of clotted Madeira 
cigars went with-the wine, and the rest was 
a pale blue smoky silence, Janet, in her 
splendor, smiling on us two and patting 
McPhee's hand. 

'* We'll drink," said McPhee slowly, 
rubbing his chin, " to the eternal damna- 
tion o' Holdock, Steiner, and Chase.*' 

Of course I answered *' Amen," though 
I had made seven pound ten shillings out 
of the firm. But McPhee's enemies were 
mine, and I was drinking his Madeira. 

** Ye've heard nothing?" said Janet. 
** Not a word, nor a whisper ? " 

** Not a word, nor a whisper. On my 
word I have not." 

"Tell him, Mac," said she; and that 
is another proof of Janet's goodness and 
wifely love. A smaller woman would 
have cut in first, but Janet is five foot nine 
in her stockings. 

" We're rich," said McPhee. I shook 
hands all round. 

" We're vara rich," he added. I shook 
hands all round a second time. 

"I'll go to sea no more. Unless — 
there's no sayin' — a private yacht, maybe 
— wi' a small an' handy auxiliary." 

" It's not enough for thaty*' said Janet. 
" We're fair rich — well to do, but no more. 
A new gown for church and one for the 
theatre. We'll have it made West." 

" How much is it ? " I asked. 

"Twenty-five thousand pounds." I 
drew a long breath. "An' I've been 
earnin' twenty-five an' twenty pound a 
month!" The last words came away 
with a roar, as though the wide world was 
conspiring to beat him down. 

"All this time I'm waiting," I said. 
" I know nothing since last September. 
Was it left you ? ' ' 

They laughed aloud together. " It was 
left," said McPhee, choking. " Ou, ay, 
it was left. That's vara good. Of course 
it was left. Janet, d'ye note that ? It was 
left. Now if you'd put that in your pam- 
phlet it would have been vara jocose. It 
was left." He slapped his thigh and 
roared till the wine quivered in the de- 

The Scotch are a great people, but they 
are apt to hang over a joke too long, 
particularly when no one can see the point 
but themselves. 

" When I rewrite my pamphlet I'll put 
it in, McPhee. Only I must know some- 
thing more first." 

McPhee thought for the length of half 
a cigar, while Janet caught my eye and 
led it round the room to one new thing 
after another — the new fine-patterned car- 
pet, the new chiming rustic clock between 
the models of the Colombo outrigger- 
boats, the new inlaid sideboard with a 
purple cut-glass flower-stand, the fender 
of gilt and brass, and last, the new black 
and gold piano. 

" In October o' last year the Board 
sacked me," began McPhee. " In Octo- 
ber o' last year the * Breslau ' came in 
for winter overhaul. She'd been runnin' 
eight months — two hunder an' forty days 
— an' I was three days makin' up my in- 
dents, when she went to dry dock. All 
told, mark you, it was this side o' three 
hunder pound — to be preceese, two hunder 
an' eighty-six pound four shillings. 
There's not another man could ha' nursed 
the * Breslau ' for eight months to that 
tune. Never again — never again! They 
may send their boats^to the bottom for 
aught I care." 

"There's no need," said Janet, softly. 
"We're done wi' Holdock, Steiner, and 

" It's irritatin', Janet, it's just irritatin'. 
I ha' been justified from first to last, as 
the world knows, but — but I canna forgie 
'em. Ay, wisdom is justified o' her chil- 
dren, an' any other man than me wad ha' 
made the indent eight hunder'. Hay was 
our skipper — ye'U have met him. They 
shifted him to the * Torgau,' an' bade me 
wait for the * Breslau ' under young 
Bannister. Ye'll obsairve there'd been a 
new election on the Board. I heard the 
shares were sellin' hither an' yon, an' the 
major part of the Board was new to me. 
The old Board would ne'er ha' done it. 
They trusted me. But the new Board 
were all for reorganization. Young Steiner 
— Steiner's son — the Jew, was at the bot- 
tom of it, an' they did not think it worth 
their while to send me word. The first / 
knew — an' I was chief engineer — was 
the notice of the line's winter sailin's, 
and the * Breslau ' timed for sixteen days 
between port an* port. Sixteen days, 
man I She's a good boat, none better for 
her work, but eighteen is her summer time, 
mark you. Sixteen was sheer flytin', 

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'n WAS pekishin' cold, but i'd done my job judgmatically, an' came scrapin' all along her side siai- on to the 


kitin* nonsense, an' so I told young Ban- 

" ' We've got to make it,' he said. * Ye 
should not ha' sent in a three hunder* 
pound indent.* 

" ' Do they look for their boats to be run 
on air ? ' I said. * The Board's daft.' 

*'* E'en tell 'em so,' he says. * I'm a 
married man, an' my fourth's on the ways 
now, she says.* " 

**A boy — wi* red hair,*' Janet put in. 
Her own hair is the splendid red gold that 
goes with a creamy complexion. 

" My word, I was an angry man that 
day ! Forbye I was fond o* the old 
* Breslau,' I looked for a little considera- 
tion from the Board after twenty years' 
service. There was Board-meetin' on 
Wednesday, an' I slept overnight in the 
engine-room takin* figures to support my 
case. A bairn might ha' known they were 
flyin' in the face of all human possibilities. 
Well, I put it fair and square before them 
all. * Gentlemen,' I said, 'I've run the 
*'Breslau" eight seasons, an' I believe 
there's no fault to find in my work. But 

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if ye baud to this * — I waggled the adver- 
tisement at 'em — * this that /'ve never 
heard of till I read it at breakfast, I do 
assure you, on my professional reputation, 
she can never do it. That is to say, she 
can for a while, but at a risk no thinkin' 
man would run.' ^ 

*• * What the deil d'ye suppose we pass 
your indent for?' says old Holdock. 
* Man, we're spendin* money like watter.' 

** * I'll leave it in the Board's hands,' I 
said, * if two hunder an' eighty-seven 
pound is anything beyond right and reason 
for eight months.* I might ha' saved my 
breath, for the Board was new since the 
last election, an* there they sat, the deevi- 
dend-thuntin' ship-chandlers, deaf as the 
adder o* Scripture. 

** * We must keep faith wi' the public,' 
said young Steiner. 

** * Keep faith wi' the ** Breslau " then,' 
I said. * She's served you well, an' your 
father before you. She'll need her bot- 
tom restiflfenin', an' new bed-plates, an' 
turnin' out the forward boilers, an' re- 
turnin' all three cylinders, an' refacin' all 
guides, to begin with. It's a three months' 

*** Because one employee is afraid?* 
says young Steiner. * Maybe a piano in 
the chief engineer's cabin would be more 
to the point.' 

** I crushed my cap in my hands an' 
thanked God we'd no bairns an' a bit 
put by. 

** * Understand, gentlemen,' I said. * If 
the ** Breslau" is made a sixteen-day 
boat, ye* 11 find another engineer.' 

'** Bannister makes no objection,' said 

***rm speakin* for myself,' I said. 
'Bannister has bairns.' An' then I lost 
my temper. * Ye can run her into hell an' 
out again if ye pay pilotage,' I said, * but 
ye run without me.* 

** * That's insolence,' said young Steiner. 

** * At your pleasure,' I said, turnin' to 

***Ye can consider yourself dismissed. 
We must preserve discipline among our 
employees,' said old Holdock, an* he 
looked round to see that the Board was 
with him. They knew nothin* — God forgie 
*em — an* they nodded me out o* the line 
after twenty years — after twenty years. 

** I went out an* sat down by the hall 
|)orter to get my wits again. Tm thinkin' 
I swore at the Board. Then auld Mc- 
Rimmon — o* McNaughten and McRim- 
mon — came oot o' his office, that's on the 
same floor, an' looked at me, proppin' 

up one eyelid wi' his forefinger. Ye ken 
they call him the Blind Deevil, forbye 
he's onythin' but blind, an' no deevil in 
his dealin's wi' me — McRimmon o' the 
Black Ox line. 

*•* What's here. Mister McPhee ? ' said 

**I was past prayin' for by then. *A 
chief engineer sacked after twenty 
years' service because he'll not risk the 
** Breslau '* on the new timin*, McRim- 
mon,' I said. 

"The auld man sucked in his lips an* 
whistled. 'Ah,' said he. * The new 
timin*. I see! * He doddered into the 
Board-room I'd just left, an' the Dandie 
dog that is just his blind man*s leader 
stayed wi* me. That was providential. 
In a minute he was back again. * Ye've 
cast your bread on the watter, McPhee,* 
he says. * Whaur's my dog ? My word, is 
he on your knee ? There's more discern- 
ment in a dog than a Jew. What garred 
ye curse your Board, McPhee ? It's 

** 'They'll pay more for the** Breslau,"' 
I said. * Get off my knee, ye smotherin* 
beast. ' 

" * Bearin's hot, eh ? * said McRimmon. 
' It*s thirty year since a man daur curse 
me to my face. Time was I'd ha* cast ye 
doon the stairway for that.* 

" * Forgie's all! ' I said. He was wear- 
in' to eighty, as I knew. * I was wrong, 
McRimmon, but when a man's put oot o* 
the door for dooin* his plain duty he's not 
always ceevil.* 

** * So I hear,* says McRimmon. * Ha* 
ye ony objection to a tramp freighter ? It's 
only fifteen a month, but they say the 
Blind Deevil feeds a man better than 
others. She's my **Kite.*' Come ben. 
Ye can thank Dandie here. I'm no used 
to thanks. An' noo,* says he, * what 
possessed ye to throw up your berth wi' 
Holdock ? ' 

** * The new timin*,* said I. ' The 
** Breslau " will not stand it.' 

** * Hoot, oot,' said he. * Ye might ha' 
crammed her a little — enough to show ye 
were drivin' her, an* brought her in twa 
days behind. What's easier than to say 
ye slowed for bearin's, eh ? All my men 
do it, and — I believe 'em.* 

*** McRimmon,' says I, 'what's her 
virginity to a lassie ? ' 

** He puckered his dry face an* twisted 
in his chair. * The warld an' a' ', says he, 
' the vara warld an* a' I But what ha* 
you or me to do wi* virginity, this late 
aionp ? * 

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"'This,' I said. 'There's just one 
thing that each one of us in his trade or 
profession will not do for ony considera- 
tion whatever. If I run to time I run to 
time, barrin* always the risks o' the high 
seas. Less than that under God 1 have 
not done. More than that by God I will 
not do! There's no trick o' the trade I'm 
not acquaint wi' * 

" * So I've heard,' says McRimmon, dry 
as a biscuit. 

" * But yon matter o* fair runnin's just 
my Shekinah, ye'll understand. I daur 
na tamper wi' that. Nursing weak en- 
gines is fair craftsmanship; but what the 
Board ask is cheatin' wi' the risk o* man- 
slaughter addeetional.* Ye'll note I know 
my business. 

"There was some more talk, an' next 
w.eek I went aboard the 'Kite,* twenty- 
five hundred ton, simple compound, a 
Black Ox tramp. The deeper she rode, 
the better she'd steam. I've snapped as 
much as eleven out of her, but eight point 
three was her fair normal. Good food for- 
ward an' better aft, all indents passed 
wi'out marginal remarks, the best Welsh 
coal, new donkies, and good crews. There 
was nothin' the old man would not do 
except paint. That was his deeficulty. 
Ye could no more draw paint than his 
last teeth from him. He'd come down to 
dock, an' his boats a scandal all along 
the watter, an' he'd whine an' cry an* say 
they looked all he could desire. Every 
owner has his nonplus ultra^ I've obsairved. 
Paint was McRimmon's. But you could 
get round his engines without riskin' your 
life, an*, for all his blindness, I've seen 
him reject fivt flawed intermediates one 
after the other on a nod from me; an* his 
caltle-fittin's were guaranteed for North 
Atlantic weather. Ye ken what that 
means ? McRimmon an' the Black Ox 
line, God bless him! 

"Oh! I forgot to say she would lie 
down an' fill her forward deck green an' 
snore away into a twenty-knot gale forty- 
five to the minute, three an' a half knots 
an' hour; the engines runnin' sweet an' 
true as a bairn breathin' in its sleep. Bell 
was skipper — an' forbye there's no love 
lost between crews an* owners, we were 
fond o' the auld Blind Deevil an' his dog, 
an' I'm thinkin' he liked us. He was 
worth the windy side o' twa million sterlin' 
an* no friend to his own blood-kin. 
Money's an awfu' thing — overmuch — for 
a lonely man. 

" I'd taken her out twice, there an' back 
again, when word came o' the ' Bres- 

lau's' breakdown, just as I prophesied. 
Calder was engineer — he's not fit to run a 
tug down the Solent — and he fairly lifted 
the engines off the bed-plates, an' they fell 
down in heaps, by what I heard. So she 
filled from the after stuffin'-box to the 
after bulkhead an' lay star-gazing with 
seventy-nine squealin' passengers in the 
saloon till the * Camaralzaman ' o' Ram- 
sey and Gold's Carthagena line gave her a 
tow to the tune o' five thousand seven 
hunder an' forty pound, wi* costs in the 
admiralty court. She was helpless, ye'll 
understand, an' in no case to meet ony 
weather. Five thousand seven hunder an* 
forty pounds tuith costs, an' exclusive o' 
new engines! They'd ha' done better to 
ha' kept me on the old timin'. 

" But even so the new Board were all 
for retrenchment. Young Steiner, the 
Jew, was at the bottom of it. They 
sacked men right an' left that would not 
eat the dirt the Board gave 'em. They 
cut down repairs, they fed crews wi' leav- 
in*s an' scrapin's; and, reversin' McRim- 
mon's practice, they hid their defeeciencies 
wi' paint an' cheap gildin'. Quern Deus 
vult perrdere prrius dementat^ ye remember. 

" In January we went to dry dock, an' 
in the next dock lay the * Grotkau,' their 
big freighter that was the * Dolabella' o* 
Piegan, Piegan, and Walsh's line in '84 — 
a Clyde-built iron boat, a flat-bottomed, 
pigeon-breasted, under-engined, bull-nosed 
barge of a five-thousand-ton freighter, 
that would neither steer, nor steam, nor 
stop when ye asked her. Whiles she'd 
attend to her helm, whiles she'd take 
charge; whiles she'd wait to scratch her- 
self, an' whiles she'd buttock into a dock- 
head. But Holdock and Steiner had 
bought her cheap, and was paintin* her all 
over. I went to see young Bannister — 
he had to take what the Board gave him, 
an' he an' Calder were shifted together 
from the ' Breslau ' to this abortion — an* 
talkin' to him, I went into the dock under 
her. Her plates were pitted till the men 
that were paint, paint, paintin* her 
laughed at it. But the warst was at the 
last. She'd a great clumsy iron twelve- 
foot Thresher propeller — Aitcheson de- 
signed the ' Kite's* — and just on the tail 
o' the shaft, behind the boss, was a red 
weepin' crack ye could ha' put a penknife 
to. Man, it was an awfu' crack! 

" * When d'ye ship a new tail-shaft ? ' I 
said to Bannister. 

" He knew what I meant. ' Oh, yon's 
a superfeecial flaw,' says he, not lookin' at 

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•* * Superfeecial Gehenna! ' I said. 
' YeMl not take her oot in a solution o' 
continuity that like ? ' 

•* • They'll putty it up this evening,' he 
said. * Tm a married man an' — ye used 
to know the Board.* 

** I e'en said what was gie'd me in that 
hour. Ye know how a dry dock echoes. 
I saw young Steiner standin' listenin'above 
me, an*, man, he used language provoca- 
tive of a breach o* the peace. I was a 
spy and a disgraced employee, an* a cor- 
rupter o' young Bannister's morals, an* 
he'd prosecute me for libel. He went 
away when I ran up the steps — I'd ha' 
thrown him into the dock if I'd caught him 
— an* there I met McRimmon wi' Dandie 
puliin' on the chain, guidin* the auld man 
among the railway lines. 

•* * McPhee,* said he, * ye're no paid to 
fight Holdock, Steiner, Chase, and Com- 
pany, Limited, when ye meet. What's 
wrong between you ? * 

'* * No more than tail-shaft rotten as a 
kail-stump. For ony sakes, go an' look, 
McRimmon. It's a comedietta.' 

** * Tm feared o* yon conversational 
Hebrew,* said he. * Whaur*s the flaw, 
an* what like ?* 

** * A seven-inch crack just behind the 
boss. There*s no power on earth will 
fend it just jarrin* off.* 


•••That*s beyond my knowledge,* I 

*• ' So it is. So it is! * said McRimmon. 

• Ye're certain it was a crack ? ' 

•• • Man, it's a crevasse,* I said, for there 
were no words to describe the magni- 
tude of it. * An' young Bannister*s sayin* 
it's no more than a superfeecial flaw! * 

•• * Weel, I tak* it oor business is to mind 
oor business. If ye've ony friends aboard 
her, McPhee, why not bid them to a bit 
dinner at Radley's ? * 

•* • I was thinicin* o* tea in the cuddy,' 
I said. • Engineers o* tramp freighters 
cannot afford hotel prices.' 

•• * Na! — na! * says the auld man, 
whimperin*. * Not the cuddy. They*ll 
laugh at my •'Kite,*' for she's no plas- 
tered with paint like the" Grotkau." Bid 
them to Radley*s, McPhee, an' send me 
the bill. Thank Dandie here, man. I'm 
no used to thanks.' Then he turned him 
round. (I was just thinkin* the vara 
same thing.) 'Mister McPhee,* said he, 

* this is not senile dementia.' 

'• * Preserve's! ' I said, clean jumped 
oot o* mysel*. * I was but thinkin* you're 
fey, McRimmon.' 

•' Dod, the auld deevil laughed till he 
nigh sat down on Dandie. ' Send me the 
bill,* says he. * Tm lang past champagne, 
but tell me how it tastes the morn.* 

"Bell and I bid young Bannister an' 
Calder to dinner at Radley's. They'll 
have no laughin* an* singin* there, but 
we took a private room — like yacht-own- 
ers fra* Cowes.** 

McPhee grinned all over, and lay back 
to think. 

•'And then?" said I. 

••We were no drunk in ony preceese 
sense o* the word, but Radley*s showed 
me the dead men. There were six mag- 
nums o* dry champagne an* maybe a bottle 
o' whiskey.** 

•• Do you mean to tell me that you 
four got away with a magnum and a half 
apiece, besides whiskey?*' I demanded. 

McPhee looked down upon me from 
between his shoulders with tolera'tion. 

•• Man, we were not settin' down to 
drink,** he said. ** They no more than made 
us wutty. To be sure, young Bannister 
laid his head on the table, an' greeted like 
a bairn, an' Calder was all for cailin' on 
Steiner at two in the morn an' painting him 
galley green; but they'd been drinkin' 
the afternoon. Lord, how they twa 
cursed the Board, an' the * Grotkau,' an' 
the tail-shaft, an' the engines, an' a*! 
They didna' talk o* superfeecial flaws 
that night. I mind young Bannister and 
Calder shakin' hands on a bond to be re- 
venged on the Board at ony reasonable 
cost this side of losing their certificates. 
Now mark ye how false economy ruins 
business. The Board fed them like swine 
(I have good reason to know it), an' I've 
obsairved wi* my ain people that if ye 
touch his stomach ye wauken the deil in 
a Scot. Men will tak* a dredger across 
the Atlantic, if they're well fed, an' fetch 
her somewhere on the broadside o' the 
Americas; but bad food's bad service the 
world over. 

" The bill went to McRimmon, an* he 
said no more to me till the week-end, 
when I was at him for more paint, for we*d 
heard the ' Kite ' was chartered Liverpool- 

" * Bide whaur ye're put,' said the Blind 
Deevil. ' Man, do ye wash in cham- 
pagne ? The "Kite's** no leavin' here 
till I gie the order, an* — how am I to waste 
paint on her wi* the " Lammergeyer " 
docked for who knows how long an' a* ? ' 

" She was our big freighter — Mclntyre 
was engineer — an' I knew she'd come 
from overhaul not three months. That 

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morn I met McRimmon's head clerk — 
yeMl not know him — fair bitin* his nails 
off wi' mortification. 

*' * The auld man's gone gyte,* says he. 
' He's withdrawn the " Lammergeyer. " ' 

" ' Maybe he has reasons,' says I. 

*** Reasons! He's daft!* 

•• * He'll no be daft till he begins to 
|)aint,' I said. 

*'* That's just what he's done — and 
South American freights higher than we'll 
live to see them again. He's laid her up 
to paint her — to paint her — to paint her! ' 
says the little clerk, dancin* like a hen on 
a hot plate. * Five thousand ton o* poten- 
tial freight rottin* in dry dock, man; an' 
he dolin' the paint out in quarter-pound 
tins, for it cuts him to the heart, mad 
tho' he is. An' the **Grotkau" — the 
*'Grotkau" of all conceivable bottoms — 
soaking up every pound that should be 
ours at feiverpool! ' 

" I was staggered wi* this folly — con- 
siderin* the dinner at Radley's in connec- 
tion wi' the same. 

'* ' Ye may well stare, McPhee,' says the 
head clerk. * There's engines, an' rollin' 
stock, an' iron bridges — d'ye ken what 
freights are noo ? — an' pianos, an' millin- 
ery, an' fancy Brazil cargo o' every spe- 
cies pourin' into the ** Grotkau " — the 
** Grotkau " o* the Jerusalem firm, and 
the '* Lammergeyer's *' bein' painted! ' 

*' Losh, I thought he'd drop dead wi* 
the fits. 

" I could say no more than ' Obey orders 
if ye break owners,' but on the 'Kite' 
we believed McRimmon was mad, an* 
Mclntyre of the * Lammergeyer * was for 
lockin* him up by some patent legal proc- 
ess he'd found in a book o* maritime law. 
An* a* that week South American freights 
rose an' rose. It was sinfu'! 

"Syne Bell got orders to tak* the 

* Kite * round to Liverpool in water-bal- 
last, and McRimmon came to bid's good- 
by, yammeriii' an* whinin' o'er the acres 
o* paint he'd lavished on the * Lammer- 

***I look to you to retrieve it,' says 
he. *I look to you to reimburse me! 
'Fore God, why are ye not cast off ? Are 
ye dawdlin* in dock for a purpose ? ' 

** * What odds, McRimmon? ' says Bell. 

* We'll be a day behind the fair at Liv- 
erpool. The '* Grotkau 's" got all the 
freight that might ha' been ours an' the 
" Lammergeyer's." ' McRimmon laughed 
an* chuckled — the pairfect eemage o* 
senile dementia. Ye ken his eyebrows 
wark up an' down like a gorilla's. 

***Ye're under sealed orders,' said he, 
tee-heein' an' scratchin' himself. * Yon's 
they — to be opened seriatim.' 

** Says Bell, shufflin' the envelopes when 
the auld man had gone ashore, * We're to 
creep round a' the south coast standin* in 
for orders — this weather too. There's no 
question o* his lunacy now.' 

** Well, we buttocked the auld * Kite ' 
along — vara bad weather we made — 
standin' in to the Start, the Leezard, and 
St. David's for telegraphic orders, which 
are the curse o' skippers. Syne we made 
over to Holyhead, an' Bell opened the 
last envelope for the last instructions. I 
was wi* him in the cuddy, an* he threw it 
over to me, cryin': * Did ye ever know 
the like, Mac ? * 

**l'll no say what McRimmon had 
written, but he was far from mad. There 
was a sou'-tvester brewin* when we made 
the mouth o' the Mersey, a bitter cold 
morn wi' a gray-green sea and a gray- 
green sky — Liverpool weather, as they 
say; an' there we lay choppin,* an' the 
crew swore. Ye canna keep secrets 
aboard ship. They thought McRimmon 
was mad, too. 

" Syne we saw the ' Grotkau ' rollin' oot 
on the top o' flood, deep an' double 
deep, wi' her new painted funnel an' her 
new painted boats an' a'. She looked 
her bad name, an*, moreover, she coughed 
like it. Calder tauld me at Radley's 
what ailed his engines, but mine own ear 
would ha* told me twa mile awa*, by the 
beat o' them. Round we came, plungin* 
an* squatterin* in her wake, an' the wind 
cut, wi* good promise o' more to come. 
By six it blew hard but clear, an' before 
the middle watch it was a sou'-wester in 
good earnest. 

••'She'll edge into Ireland this gait,' 
says Bell. 1 was with him on the bridge 
watchin* the * Grotkau's ' port light. Ye 
canna see green so far as red or we'd ha' 
kept to leeward. We'd no passengers 
to consider, an* all eyes being on the 

* Grotkau,' we fair walked into a liner 
rampin' home to Liverpool. Or to be 
preceese. Bell no more than twisted the 

* Kite ' oot from under her bows, and 
there was a little damnin' betwix' the twa 
bridges. Noo a passenger" — McPhee 
regarded me benignantly — " wad ha' told 
the papers that as soon as he got to the 
Customs. We stuck to the * Grotkau's ' 
tail that night an' the next twa days — she 
slowed down to five knot by my reckonin', 
and we lapped along the weary way to the 

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** But you don't go by the Fastnet to 
get to any South American port, do 
you ? " I said. 

'* We ^o not. We prefer to go as direct 
as maybe, but we were followin* the 
*Grotkau/ an' she'd no walk into that 
gale for ony consideration. Knowin' what 
I did to her discredit, I couldna blame 
young Bannister. It was warkin' up to a 
North Atlantic winter gale, snow an' 
sleet an' a perishin' wind. Eh, it was 
like the deil walkin* abroad o' the surface 
o' the deep, whuppin' off the tops o' the 
waves before he made up his mind. They'd 
bore up against it so far, but the minute 
she was clear o' the Skelligs she fair 
tucked up her skirts an' ran for it by Dun- 
more Head. Wow, she rolled! 

*'* She'll be makin* Smerwick,' says 

•• * She'd ha' tried for Ventry by noo if 
she meant that,' I said. 

** * They'll roll the funnel oot o' her this 
gait,' says Bell. 'Why canna Bannister 
keep her head to sea ? ' 

'•'It's the tail-shaft. Ony rollin's 
better than pitchin' wi' superfeecial cracks 
in the tail-shaft. Calder knows that 
much/ I said. 

•' * It's ill wark retreevin' steamers this 
weather,' said Bell. His beard and whis- 
kers were frozen to his oilskin, an' the 
spray was white on the weather side of 
him. Pairfect North Atlantic winter 

"One by one the sea raxed away our 
three boats, an' the davits were crumpled 
like rams' horns. 

"'Yon's bad,' said Bell, at the last. 
' Ye canna pass a hawser wi'oot a boat.' 
Bell was a vara judeecious man — for an 

*• I'm not one that fashes himself for 
eventualities outside the engine-room, so 
I e'en slipped down betwixt waves to see 
how the 'Kite' fared. Man, she's the 
best geared boat of her class that ever 
left Clyde! Kinloch, my second, knew 
her as well as I did. I found him dryin' 
his socks on the main steam-pipe an' comb- 
in* his whiskers wi' the comb Janet gie'd 
me last year, for the warld an* a* as though 
we were in port. I tried the feed, speered 
into the stoke-hole, thumbed all bearin's, 
spat on the thrust for luck, gie'd 'em my 
blessin', an' took Kinlock's socks, before I 
went up to the bridge again. 

'*Then Bell handed me the wheel, an' 
went below to warm himself. When he 
came up my gloves were frozen to the 
spokes an' the ice clicked over my eye- 

lids. Pairfect North Atlantic winter 
weather, as I was say in'. 

"The gale blew out by night, but we 
lay in smotherin' cross seas that made the 
auld * Kite ' chatter from stem to stern. I 
slowed to thirty-four, I mind — no thirty- 
seven. There was a long swell the morn, 
an' the ' Grotkau ' was headin' into it west 

" ' She'll win to Rio yet, tail-shaft or no 
tail-shaft,' says Bell. 

*' * Last night shook her,' I said. * She'll 
jar it off yet, mark my word.' 

"We were then, maybe, a hunder and 
fifty mile west-sou'-west o' Slyne Head 
by dead reckonin'. Next day we made a 
hunder an* thirty — ye'll note we were not 
racin' boats; an' the day after a hunder 
an' sixty-one, an' that made us, we'll say, 
eighteen an' a bittock west, ap' maybe 
fifty-one an' a bittock north, crossin' all 
the North Atlantic liner lanes on the long 
slant, always in sight o' the ' Grotkau,' 
creepin' up by night and fallin' awa' by 
day. After the gale it was cold weather 
wi' dark nights. 

" I was in the engine-room on Friday 
night, just before the middle watch, when 
Bell whustled down the tube: * She's done 
it,' an' up I came. 

"The 'Grotkau' was just a fair dis- 
tance south, an' one by one she ran up 
the three red lights in a vertical line, the 
sign of a steamer not under control. 

" Yon's a tow for us,' said Bell, lickin' 
his chops. ' She'll be worth more than 
the " Breslau.*' We'll go down to her, 
McPhee! ' 

"'Bide a while,* I said. 'The seas 
throng wi' ships here.' 

" ' Reason why,' said Bell. ' It's a for- 
tune gaun beggin'. What d'ye think, 
man ? * 

" ' Gie her till daylight. She knows 
we're here. If Bannister needs help he'll 
loose a rocket.' 

** ' Wha told ye Bannister's need? We'll 
ha' some rag-an'-bone freighter snappin' 
her up under oor nose,' said he, and he 
put the wheel over. We were goin* slow. 

" * Bannister wad be better pleased to 
go home on a liner an' eat in the saloon. 
Mind ye what they said o' Holdock and 
Steiner's food that night at Radley's ? 
Keep her awa', man — keep her awa'. A 
tow's a tow, but an abandoned ship's big 

" ' E-eh! ' said Bell. ' Yon's an inshot 
o' yours, Mac. I love ye like a brother. 
We'll bide whaur we are till daylight; ' an' 
he kept her awa'. 

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*' Syne up went a rocket forward, an' 
twa on the bridge, an* a blue light aft. 
Syne a tar-barrel forward again. 

*** She's sinkin',' said Bell. 'It's all 
gaun, an* I'll get no more than a pair o' 
night-glasses for pickin' up young Bannis- 
ter—the fool! ' 

" ' Fair an' soft again,* I said. * She's 
signallin' to the south of us. Bannister 
knows as well as I one rocket would bring 
us. He'll no be wastin' fireworks for 
nothin'. Hear her ca'!' 

" The ' Grotkau ' whuslled an' whustled 
for five minutes, an' then there were more 
fireworks — a regular exhibeetion. 

*'* That's no for men in the regular 
trade,' says Bell. * Ye're right, Mac. 
That's for a cuddy full o' passengers.' 
He blinked through the night-glasses 
when it lay a bit thick to southward. 

** * What d'ye make of it ? ' I said. 

" * Liner,' he says. ' Yon's her rocket. 
Ou ay; they've waukened the skipper, an* 
— noo they've waukened the passengers. 
They're turnin' on the electrics cabin by 
cabin. Yon's anither rocket! They're 
comin* up to help the perishin' in deep 

" * Gie me the glass,' I said. But Bell 
danced on the bridge clean dementit. 
* Mails — mails — mails! * said he. * Under 
contract wi' the government for the due 
conveyance o* the mails, an*, .as such, 
Mac, ye'll note, she may rescue life at 
sea; but she canna tow! — she canna tow! 
Yon's her night-signal. She'll be up in 
half an hour! * 

"'Gowk!' I said, *an' we're blazin' 
here wi' all oor lights. Oh, Bell, ye're 
a fool!' 

" He tumbled off the bridge forward, an' 
I tumbled aft, an' before ye could wink 
our lights were oot, the engine-room hatch 
was covered, an' we lay pitch dark three 
mile maybe from the * Grotkau,' watchin' 
the lights o' the liner come up that she'd 
been signallin' for. Twenty knot an hour 
she came, every cabin lighted an' her 
boats swung awa'. It was grandly done, 
an' in the inside of an hour. She stopped 
like Mrs. Holdock's machine; down went 
the gangway, down went the boats, an* 
in ten minutes we heard the passengers 
cheerin', an' awa' she fled. 

" * They'll tell o' this all the days they 
live,' said Bell. * A rescue at sea by night, 
as pretty as a play. Young Bannister an* 
Calder will be drinkin' in the saloon; an* 
six months hence the Board o' Trade *11 
gie the skipper a pair o* binoculars. It's 
vara philanthropic all round.' 

" We lay by till day — ye may think we 
waited for it wi* sore eyes — an' there sat 
the ' Grotkau,' her nose a bit cocked, just 
leerin' at us. She looked perfectly ridicu- 

" ' She'll be fillin' aft,' says Bell. ' For 
why is she down by the stern ? The tail- 
shaft's punched a hole in her, an* — we've 
no boats. There*s three hunder thousand 
pound sterlin*, at a conservative estimate, 
droonin* before our eyes. What*s to do ? * 

" ' Run her as near as ye daur,* I said. 
'Gie me a jacket an' a life-line, an' I'll 
swum for it.' There was a bit lump of a 
sea, an' it was cold in the wind — vara cold; 
but they'd gone overside like passengers, 
young Bannister and Calder an' a', leav- 
ing the gangway down on the lee side. 
It would ha' been a flyin' in the face o' 
manifest Providence to overlook the invi- 
tation. We were within fifty yards o' her 
while Kinloch was garmin* me all over wi' 
oil behind the galley, an' as we ran past I 
went outboard for the salvage o' three 
hunder thousand pound. Man, it was per- 
ishin' cold, but I'd done my job judgmati- 
cally, an' came scrapin' all along her side 
slap on to the lower gratin' o' the gangway. 
No one more astonished than me, I assure 
ye. Before I caught my breath I'd barked 
both my knees on the gratin*, an' was 
climbin' up before she rolled again. I 
made my line fast to the rail, an' squattered 
aft to young Bannister's cabin, whaur I 
dried me wi' everything in his bunk an' 
put on every conceivable sort o' rig I 
found till the blood was circulatin'. 
Three pair drawers I mind I found — to 
begin upon — an' I needed them all. It 
was the coldest cold I remember in all my 

'* Syne I went aft to the engine-room. 
The * Grotkau * sat on her own tail, as they 
say. She was vara short-shafted, an' her 
gear was all aft. There was four or five 
foot o' water in the engine-room slum- 
mockin' to and fro black an' greasy; 
maybe there was six foot. The stoke-hold 
doors were screwed home, an' the stoke- 
hold was tight enough, but for a minute 
the mess in the engine-room deceived me. 
Only for a minute, though, an' that was 
because I was not, in a manner o' speakin', 
as calm as ordinar. I looked again to be 
sure. 'Twas just black wi' bilge: dead 
watter that must ha' come in fortuitously, 
ye ken." 

" McPhee, I'm only a passenger," I 
said, ** but you don't persuade me that six 
foot o' water can come into an engine- 
room fortuitously." 

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** Who's tryin' to persuade one way 
or the other?'* McPhee retorted. ''Tm 
statin' the facts o* the case — the simple, 
natural facts. Six or seven foot o' dead 
watter in the engine-room is a vara de- 
pressin' sight if ye think there's like to be 
more comin*; but I did not consider that 
was likely, and so ye'll note I was not 

'•That's all very well, but I want to 
know about the water," I said. 

** I've told ye. There was six feet or 
more there, wi' Calder's cap floatin* on 

•* Where did it come from ? " 

** Weel, in the confusion o' things after 
the propeller had dropped off an' the en- 
gines were racin* an' a', it's vara possible 
that Calder might ha* lost it off his head 
an' no troubled himself to pick it up 
again. I remember seein* that cap on 
him at Southampton." 

" I don't want to know about the cap. 
I'm asking where the .water came from 
and what it was doing there, and why 
you were so certain that it wasn*t a leak, 

" For good reason; for good an' suffi- 
cient reason." 

** Give it to me, then." 

" Weel, it's a reason that does not 
properly concern myself only. To be 
preceese, I'm of opinion that it was due, 
the watter, in part to an error o* judgment 
in another man. We can a* mak' mis- 

" Oh, I beg your pardon! " 

" I got me to the rail again, an' — 
'What's wrang ? ' said Bell, hailin'. 

"'She'll do,' I said. ' Send's o'er a 
hawser. * 

" They bent a twa-inch rope to the 
life-line an' a hawser to that, an' I led the 
rope o'er the drum of a hand-winch for- 
ward, an' I sweated the hawser inboard 
an* made it fast to the ' Grotkau's ' bitts. 

" Bell brought the * Kite' so close I 
feared she'd roll in an' do the * Grotkau's * 
plates a mischief. He hove anither life- 
line to me an' went astern, an' I had all 
the weary winch-work to do again wi' a 
second hawser. For all that, Bell was 
right: we'd a long tow before us, an* 
though Providence had helped us that far, 
there was no sense in leavin' too much to 
its kcepin*. When the second hawser was 
fast, I was wet wi' sweat, an' I cried Bell to 
tak' up his slack an' go home. I've heard 
that Kinloch an' he got gey drunk the 
night, but I turned in to young Bannister's 
bunk an* slep' past ony expression. Fo»* 

a general rule I sleep wi* both ears open, 
as a thinkin* engineer must, but I was 
deeper gone that night than I can ca' 
to mind in my life before. I waukened 
ragin' wi* hunger, a fair lump o' sea run- 
nin', the * Kite ' snorin' awa' four knots 
an hour, an' the ' Grotkau ' slappin* her 
nose under, an* vawin* an' standin' over 
at discretion. She was a most disgrace- 
fu' tow. But the shameful thing of all 
was the food. I raxed me a meal fra' 
galley shelves an' pantries an* lazareetes 
an* cubby-holes, that I would not ha* gied 
to the mate of a Cardiff collier; an* ye 
ken we say a Cardiff mate will eat clinkers 
to save waste. I'm sayin' it was simply 
vile! The crew had written what they 
thought of it oh the new paint o' the 
foc'sle, but I had not a leevin* soul wi' 
me to complain on. There was nothin' 
for me to do save watch the hawsers an' 
the * Kite*s ' tail squatterin' down in white 
watter when she lifted over a sea; so I 
got steam on the after donkey-pump an' 
pumped oot the engine-room. There's no 
sense in leavin' watter loose in a ship. 
When she was dry, I went doun the shaft- 
tunnel, an' found she was leakin' a little 
through the stuffin*-box, but nothin* to 
make wark. The propeller had e*en 
jarred off, as I knew it must, an* Calder 
had been waitin* for it to go wi' his hand 
on the gear. He told me as much when 
I met him ashore. There was nothin' 
started or strained. It had just slipped 
awa* to the bed o* the Atlantic as easy as 
a man dyin* wi* due warnin* — a most provi- 
dential business for all concerned. Syne 
I took stock o* the ' Grotkau*s * upper 
works. Her boats had been smashed on 
the davits, an' here an* there was the rail 
missin' an* a ventilator or two had fetched 
awa*, an* the bridge rails were bent by the 
seas, but her hatches were tight an' she*d 
taken no sort o* harm. Dod, I came to 
hate her like a human bein*, for I was 
eight weary days aboard starvin* — ay, 
starvin* within a cable*s length o' plenty. 
All day I laid in the bunk reading the 
'Woman Hater,* the grandest book 
Charlie Reade ever wrote, an* pickin* a 
toothful here an* there. It was weary, 
weary work. Eight days, man, I was 
aboard the 'Grotkau,* an* not one full 
meal did I make. Sma' blame her crew 
would not stay by her. 

" It came on to blow when we fetched 
soundin's, an* that kept me standin* by 
the hawsers, lashed to the capstan breath- 
in' betwixt green seas. I near died o' 
cauld an* hunger, for the ' Grotkau * towed 

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like a barge, an* Bell howkit her along 
through or over. It was vara thick up 
Channel, too. We were standin' in to 
make some sort o' light an' we near walked 
over twa three fishin' boats, an' they cried 
us we were overdose to Falmouth. Then 
we were near cut down by a drunken for- 
eign fruiter that was blunderin' between 
us an' the shore, and it got thicker an' 
thicker that night, an' I could feel by the 
tow Bell did not know whaur he was. 
Losh, we knew in the morn, for the wind 
blew the fog oot like a candle, an* the sun 
came clear; and as surely as McRimmon 
gied me my check the shadow o' the Eddy- 
stone lay across our tow-rope! We were 
that near — ay, we were that near! Bell 
fetched the * Kite ' round with the jerk 
that came close to tearin' the bitts out 
o' the *Grotkau,' an' I mind I thanked 
my Maker in young Bannister's cabin when 
we were inside Plymouth breakwater. 

** The first to come aboard was McRim- 
mon wi' Dandie. Did I tell you our orders 
were to take anything we found into Plym- 
outh ? The auld deil had just come 
down overnight, puttin' two an' two to- 
gether from what Calder had told him 
when the liner landed the *Grotkau's' 
men. He had preceesely hit oor time. 
I'd hailed Bell for something to eat, an' 
he sent it o'er in the same boat wi' McRim- 
mon, when the auld man came to me. He 
grinned an' slapped his legs and worked 
his eyebrows the while I ate. 

** * How do Holdock, Steiner, and Chase 
feed their men ? ' said he. 

" ' Ye can see,' I said, knockin' the top 
off another beer bottle. * I did not sign 
to be starved, McRimmon.' 

*' ' Nor to swim, either,' said he, for 
Bell had tauld him how I carried the line 
aboard. * Well, I'm thinkin' you'll be no 
loser. What freight could we ha' put into 
the ** Lammergeyer " would equal salvage 
on four hunder thousand pounds — hull an' 
cargo ? Eh, McPhee ? This cuts the 
liver out o' Holdock, Steiner, Chase, and 
Company, Limited. Eh, McPhee ? An' 
I'm suflferin' from senile dementia now ? 
Eh, McPhee? An' I'm not daft, am I, 
till I begin to paint the *' Lammergeyer " ? 
Eh, McPhee ? Ye may weel lift your leg, 
Dandie! I ha' the laugh o' them all. Ye 
found watter in the engine-room ? ' 

*'*To speak wi'oot prejudice/ I said, 
' there was some watter.' 

***They thought she was sinkin' after 
the propeller went. She filled wi' extraor- 
dinary rapeedity. Calder said it grieved 
him an' Bannister to abandon her.' 

'* I thought o* the dinner at Radley's an 
what like o' food I'd eaten for eight days. 

*' * It would grieve them sore,' I said. 

** * But the crew would not hear o* 
stayin* and workin' her back under canvas. 
They're gaun up an' down sayin' they'd 
ha' starved first.' 

** * They'd ha' starved if they'd stayed,* 
said I. 

** * I tak' it fra' Calder's account there 
was a mutiny a'most.' 

'* * Ye know more than I, McRimmon,* 
I said. * Speakin' wi'oot prejudice, for 
we're all in the same boat, who opened the 
bilge-cock ? ' 

*'*Oh, that's it — is it?' said the auld 
man, an' I could see he was surprised. * A 
bilge-cock, ye say ? ' 

** * I believe it was a bilge-cock. They 
were all shut when I came aboard, but 
some one had flooded the engine-room 
eight feet over all, and shut it off with 
the worm-an'-iVheel gear from the second 
gratin' afterwards.' 

" ' Losh! ' said McRimmon. * The in- 
eequity o' man's beyond belief. But it's 
awfu' discreditable to Holdock, Steiner, 
and Chase, if that came oot in court.* 

** ' It's just my own curiosity,' I said. 

'* *Aweel, Dandie's afflicted wi' the same 
disease. Dandie, strive against curiosity, 
for it brings a little dog into traps an' 
suchlike. Whaur was the **Kite" when 
yon painted liner took off the *'Grotkau's** 
people ? ' 

** ' Just there or thereabouts,' I said. 

" * An' which o' you twa thought to 
cover your lights?' said he, winkin'. 

" ' Dandie,' I said to the dog, * we must 
both strive against curiosity. It's an un- 
remunerative business. What's our chance 
o' salvage, Dandie ? ' 

*' He laughed till he choked. * Tak* 
what I gie you, McPhee, an' be content,' 
he said. ' Lord, how a man wastes time 
when he gets old! Get aboard the *' Kite," 
mon, as soon as ye can. I've clean for- 
got there's a Baltic charter yammerin* for 
you at London. That'll be your last voy- 
age, I'm thinkin', excep' by way o' pleas- 

" Steiner's men were comin' aboard to 
take charge an' tow her round, an* I 
passed young Steiner in a boat as I went 
to the * Kite.' He looked down his nose, 
but McRimmon pipes up: * Here's the 
man ye owe the " Grotkau " to — at a price, 
Steiner — at a price! Let me introduce 
Mr. McPhee to you. Maybe ye've met 
before; but ye've vara little luck in keep- 
in' vour men — ashore or afloat ? ' 

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** Young Steiner looked angry enough to 
eat him, as he chuckled an' whustled in 
his dry old throat. 

***Ye've not got your price yet/ 
Steiner says. 

** * Na, na,* says the auld man in a 
screech ye could hear to the Hoe, * but 
Tve twa million sterlin* an* no bairns, ye 
Judeeus Apella, if ye mean to fight; an* 
I'll match ye pund for pund till the last 
pund's oot. Ye ken tne^ Steiner! I'm 
McRimmon o' McNaughten and McRim- 

*• * Dod,' he said betwix' his teeth, sittin* 
back in the boat. * I've waited fourteen 
year to break that Jew-firm, an* God be 
thankit I'll do it now.' 

**The *Kite' was in the Baltic while 
the auld man was warkin' his warks, but 
1 know the assessors valued the * Grotkau,* 
all told, at over three hunder and sixty 
thousand — her manifest was a treat o' 
richness — an* McRimmon got a third for 
salvin' an abandoned ship. Ye ken 
there's vast deeference between towin' a 
ship wi* men on her an' pickin' up a de- 
relict — a vast deeference in pounds ster- 
lin*. Moreover, twa three o* the * Grot- 
kau's ' crew were burnin' to testify about 
food, an* there was a note o' Calder to 
the Board in regard to the tail-shaft that 
would ha* been vara damagin' if it had 
come into court. They knew better than 
to fight. 

**Syne the 'Kite' came back, an' Mc- 
Rimmon paid off me an* Bell personally, 
an* the rest of the crew/r^ ratdy I believe 
it*s ca*ed. My share — oor share I should 
say — was just twenty-five thousand pound 

At this point Janet jumped up and kissed 

** Five-and-twenty thousand pound ster- 
iin* ! Noo, I'm fra the North, and I'm not 
the like o* man to fling awa' money rashly, 
but I'd gie six months* pay — one hunder 
and twenty pounds — to know who flooded 
I he engine-room of the 'Grotkau.' I'm 
fairly well acquaint wi' McRimmon's 

eediosyncrasies, and he^d no hand in it. 
It was not Calder, for I've asked him, an' 
'he wanted to fight me. It would be in the 
highest degree unprofessional o' Calder — 
not fightin', but openin* bilge-cocks — but 
for a while I thought it was him. Ay, I 
judged it might be him — under tempta- 

'* What's your theory ? " I demanded. 

** Weel, I'm inclined to think it was one 
o* those singular providences that remind 
us we're in the hands o' Higher Powers." 

" It couldn't open and shut itself ? " 

**I did not mean that; but some half- 
starvin' oiler, or, maybe, trimmer, must 
ha* opened it awhile to mak' sure o' ieavin' 
the 'Grotkau.' It's a demoralizin' thing 
to see an engine-room flood up after any 
accident to the gear — demoralizin' an' 
deceptive both. Aweel, the man got what 
he wanted, for they went aboard the liner 
cryin' that the ' Grotkau * was sinkin*. 
But it's curious to think o' the conse- 
quences. In a' human probability he's 
bein' cursed in heaps at the present mo- 
ment aboard another tramp freighter; an' 
here am I, wi' five-aii'-twenty thousand 
pound invested, resolute to go to sea no 
more — providential's the preceese word — 
except as a passenger, ye' 11 understand, 

McPhee kept his word. He and Janet 
went for a voyage as passengers in the 
first-class saloon. They paid seventy 
pounds for their berths; and Janet found 
a very sick woman in the second-class 
saloon, so that for sixteen days she lived 
below and chatted with the stewardesses 
at the foot of the second-saloon stairs, 
while her patient slept. McPhee was a 
passenger for exactly twenty-four hours, 
till they were out of soundings. Then the 
engineers* mess — where the oilcloth tables 
are — joyfully took him to its bosom, and 
for the rest of the voyage the company 
was richer by the unpaid services of a 
highly certificated engineer. 

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By Frank R. Stockton, 

Author of "Rudder Grange," "The Adventures of Captain Horn,' etc. 

WAS about twenty- 
five years old when 
I began life as the 
owner of a vine- 
yard in western Vir- 
ginia. I bought a 
large tract of land, 
the greater part of 
which lay upon the 
sloping side of one 
of the foot-hills of 
the Blue Ridge, the 
exposure being that 
most favorable to 
the growth of the 
vine. I am an enthusiastic lover of the 
country and of country life, and believed 
that I should derive more pleasure as well 
as profit from the culture of my far-stretch- 
ing vineyard than I would from ordinary 
farm operations. 

I built myself a good house of moder- 
ate size upon a little plateau on the higher 
part of my estate. Sitting in my front 
porch, smoking my pipe after the labors 
of the day, I could look down over my 
vineyard into a beautiful valley, with here 
and there a little curling smoke arising 
from some of the few dwellings which 
were scattered about among the groves 
and spreading fields, and above this beauty 
I could imagine all my hillside clothed in 
green and purple. 

My family consisted of myself alone. 
It is true that I expected some day that 
there would be others in my house besides 
myself, but I was not ready for that 

During the summer I found it very 
pleasant to live by myself. It was a nov- 
elty, and I could arrange and manage 
everything in my own fashion, which was 
a pleasure I had not enjoyed when I 
lived in my father's house; but when 
winter came I found it very lonely. Even 
my servants lived in a cabin at some little 
distance, and there were many dark and 
stormy evenings when the company even 
of a bore would have been welcome to 
me. Sometimes I walked over to the town 
and visited my friends there, but this was 

not feasible on stormy nights, and the 
winter seemed to me a very long one. 

But spring came, out-door operations 
began, and for a few weeks I felt again 
that I was all-sufficient for my own pleas- 
ure and comfort. Then came a change. 
One of those seasons of bad and stormy 
weather which so frequently follow an 
early spring settled down upon my spirits 
and my hillside. It rained, it was cold, ' 
fierce winds blew, and I became more 
anxious for somebody to talk to than I 
had been at any time during the winter. 

One night, when a very bad storm was 
raging, I went to bed early, and as I lay 
awake I revolved in my mind the scheme 
of which I had frequently thought before. 
I would bui-ld a neat little house on my 
grounds, not very far away from my house, 
but not too near, and I would ask Jack 
Brandiger to come there and live. Jack 
was a friend of mine who was reading law 
in the town, and it seemed to me that it 
would be much more pleasant, and even 
more profitable, to read law on a pretty hill- 
side overlooking a charming valley, with 
woods and mountains behind and above 
him, where he could ramble to his heart's 

I had thought of asking Jack to come 
and live with me, but this idea I soon dis- 
missed. I am a very particular person, 
and Jack is not; he leaves his pipes about 
in all sorts of places — sometimes when 
they are still lighted. When he came to 
see me he was quite as likely to put his 
hat over the inkstand as to put it any- 
where else. But if Jack lived at a little 
distance, and we could go backwards and 
forwards to see each other whenever we 
pleased, that would be quite another 
thing. He could do as he pleased in his 
own house, and I could do as I pleased in 
mine, and we might have many pleasant 
evenings together. This was a cheering 
idea, and I was planning how we might 
arrange with the negro women who man- 
aged my household affairs to attend also 
to those of Jack, when I fell asleep. 

I did not sleep long before I was awak- 
ened by the increased violence of the 

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storm. My house shook with the fury of 
the wind; the rain seemed to be pouring 
on its roof and northern side as if there 
were a waterfall above us ; and every 
now and then I could hear a shower of 
hailstones rattling against the shutters. 
My bedroom was one of the rooms on 
the lower floor, and even there I could 
hear the pounding of the deluge and the 
hailstones upon the roof. 

All this was very doleful, and had a 
tendency to depress the spirits of a wak- 
ing man, alone in a good-sized house; but 
I shook off this depression. It was not 
agreeable to be up here by myself in such 
a terrible storm, but there was nothing to 
be afraid of, as my house was new and 
very strongly built, being constructed of 
logs, weatherboarded outside and sealed 
within. It would require a hurricane to 
blow off the roof, and I believed my shut- 
ters to be hail-proof; so, as there was no 
reason to stay awake, 1 turned over and 
went to sleep. 

I do not know how long it was before I 
was awakened again, this time not by the 
noise of the storm, but by a curious move- 
ment of my bedstead. I had once felt 
the slight shock of an earthquake, and it 
seemed to me that this must be something 
of the kind; certainly my bed moved un- 
der me. I sat up; the room was pitchy 
dark. In a moment I felt another move- 
ment, but this time it did not seem to me 
to resemble an earthquake shock; such 
motion, I think, is generally in horizontal 
directions, while what I felt was more like 
the slower movement of a ship upon the 
water. The storm was at its height, the 
wind raged and roared, and the rain 
seemed to be pouring down as heavily as 

I was about to get up and light the 
lamp, for even the faintest candle flame 
would be some sort of company at such a 
gruesome moment, when my bedstead 
gave another movement, more shiplike 
than before. It actually lurched forward 
as if it were descending into the trough 
of the sea, but, unlike a ship, it did not 
rise again, but remained in such a slant- 
ing position that I began to slide down 
towards fhe foot. I believe that if it 
had not been a bedstead provided with 
a foot-board, I should have slipped out 
upon the floor. 

I did not jump out of bed; I did not dc 
anything. I tried to think, to understand 
the situation, to find out whether I was 
asleep or awake, when I became aware of 
noises in the room and all over the house. 

which even through the din of the storm 
made themselves noticed by their peculi- 
arity. Tables, chairs, everything in the 
room, seemed to be grating and grinding 
on the floor, and in a moment there was a 
crash. I knew what that was; it was my 
lamp, which had slipped off the table. 
Any doubt on that point would have been 
dispelled by the smell of kerosene, which 
filled the air of the room. 

The motion of the bed, which I now 
believe must have been the motion of the 
whole house, still continued; but the 
grating noises in the room gradually 
ceased, from which I inferred that the fur- 
niture had brought up against the front 
wall of the room. 

Now, it was impossible for me to get up 
and strike a light, for to do so, with kero- 
sene oil all over the floor and its vapor 
diffused through the room, would probably 
result in setting the house on fire; so 1 
must stay in darkness and wait. I do not 
think I was very much frightened — I was 
so astonished that there was no room in 
my mind for fear. In fact, all my mental 
energies were occupied in trying to find 
out what had happened. It required, how- 


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ever, only a few more minutes of reflection 
and a few more minutes of the grating, 
bumping, trembling of my house to enable 
me to make up my mind what had hap- 
pened: my house was sliding downhill! 

The wind must have blown the building 
from its foundations, and, upon the slip- 
pery surface of the hillside, probably 
lished into liquid mud by the pouring 
rain, it was making its way down towards 
the valley! In a flash my mind's eye ran 
over the whole surface of the country be- 
neath me as far as I knew it. I was al- 
most positive that there was no precipice, 
no terrible chasm into which my house^ 
might fall. There was nothing but slop- 
ing hillside, and beneath that a wide stretch 
of fields. 

Now there was a new and sudden noise 
of heavy objects falling upon the roof, 
and J knew what that meant: my chimney 
had been wrenched from its foundations, 
and the upper part of it had now toppled 
over. I could hear, through the storm, the 
bricks banging and sliding upon the slant- 
ing roof. Continuous sounds of cracking 
and snapping came to me through the 
closed front windows, and these were 
caused, I supposed, by the destruction of 
the stakes of my vines, as the heavy house 
moved over them. 

Of course, when I thoroughly understood 
the state of the case, my first impulse was 
to spring out of bed, and, as quickly as 
possible, to get out of that thumping and 
sliding house; but I restrained myself. 
The floor might be covered with broken 
glass, 1 might not be able to find my 
clothes in that darkness and in the jumble 
of furniture at the end of the room, and 
even if I could dress myself, it would be 
folly to jump out in the midst of that rag- 
ing storm into a probable mass of wreck- 
age which I could not see; it would be far 
better to remain dry and warm under, my 
roof. There was no reason whatever to 
suppose that the house could go to pieces, 
or that it would turn over; it must stop 
some time or other ; and, until it did so, I 
would be safer in my bed than anywhere 
else. Therefore in my bed I stayed. 

Sitting. upright, with my feet pressed 
against the foot-board, I listened and felt. 
The noises of the storm, and the cracking 
and the snapping and grinding before me 
and under me, still continued, although 
I sometimes thought that the wind was 
moderating a little, and that the strange 
motion was becoming more regular. I 
believed the house was moving faster than 
when it first began its strange career, but 

that it was sliding over a smooth surface. 
Now I noticed a succession of loud cracks 
and snaps at the front of the house, and, 
from the character of the sounds, I con- 
cluded that my little front porch, which 
had been acting as a cutwater at the bow 
of my shiplike house, had yielded at last 
to the rough contact with the ground, and 
would probably soon be torn away. This 
did not disturb me, for the house must still 
be firm. 

It was not long before I perceived that 
the slanting of my bed was becoming 
less and less, and also I was quite sure 
that the house was moving more slowly. 
Then the crackings and snappings before 
my front wall ceased altogether. The bed 
resumed its ordinary horizontal position, 
and, although I did not know at what ex- 
act moment the house ceased sliding and 
came to a standstill, I was sure that it 
had done so. It was resting at last upon 
a level surface. The room was still per- 
fectly dark, and the storm continued. 
There was no use for me to get up until 
daylight came — I could not see what had 
happened — so I lay back upon my pillow 
and tried to imagine upon what level por- 
tion of my farm I had stranded. While 
doing this I fell asleep. 

When I woke, a little light was steal- 
ing into the room through the blinds of 
my shutters. I quickly slipped out of 
bed, opened a window, and looked out. 
Day was just breaking, the rain and wind 
had ceased, and I could discern objects; 
but it seemed as if I needed some light in 
my brain to enable me to comprehend what 
1 saw. My eyes fell upon nothing familiar. 

I did not stop to investigate, however, 
from my window. I found my clothes 
huddled together with the furniture at the 
front end of the room, and as soon as I 
was dressed I went into the hall and then 
to my front door. I quickly jerked this 
open, and was about to step outside w^hen, 
suddenly, I stopped. I was positive that 
my front porch had been destroyed ; but 
there I saw a porch, a little lower than 
mine and a great deal wider, and on the 
other side of it, not more than eight feet 
from me, was a window — the window of a 
house; and on the other side of the win- 
dow was a face — the face of a young girl! 
As I stood staring in blank amazement at 
the house which presented itself at my 
front door, the face at the window disap- 
peared, and I was left to contemplate the 
scene by myself. I ran to my back door 
and threw it open. There I saw, stretch- 
ing up the fields and far up the hillside, 

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the wide path which my house had made 
as it came down from its elevated posi- 
tion to the valley beneath, where it had 
ended its onward career by stopping up 
against another house. As I looked off 
the back porch, I saw that the ground 
still continued to slope, so that if my 
house had not found in its path another 
building, it would probably have pro- 
ceeded somewhat farther on its course. 
It was lighter, and I saw bushes and 
fences and little outbuildings — I was in a 
back yard. 

Almost breathless with amazement and 
consternation, I ran again to the front 
door. When I reached it I found a young 
woman standing on the porch of the 
house before me. I was about to say 
something — 1 know not what — when she 
put her finger on her lips and stepped for- 

" Please don't speak loudly," she said. 
*' I am afraid it will frighten mother; she 
is asleep yet. I suppose you and your 
house have been sliding downhill ? *' 

**That is what has happened," said I; 
" but I cannot understand it; it seems to 
me the most amazing thing that ever took 
place on the face of the earth." 

*'It is very queer," said she; "but 
hurricanes do blow away houses, and that 
must have been a hurricane we had last 
night, for the wind was strong enough to 
loosen any house. I have often wondered 
if that house would ever slide downhill." 

"My house?" 

" Yes," she said. " Soon after it was 
built I began to think what a nice clean 
sweep it could make from the place where 
it seemed to be stuck to the side of the 
mountain, right down here into the val- 

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I could not talk with a girl like this; at 
least I could not meet her on her own con- 
versational grounds. I was so agitated 
myself that it seemed unnatural that any 
one to whom I should speak should not 
also be agitated. 

**Who are you?" I asked, rather 
brusquely; **at least, to whom does this 
house belong ?*' 

** This is my mother's house," said she. 
** My mother is Mrs. Carson. We happen 
just now to be living here by ourselves, 
so 1 cannot call on any man to help you 
do anything. My brother has always 
lived with us, but last week he went 

** You don't seem to be a bit astonished 
at what has happened," said I. 

She was rather a pretty girl ; of a cheer- 
ful disposition, I should say, for several 
times she had smiled as she spoke. 

"Oh, I am astonished," she answered; 
"or at least I was, but I have had time 
enough to get over some of it. It was at 
least an hour ago when I was awakened by 
hearing something crack in the yard. I 
went to a window and looked out, and could 
just barely see that something like a big 
building had grown up during the night. 
Then I watched it, and watched it, until 
I made out it was a whole house ; and after 
that it was not long before I guessed what 
had happened. It seemed a simpler thing 
to me, you know, than it did to you, be- 
cause I had often thought about it, and 
probably you never had." 

" You are right there," said I earnestly. 
" It would have been impossible for me to 
imagine such a thing." 

" At first I thought there was nobody 
in the house," said she; "but when I 
heard some one moving about, I came 
down to tell whoever had arrived not to 
make a noise. I see," she added, with 
another of her smiles, " that you think 1 
am a very strange person not to be more 
flurried by what has happened ; but really 
I cannot think of anything else just now 
except what mother will say and do when 
she comes down and finds you and your 
iiouse here at the back door. I am very 
sure she will not like it." 

"Like it!" I exclaimed. "Who on 
earth could like it ? " 

" Please speak more gently," she said. 
" Mother is always a little irritable when 
her night's rest has been broken, and I 
would not like to have her wakened up 
suddenly now. But really, Mr. Warren, I 
haven't the least idea in the world how 
she will take this thing. I must go in and 

be with her when she wakes, so that I 
can explain just what has happened." 

"One moment," I said. "You know 
my name ? " 

"Of course I know your name," she 
answered. " Could that house be up 
there on the hillside for more than a year 
without my knowing who lived in it?" 
With this, she went indoors. 

I could not help smiling when I thought 
of the young lady regretting that there 
was no man in the house who might help 
me do something. What could anybody 
do in a case like this ? I turned and went 
into the house. I entered the various 
rooms on the lower floor, and saw no 
signs of any particular damage except 
that everything movable in each room was 
jumbled together against the front wall. 
But when I looked out of the back door, I 
found that the porch there was a good 
deal wrecked, which I had not noticed 

I went upstairs, and found everything 
pretty much as it was below. Nothing 
seemed to have been injured except the 
chimney and the porches. I thanked my 
stars that I had used hard wood instead 
of mortar for the ceilings of my rooms. 

I was about to go into my bedroom, 
when I heard a woman scream, and of 
course I hurried to the front. There on 
the back porch of her house stood Mrs. 
Carson. She was a woman of middle age, 
and, as I glanced at her, I saw where her 
daughter got her good looks. But the pla- 
cidity and cheerfulness of the younger face 
were entirely wanting in the mother. Her 
eyes sparkled, her cheeks were red, her 
mouth was partly opened, and it seemed 
to me that I could almost see that her 
breath was hot. 

"Is this your house?" she cried, the 
moment her eyes fell upon me; "and 
what is it doing here ? " 

I did not immediately answer. I looked 
at the angry woman, and behind her I saw, 
through the open door, the daughter cross- 
ing the hallway. It was plain that she 
had decided to let me have it out with her 
mother without interference. As briefly 
and as clearly I could, I explained what 
had happened. 

" What is all that to me ? " she screamed. 
" It doesn't matter to me how your house 
got here. There have been storms ever 
since the beginning of the world, and I 
never heard of any of them taking a house 
into a person's back yard. You ought 
not to have built your house where any 
such thing could happen. But all this is 

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nothing to me. I don't understand, now, 
how your house did get here, and I don't 
want to understand it. All I want is for 
you to take it away." 

*' I will do that, madam, just as soon as 
I can. You may be very sure 1 will do 
that. But—" 

"Can you do it now?" she asked. 

"Can you do it to-day? I don't want a 

minute lost. I have not been outside to see 

. what damage has been done, but the first 

thing to do is to take your house away." 

" I am going to the town now, madam, 
to summon assistance." 

Mrs. Carson made no answer, but she 
turned and walked to the end of her porch. 
There she suddenly gave a scream, which 
quickly brought her daughter from the 
house. " Kitty ! Kitty ! " cried her 
mother. " Do you know what he has 
done ? He has gone right over my round 
flower garden; his house is sitting on it 
this minute! " 

" But he could not help it, mother," said 

" Help it! " exclaimed Mrs. Carson. " I 
don't want him to help it; what I want — " 
Suddenly she stopped. Her eyes flashed 
brighter, and her mouth opened wider. 
She seemed to have lost the power of 
speech ; but quickly it came back to her. 
" Little Samuel! " she screamed. " Kitty, 
do you know I believe he has scratched 
up little Samuel! " 

1 looked at her stupefied, without know- 
ing what she was talking about. '* Little 
Samuel!" again screamed Mrs. Carson, 
and she ran about wildly endeavoring to 
get off her porch ; but my house had de- 
molished her steps, and it blocked up the 

"The side door, mother!" said Miss 
Kitty ; and then, as the older woman disap- 
peared into the house with a stifled excla- 
mation, her daughter said to me: " It is 
my little brother she is thinking about. 

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He died some years ago and was buried 
in a small graveyard back of our garden. 
She thinks your house has gone over it 
and has scratched him up." Miss Carson 
now followed her mother, and I jumped 
over the railings of the porch and ran 
after them. 

As we hurried along by my house and 
into their garden, which now seemed to 
be unevenly divided into two parts, scream 
after scream came from Mrs. Carson as 
she noticed the absence of sheds, fences, 
or vegetable beds, which had found them- 
selves in the course of my all-destroying 
dwelling. Once she turned her head 
towards me, her face pallid. ** If you 
have scratched up little Samuel ! " she 
screamed, panting, but she had not breath 
enough to finish the sentence, and con- 
tinued onward with clenched fists. 

But little Samuel was not scratched up. 
My house had not passed within a hundred 
feet of his resting-place. Then we turned 
and went back to the house, or rather to 
the houses. 

It was now well on in the morning, 
and some of the neighbors had become 
aware of the strange disaster which had 
happened to me, although if they had heard 
the news from Mrs. Carson they might 
have supposed that it was a disaster which 
had happened only to her. As they 
gazed at the two houses so closely jammed 
together, all of them wondered, some of 
them even laughed, but not one offered 
a suggestion which afforded satisfaction 
to Mrs. Carson or myself. The general 
opinion was that, now my house was there, 
it would have to stay there, for there were 
not enough horses in the State to pull it 
back up that mountain-side. To be sure, 
it might possibly be moved off side wise ; 
but whether it was moved one way or the 
other, a lot of Mrs. Carson's trees Would 
have to be cut down to let it pass. 

** Which shall never happen ! " cried 
that good lady. ** If nothing else can be 
done, it must be taken apart and hauled 
off in carts ; but, no matter how it is man- 
aged, it must be moved, and that imme- 

Miss Carson now prevailed upon her 
mother to go into the house, and I stayed 
and talked to the men and a few women 
who had gathered outside. 

When they had said all they had to say, 
and seen all there was to see, .these people 
went home to their breakfasts. I entered 
iny house — not by the front door, for to do 
that I would have been obliged to tres- 
pass upon Mrs. Carson's back porch. 1 

got my hat, and was about to start for the 
town, when I heard my name called. Turn- 
ing into the hall, I saw Miss Carson, who 
was standing at my front door. 

** Mr. Warren," said she, ''you haven't 
any way of getting breakfast, have 
you ? " 

** Oh, no," said I. ** My servants are 
up there in their cabin, and I suppose they 
are too much scared to come down. But I 
am going to town to see what can be done 
about my house, and will get my break- 
fast there." 

" It's a long way to go without any- 
thing to eat," she said, ** and we can 
give you some breakfast. But I want to 
ask you something. I am in a good deal 
of perplexity ; our two servants are out 
at the front of the house, but they posi- 
tively refuse to come in. They are afraid 
that your house may begin sliding again 
and crush them all, so I shall have to get 
breakfast. But what bothers me is trying 
to find our well. I have been outside, and 
can see no signs of it." 

" Where was your well ? " I gasped. 

" It ought to be somewhere near the 
back of your house," she said. " May I 
go through your hall and look out ? " 

** Of course you may," I cried, and I 
preceded her to my back door. 

** Now, it seems to me," she said, after 
surveying the scene of desolation imme- 
diately before, and looking from side to 
side, towards objects which had remained 
untouched, " that your house has passed 
directly over our well, and must have car- 
ried away the little shed and the pump 
and everj^hing above ground. I should 
not wonder a bit," she continued slowly, 
" if it is under your porch." 

I jumped to the ground, for the steps 
were shattered, and began to search for 
the well, and it was not long before 1 dis- 
covered its round dark opening, which 
was, as Miss Carson had imagined, under 
one end of my porch. 

** What can we do ? " she asked. ** We 
can't have breakfast or get along at all 
without water." It was a terribly depress- 
ing thing to me to think that 1, or rather 
my house, had given these people so much 
trouble ; but I speedily assured Miss Car- 
son that if she could find a bucket and a 
rope, which 1 could lower into the well, I 
could provide her with water. 

She went into her house to see what she 
could find, and 1 tore away the broken 
planks of the porch, so that I could get 
to the well ; and then, when she came with 
a tin pail and a clothesline, I went to 

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work with great ardor to haul up water 
and carry it to her back door. 

*' I don't want mother to find out what 
has happened to the well," she said ; 
**for she has enough on her mind al- 

Mrs. Carson was a woman with some 
good points in her character. After a 
time she called to me herself, and told me 
to come in to breakfast ; but during the 
meal she talked very earnestly to me about 
the amazing trespass I had committed and 
about the means which should be taken 
to repair the damages my house had done 
to her property. I was as optimistic as I 
could be, and the young lady spoke very 
cheerfully and hopefully about the affair, 
so that we were beginning to get along 
somewhat pleasantly, when, suddenly, 
Mrs. Carson sprang to her feet. " Heav- 
ens and earth ! " she cried, " this house is 
moving ! " 

She was not mistaken. I had felt be- 
neath my feet a sudden sharp shock — not 
severe, but unmistakable. I remembered 
that both houses stood upon slightly slop- 
ing ground ; my blood turned cold, my 
heart stood still — even Miss Carson was 
pale ! 

When we had rushed out-of-doors to 
see what had happened, or what was go- 
ing to happen, I soon found that we had 
been needlessly frightened. Some of the 
broken timbers on which my house had 
been partially resting had given way, and 
the front part of the building had slightly 
descended, jarring, as it did so, the other 
house, against which it rested. I endeav- 
ored to prove to Mrs. Carson that the 
result was encouraging rather than other- 
wise, for my house was now more firmly 
settled than it had been ; but she did not 
value the opinion of a man who did not 
know enough to put his house in a place 
where it would be likely to stay, and she 
could eat no more breakfast, and was even 
afraid to stay under her own roof until 
experienced mechanics had been sum- 
moned to look into the state of affairs. 

I hurried away to the town, and it was 
not long before several carpenters and 
masons were on the spot. After a thor- 
ough examination, they assured Mrs. Car- 
son that there was no danger, that my 
house would do no further damage to her 
premises ; but, to make things certain, they 
would bring some heavy beams and brace 
the front of my house against her cellar 
wall. When that should be done it would 
be impossible for it to move any farther. 

*' But I don't want it braced ! " cried 

Mrs. Carson. " I want it taken away ; V 
want it out of my back yard ! " 

The master carpenter was a man of 
imagination and expedients. "That is 
quite another thing, ma'am," said he. 
"We'll ^y. this gentleman's house so that 
you needn't be afraid of it ; and then when 
the time comes to move it, there's several 
ways of doing that. We might rig up a 
powerful windlass at the top of the hill, 
and perhaps get a steam-engine to turn it, 
and we could fasten cables to the house 
and haul her back to where she belongs." 

" And can you take your oaths," cried 
Mrs. Carson, "that those ropes won't 
break, and when that house gets half way 
up the hill, it won't come sliding down 
ten times faster than it did, and crash 
into me and mine and everything I own 
on earth? No, sir! I'll have no house 
hauled up a hill back of me ! " 

" Of course," said the carpenter, " it 
would be a great deal easier to move it on 
this ground, which is almost level — " 

" And cut down my trees to do it ! No, 
sir I " 

"Well, then," said he, "there is no 
way to do but to take it apart and haul it 

" Which would make an awful time at 
the back of my house while you were 
doing it ! " exclaimed Mrs. Carson. 

1 now put in a word. " There's only 
one thing to do that I can see," I ex- 
claimed. " I will sell it to a match fac- 
tory. It is almost all wood, and it can be 
cut up in sections about two inches thick, 
and then split into matches." 

Kitty smiled. " I should like to see 
them," she said, "taking away the little 
sticks in wheelbarrows ! " 

" There is no need of trifling on the 
subject," said Mrs. Carson. " I have 
had a great deal to bear, and I must bear 
it no longer than is necessary. I have 
just found out that in order to get water 
out of my own well, I must go to the back 
porch of a stranger. Such things cannot 
be endured. If my son George were here, 
he would tell me what I ought to do. I 
shall write to him, and see what he advises. 
I do not mind waiting a little bit, now 
that I know that you can fix Mr. Warren's 
house so that it won't move any farther." 

Thus the matter was left. My house 
was braced that afternoon, and towards 
evening I started to go to a hotel in the 
town to spend the night. 

" No, sir ! " said Mrs. Carson. " Do 
you suppose that I am going to stay here 
all night with a great empty house jammed 

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up against me, and everybody knowing 
that it is empty ? It will be the same as 
having thieves in my own house to have 
them in yours. You have come down 
here in your property, and you can stay 
in it and take care of it! " 

*' I don't object to that in the least,*' 
I said. *' My two women are here, and 
1 can tell them to attend to my meals. I 
haven't nny chimney, but 1 suppose they 
can make a fire some way or other." 

•* No, sirl " said Mrs. Carson. ** I am 
not going to have any strange servants on 
my place. I have just been able to pre- 
vail upon my own women to go into the 
house, and I don't want any more trouble ; 
I have had enough already I " 

** But, my dear madam," said I, "you 
don't want me to go to the town, and you 
won't allow me to have any cooking done 
here; what am I to do ? " 

"Well," she said, "you can eat with 
us. It may be two or three days before I 
can hear from my son George, and in the 
meantime you can live in your own house 
and I will take you to board. That is 
the best way I can see of managing the 
thing; but I am very sure I am not going 
to be left here alone in the dreadful pre- 
dicament in which you have put me." 

We had scarcely finished supper, when 
Jack Brandiger came to see me. He 
laughed a good deal about my sudden 
change of base, but thought, on the whole, 
my house had made a very successful 
move; it must be more pleasant in the 
valley than up on that windy hill. Jack 
was very much interested in everything, 
and when Mrs. Carson and her daughter 
appeared, as we were walking about view- 
ing the scene, I felt myself obliged to in- 
troduce him. 

" I like those ladies," said he to me 
afterwards. " 1 think you have chosen 
very agreeable neighbors." 

" How do you know you like them?" 
said I. " You had scarcely anything to 
say to Mrs. Carson." 

" No, to be sure," said he; " but I ex- 
pect I should like her. By the way, do 
you know how you used to talk to me 
about coming and living somewhere'near 
you ? How would you like me to come 
and take one of your rooms now ? I might 
cheer you up." 

" No." said I firmly. " That cannot be 
done. As things are now, I have as much 
as I can do to get along here by my- 

Mrs. Carson did not hear from her son 
for nearly a week, and then he wrote that 

he found it almost impossible to give her 
any advice. He thought it was a very 
queer state of affairs; he had never heard 
of anything like it ; but he would try and 
arrange business so that he could come 
home in a week or two and look into 

As I was thus compelled to force myself 
upon the close neighborhood of Mrs. Car- 
son and her daughter, 1 endeavored to 
make things as pleasant as possible. I 
brought some of my men down out of the 
vineyard and set them to repairing fences, * 
putting the garden in order, and doing all 
that I could to remedy the doleful condi- 
tion of things which I had unwillingly 
brought into the back yard of this quiet 
family. I rigged up a pump on my back 
porch by which the water of the well 
could be conveniently obtained, and in 
every way endeavored to repair damages. 

But Mrs. Carson never ceased to talk 
about the unparalleled disaster which had 
come upon her, and she must have had a 
great deal of correspondence with her son 
George, because she gave me frequent 
messages from him. He could not come 
on to look into the state of affairs, but 
he seemed to be giving it a great deal of 
thought and attention. 

Spring weather had come again, and it 
was very pleasant to help the Carson ladies 
get their flower garden in order — at least 
as much as was left of it, for my house 
was resting upon some of the most im- 
portant beds. As I was obliged to give 
up all present idea of doing anything in 
the way of getting my residence out of a 
place where it had no business to be, be- 
cause Mrs. Carson would not consent to 
any plan which had been suggested, 1 felt 
that I was offering some little compensa- 
tion in beautifying what seemed to be, at 
that time, my own grounds. 

My labors in regard to vines, bushes, 
and all that sort of thing were generally 
carried on under direction of Mrs. Carson 
or her daughter, and as the elderly lady 
was a very busy housewife, the horticult- 
ural work was generally left to Miss Kitty 
and me. 

I liked Miss Kitty; she was a cheerful, 
whole-souled person, and I sometimes 
thought that she was not so unwilling to 
have me for a neighbor as the rest of the 
family seemed to be; for if I were to judge 
the disposition of her brother George 
from what her mother told me about his 
letters, both he and Mrs. Carson must be 
making a great many plans to get me off 
the premises. 

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Nearly a month had now passed since 
my house and I made that remarkable 
morning call upon Mrs. Carson. I was 
becoming accustomed to my present mode 
of living, and, so far as I was concerned, 
it satisfied me very well; I certainly lived 
a great deal better than when I was de- 
pending upon my old negro cook. Miss 
Kitty seemed to be satisfied with things 
as they were, and so, in some respects, did 
her mother ; but th^ latter never ceased to 
give me extracts from some of her son 
George's letters, and this was always an- 
noying and worrying to me. Evidently 
he was not pleased with me as such a close 
neighbor to his mother; and it was aston- 
ishing how many expedients he proposed 
in order to rid her of my undesirable 

** My son George,** said Mrs. Carson 
one morning, ** has been writing to me 
about jackscrews; he says that the greatest 
improvements have been made in jack- 
screws. ' * 

** What do you do with them, mother ? ** 
asked Miss Kitty. 

** You lift houses with them,*' said she. 
" He says that in large cities they lift 
whole blocks of bouses with them and 
build stories underneath. He thinks that 
we can get rid of our trouble here if we 
use jackscrews.** 

*' But how does he propose to use 
them ?** I asked. 

*' Oh, he has a good many plans,** an- 
swered Mrs. Carson. ** He said that he 
should not wonder if jackscrews could be 
made large enough to lift your house en- 
tirely over mine and set it out in the road, 
where it could be carried away without in- 
terfering with anything, except, of course, 
vehicles which might be coming along. 
But he has another plan; that is, to lift 
my house up and carry it out into the field 
on the other side of the road, and then 
your house might be carried along right 
over the cellar until it got to the road. In 
that way, he says, the bushes and trees 
would not have tobe interfered with.** 

** I think Brother George is cracked! *' 
said Kitty. 

All this sort of thing worried me very 
much. My mind was eminently disposed 
towards peace and tranquillity, but who 
could be peaceful and tranquil with a pros- 
pective jackscrew under the very base of 
his comfort and happiness ? In fact, my 
house had never been such a happy home 
as it was at that time; the fact of its 
unwarranted position upon other people*s 
grounds had ceased to trouble me. 

But the coming son George, with his 
jackscrews, did trouble me very much, 
and that afternoon I deliberately went into 
Mrs. Carson's house to look for Kitty. 
I knew her mother was not at home, for I 
had seen her go out. When Kitty ap- 
peared I asked her to come out on her 
back porch. " Have you thought of any 
new plan of moving it ? " she said with a 
smile as we sat down. 

'* No," said I earnestly; " I have not, 
and. I don't want to think of any plan of 
moving it, I am tired of seeing it there, 
I am tired of thinking about moving it 
away, and I am tired of hearing people talk 
about moving it. I have not any right to 
be here, and I am never allowed to forget 
it. What I want to do is to go entirely 
away, and leave everything behind me — 
except one thing." 

" And what is that ? '* asked Kitty. 

" You," I answered. 

She turned a little pale and did not 

"You understand me, Kitty," I said. 
** There is nothing in the world that I care 
for but you. What have you to say to 

Then came back to her her little smile. 
" I think it would be very foolish for us 
to go away," she said. 

It was about a quarter of an hour after 
this when Kitty proposed that we should 
go out to the front of the house. It 
would look queer if any of the servants 
should come by and see us sitting to- 
gether like that. I had forgotten that 
there were other people in the world; but 
I went with her. 

We were standing on the front porch, 
close to each other, and I think we were 
holding each other's hand, when Mrs. 
Carson came back. As she approached 
she looked at us inquiringly, plainly wish- 
ing to know why we were standing side by 
side before her door as if we had some 
special object in so doing. 

'* Well ? " said she, as she came up the 
steps. Of course it was right that I 
should speak, and, in as few words as 
possible, I told her what Kitty and I had 
been saying to each other. I never saw 
Kitty's mother look so cheerful and so 
handsome as when she came forward and 
kissed her daughter and shook hands with 
me. She seemed so perfectly satisfied that 
it amazed me. After a little, Kitty left 
us, and then Mrs. Carson asked me to sit 
by her on a rustic bench. 

" Now," said she, " this will straighten 
out things in the very best way. When 

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you are married, you and Kitty can live 
in the back building — for, of course, your 
house will now be the same thing as a back 
building — and you can have the second 
floor. We won't have any separate tables, 
because it will be a great deal nicer for 
you and Kitty to live with me, and it will 
simply be your paying board for two per- 
sons instead of one; and you know you 
can manage your vineyard just as well 
from the bottom of the hill as from the 
top. The lower rooms of what used to be 
your house can be made very pleasant and 
comfortable for all of us. I have been 
thinking about the room on the right that 
you had planned for a parlor, and it will 
make a lovely sitting-room for us, and that 
is a thing we. have never had, and the room 
on the other side is just what will suit 
beautifully for a guest-chamber. The two 
houses together, with the roof of my back 
porch properly joined to the front of your 
house, will make a beautiful and spacious 
dwelling. And it was fortunate that you 
painted your house a light yellow ; I have 
often looked at the two together, and 
thought what a good thing it was that one 
was not one color and the other another. 
And as to the pump, it will be very easy 
now to put a pipe from what used to be 
youi^ back porch to our kitchen, so that 
we can get water without being obliged to 
carry it. Between us we can make all 

sorts of improvements, and some time I 
will tell you a good many that I have 
thought of. 

*' What used to be your house,'* she con- 
tinued, '*can be jackscrewed up a little 
bit and a good foundation put under it; 
I have inquired about that. Of course it 
would not have been proper to let you 
know that I was satisfied with the state of 
things, but I was satisfied, and there is no 
use of denying it. As soon as I got over, 
my first scare, after that house came down 
the hill, and had seen how everything 
might be arranged to suit all parties, I 
said to myself: ' What the Lord has joined 
together, let not man put asunder,' and so, 
according to my belief, the strongest kind 
of jackscrews could not put these two 
houses asunder, any more than they could 
put you and Kitty asunder, now that you 
have agreed to take each other for each 
other's own." 

Jack Brandiger came to call that even- 
ing, and when he had heard what had hap- 
pened he whistled a good deal. " You 
are a funny Und of a fellow," said he. 
"You go courting like a snail, with your 
house on your back ! " 

I think my friend was a little discom- 
fited. " Don't be discouraged, Jack," said 
I. * ' You will get a good wife some of these 
days; that is, if you don't try to slide up- 
hill to find her!" 

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By Rudyard Kipling, 

Author of ** The Jungle Book,'* " Barrack-room Ballads,*' etc. 



T was the forty-fathom slum- 
ber, that clears the soul 
and eye and heart, and 
sends you to breakfast 
ravening. They emptied 
a big tin dish of juicy 
fragments of fish — the 
cook had collected over 
night. They cleaned up the plates and 
pans of the elder mess, who were out fishing, 
sliced pork for the mid-day meal, swabbed 
down the foc'sle, filled the lamps, drew coal 
and water for the cook, and investigated 
the fore-hold, where the boat's stores were 
stacked. It was another perfect day — soft, 
mild, and clear; and Harvey breathed to the 
very bottom of his lungs. 

More schooners had crept up in the night, 
and the long blue seas were full of sails and 
dories. Far away on the horizon, the smoke 
of some liner, her hull invisible, smudged 
the blue, and to eastward a big ship's top- 
gallant sails, just lifting, made a square nick 
in it. Disko Troop was smoking by the 
roof of the cabin — with one eye on the craft 
around and the other on the little fly at the 

"When dad kerflummoxs that way," said 
Dan in a whisper, " he's doin' some high- 
line thinkin' fer all hands. 1*11 lay my wage 
an' share we'll make a berth soon. Dad he 
knows the cod, ao* the fleet they know dad 
knows. See 'em comin* up one by one, 
lookin' fer nothin' in particular, o' course, but 
scrowgin* on us all the time. There's the 
* Prince Leboo ; ' she's a Chat-ham boat. 
She's crep' up sence last night. An' see 
that big one with a patch in her foresail 
an' a new jib. She's the * Carrie Pitman ' 
from West Chat-ham. She won't keep her 
canvas long onless her luck's changed since 
last season. She don't do much 'cep' drift. 
There ain't an anchor made '11 hold her. 
. . . When the smoke puffs up in little 

rings like that, dad's studyin' the fish. Ff 
we speak to him now, he'll git mad. Las' 
time I did, he jest took an' hove a boot at 

Disko Troop stared forward, the pipe be- 
tween his teeth, with eyes that saw nothing. 
As his son said, he was studying the fish — 
pitting his knowledge and experience on 
the Banks against the roving cod in his own 
sea. He accepted the presence of the in- 
quisitive schooners on the horizon as a com- 
pliment to his powers. But now that it was 
paid, he wished to draw away and make his 
berth alone, till it was time to go up to the 
Virgin and fish in the streets of that roaring 
town upon the waters. So Disko Troop 
thought of recent weather, and gales, cur- 
rents, food supplies, and other domestic 
arrangements, from the point of view of a 
twenty-pound cod ; was, in fact, for an 
hour, a cod himself, and looked remarkably 
like one. Then he removed the pipe from 
his teeth. 

** Dad," said Dan, " we' done our chores. 
Can't we go over side a piece ? It's good 
catchin' weather." 

** Not in that cherry-colored rig ner them 
ha'af-baked brown shoes. Give him suthin' 
fit to wear." 

** Dad's pleased — that settles it," said Dan, 
delightfully, dragging Harvey into the cabin, 
while Troop pitched a key down the steps. 
" Dad keeps my spare rig where he kin 
overhaul it, 'cause ma sez I'm keerless." 
He rummaged through a locker, and in less 
than three minutes Harvey was adorned 
with fisherman's rubber boots that came 
half up to his thigh, a heavy blue jersey well 
darned on the elbows, a pair of nippers, and 
a sou'wester. 

" Naow ye look somethin' like," said 
Dan. " Hurry ! " 

"Keep nigh an* handy," said Troop, 
" an' don't go visitin' round the fleet. Kf 
anyone asks you what I'm cal'latin' to do, 
speak the truth, fer ye don't know." 

Copyright. i8i^6, by Rudyard Kiplinjj. 

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3 66 




A little red dory, labelled "Hattie S.," 
lay astern of the schooner. Dan hauled in 
the painter, dropped lightly on to the bot- 
tom boards, while Harvey tumbled after. 

"That's no way o' gettin* into a boat," 
said Dan. ** Ef there wuz any sea you'd 
go to the bottom, sure. You got to learn 
to meet her." 

Dan fitted the thole pins, took the for- 
ward thwart, and watched Harvey's work. 
The boy had rowed, in a lady-like fashion, 
on the Adirondack ponds ; but there is a 
difference between squeaking pins and well- 
balanced rullocks — light sculls and stubby, 
eight-foot sea oars. They stuck in the gen- 
tle swell, and Harvey grunted. 

" Short ! Row short," said Dan. " Ef 
you cramp your oar in any kind o' sea 
you're liable to turn her over. Ain't she 
a daisy? Mine, too." 

The little dory was specklessly clean. In 
her bows lay a tiny anchor, two jugs of 

water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, 
brown dory-roding. A tin dinner-horn 
rested in cleats just under Harvey's right 
hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short 
gaff, and a shorter wooden stick. A couple 
of lines, with very heavy leads and double 
cod hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels, 
were stuck in their place by the gunwale. 

"Where's the sail and mast?" said Har- 
vey, for his hands were beginning to blister. 

Dan chuckled. "Ye don't sail fishin'- 
dories much. Ye pull ; but ye needn't 
pull so hard. Don't you wish you owned 

" Well, I guess my father might give me 
one or two if I asked *em, " Harvey replied. 
He had been too busy to think much of his 
family till then. 

" That's so. I forgot your dad's a mil- 
lionnaire. You don't act millionary any, 
naow. But a dory an' craft an* gear — " 
Dan spoke as though she were a whaleboat 

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— " costs a heap. Think your dad 'ud give 
you one fer — fer a pet ? " 

" Shouldn't wonder. It would be 'most 
the only thing I haven't stuck him for." 

" Must be an expensive kinder kid to 
home. Don't slitheroo that way, Harve. 
Short's the trick, because no sea's ever dead 
still, an' the swells '11 — " 

Crack ! The loom of the oar kicked 
Harvey under the chin, and knocked him 

*' That was what I was goin' to say. I 
hed to learn too, but / wasn't more than 
eight years old when I got my teachin'." 

Harvey regained his seat with aching 
jaws and a frown. 

" No good gettin' mad at things, dad 
says. It's our own fault ef we can't handle 
*em, he says. Le's try here. Manuel '11 
give us the water." 

The " Portugee " was rocking fully a mile 
away, but when Dan up-ended an oar, he 
waved his left arm three times. 

" Thirty fathom," said Dan, stringing a 
salt clam on to the hook. " Over with the 
doughboys. Bait same's I do, Harve, an' 
don't snarl your reel." 

Dan's line was out long before Harvey 
had mastered the mystery of baiting and 
heaving out the leads. The dory drifted 
along easily. It was not worth while 
to anchor till they were sure of good 

" Here we come ! " Dan shouted, and a 
shower of spray rattled on Harvey's shoul- 
ders as a big cod flapped and kicked along- 
side. " Muckle, Harvey, muckle ! Under 
your hand ! Quick." 

Evidently " muckle " could not be the 
dinner-horn, so Harvey passed over the 
maul, and Dan scientifically stunned the 
fish before he pulled it inboard, and 
wrenched out the hook with the short 
wooden stick he called a "gob-stick." 
Then Harvey felt a tug, and pulled up 

" Why, these are strawberries," he shouted. 
" Look ! " 

The hook had fouled among a bunch of 
strawberries, red on one side and white on 
the other — perfect reproductions of land 
fruit, except that there were no leaves, and 
the stem was all pipy and slimy. 

" Don't tech -em. Slat 'em off. Don't — " 

The warning came too late. Harvey had 
picked them from the hook, and was ad- 
miring them. 

"Ouch!" he c-ied, for his fingers 
throbbed as though he had grasped many 

" Naow ye know what strawberry bottom 

means, Nothin* 'cep' fish should beteched 
with the naked fingers, dad says. Slat 'em 
off agin the gunnel, an' bait up, Harve. 
Lookin' won't help any. It's all in the 
wages." . 

Harvey smiled at the thought of his ten 
and a half dollars a month, and wondered 
what his mother would say if she could see 
him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory 
in mid-ocean. She suffered agonies when- 
ever he went out on Saranac Lake ; and, 
by the way, Harvey remembered distinctly 
that he used to laugh at her anxieties. 
Suddenly the line flashed through his hand, 
stinging even through the nippers, the wool- 
len circlets supposed to protect it. 

" He's a logy. Give him room accord in' 
to his strength," cried Dan. "I'll help ye." 

" No, you won't," Harvey snapped, as he 
hung on to the line. " It's my first fish. 
Is — is it a whale ?" 

" Halibut, mebbe." Dan peered down 
into the water alongside and flourished the 
big " muckle," ready for all chances. Some- 
thing white and oval flickered and fluttered 
through the green. " I'll lay my wage an' 
share he's over a hundred. Are you so 
everlastin' anxious to land him alone ? " 

Harvey's knuckles were raw and bleed- 
ing where they had been banged against the 
gunwale ; his face was purple-blue between 
excitement and exertion ; he dripped with 
sweat, and was half-blinded from staring at 
the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly 
moving line. The boys were tired long ere 
the halibut. He took charge of them and 
the dory for the next twenty minutes. But 
the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at 

" Beginner's luck," said Dan, wiping his 
forehead. ** He's all of a hundred." 

Harvey looked at the huge gray and 
mottled creature with unspeakable pride. 
He had seen halibut many times on marble 
slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to 
him to ask how they came there. Now he 
knew ; and every square inch of his body 
ached with fatigue. 

" Ef dad was along," said Dan, hauling 
up, " he'd read the signs plain 's print. The 
fish are runnin' smaller an' smaller, an' 
you've took 'baout as logy a halibut 's we're 
apt to find this trip. Yesterday's catch — 
did ye notice it ? — was all big fish an' no 
halibut. Dad, he'd read them signs right off. 
Dad says everythin' on the Banks is signs, 
an* can be read wrong er right. Dad's 
deeper'n the Whale Hole." 

Even as he spoke a pistol was fired on the 
" We're Here," and a poUto-basket run up 
in the fore-rigging. 

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1 68 


" What did I say, naow ? That's the call 
fer the whole crowd. Dad*s onter some- 
thing, er he'd never break fishin* this time 
o' day. Reel up, Harve, an' we'll pull back.'* 

They were to windward of the schooner, 
just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, 
when sounds of woe half a mile off led them 
to" Pennsylvania," who was careering around 
a fixed point, for all the world like a gigan- 
tic water-bug. The little man backed away 
and came down again with enormous energy, 
but at the end of each manoeuvre his dory 
swung round and snubbed herself on her 

"We'll hev to help him, er he'll root an' 
seed here," said Dan. 

" What's the matter ? " said Harvey. This 
was a new world, where he could not lay 
down the law to his elders, but had to ask 

"Anchor's fouled. Penn's always losing 
*em. Lost two this trip a'ready — on sandy 
bottom too — an* Dad says next one he loses, 
sure's fishin', he'll give him the kelleg. 
That 'ud break Penn's heart." 

" What's a * kelleg ' ?" said Harvey, who 
had an idea it might be some kind of marine 
torture, like keel-hauling. 

** Big stone instid of an anchor. You kin 
see a kelleg ridin' in the bows fur's you can 
see a dory, an* all the fleet knows what it 
means. I'hey'd guy him dretful. Penn 
couldn't stand that no more'n a dog with a 
dipper to his tail. He's so everlastin' sensi- 
tive. Hello, Penn ? Stuck again ? Don't 
try any more o' your patents. Come up on 
her, and keep your rodin' straight up an* 

*' It doesn't move," said the little man, 
panting. " It doesn't move at all, and, in- 
deed, I tried everj^hing." 

" What's all this hurrah 's-nest for'rard ? " 
said Dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare 
oars and dory-roding, all matted together 
by the hand of inexperience. 

" Oh, that," said Penn proudly, " is a 
Spanish windlass. Mr. Salters showed me 
how to make it ; but even that doesn't move 

Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a 
smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, 
and, behold, the anchor drew at once. 

" Haul up, Penn," he said, laughing, " er 
she'll git stuck again." 

They left him regarding the weed-hung 
flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic 
blue eyes, and thanking them profusely. 

" Oh, say, while 1 think of it, Harve," said 
Dan, when they were out of ear-shot, " Penn 
ain't quite all caulked. He ain't nowise 
dangerous, but his mind's give out. See } " 

" Is that so, or is it one of your father's 
judgments ? " Harvey asked as he bent to his 
oars. He felt he was learning to handle 
them more easily. 

" Dad ain't mistook this time. Penn's a 
sure 'nuff loony. No, he ain't thet exactly, 
so much ez a harmless ij jit. It was this way 
(you're rowin' quite so, Harve), an' I tell 
you 'cause it's right you orter know. He 
was a Moravian preacher once. Jacob Boiler 
wuz his name, dad told me, an' he lived 
with his wife an' four children somewheres 
out Pennsylvania way. Well, Penn he took 
his folks along to a Moravian meetin' — 
camp-meetin' most like — an' they stayed 
over jest one night in Johnstown. You've 
heerd talk o' Johnstown ? " 

Harvey considered. " Yes, I have. But 
I don't know why. It sticks in my head 
same as Ashtabula." 

** Both was big accidents — thet's why, 
Harve. Well, that one night Penn and his 
folks was to the hotel Johnstown was wiped 
out. Dam bust an' flooded her, an' the 
houses struck adrift an' bumped into each 
other an* sunk. I've seen the pictures, an' 
they're dretful. Penn, he saw his folks 
drowned all *n a heap 'fore he rightly knew 
what was comin'. His mind give out from 
that on. He mistrusted somethin' hed hap- 
pened up to Johnstown, but for the poor 
life of him he couldn't remember what, an' 
he jest drifted araound smilin' an' wonderin*. 
He didn't know what he was, ner yit what 
he hed bin, an' thet way he run agin Uncle 
Salters, who was visitin' 'n Allegheny City. 
Ha'af my mother's folks they're all scat- 
tered inside o' Pennsylvania, an' Uncle Salt- 
ers he visits araound winters. Uncle Salters 
he kinder adopted Penn, well knowin' what 
his trouble wuz ; an' he brought him East, 
an* he give him work on his farm." 

" Why, I heard him calling Penn a farmer 
last night when the boats bumped. Is your 
Uncle Salters a farmer ? " 

" Farmer ! " shouted Dan. " There ain't 
water enough 'tween here an* Hatt'rus to 
wash the furrer-mould off'n his boots. He's 
jest everlastin' farmer. Why, Harve, I've 
seen that man hitch up a bucket, long to- 
wards sundown, an' set twiddling the spigot 
to the scuttle-butt same's ef 'twuz a cow's 
bag. He's thet much farmer. Well, Penn 
an' he they ran the farm — up Exeter way, 
'twuz. Uncle Salters he sold it this spring 
to a jay from Boston as wanted to build a 
haouse fer summer, an' he got a heap for it. 
Well, them two loonies scratched along till 
one day Penn's church as he'd belonged to, 
the Moravians, found out where he wuz 
drifted an' layin*, an' wrote to Uncle Salters. 

Digitized by 




Never heerd what they said exactly ; but 
Uncle Salters was right mad. He's a 'pisco- 
palian mostly — but he jest let 'em hev it 
both sides o' the bow, 's if he was a Bap- 
tist ; an' sez he warn't goin' to give up 
Penn to any blame Moravian connection in 
Pennsylvania or anywheres else. Then he 
come to dad, towin' Penn — thet was two 
trips back — an' sez he an' Penn must fish a 
trip for their health. Guess he thought the 
Moravians wouldn't hunt the Banks fer 
Jacob Boiler. Dad was agreeable, fer Uncle 
Salters he'd been fishin' off an' on fer thirty 
years, and he took quarter-share in the 
' We're Here ' ; an' the trip done Penn so 
much good dad made a habit o' takin* him. 
Some day, dad sez, he'll remember his wife 

"a few seconds later a hissing wave-top . . . SMOTE 

an' kids atC Johnstown, an' then he'll die — 
dad sez. Don't ye talk abaout Johnstown 
ner such things to Penn, 'r Uncle Salters 
he'll heave ye overboard." 

" Poor Penn," murmured Harvey. " I 
shouldn't ever have thought Uncle Salters 
cared for him by the look of 'em together." 

" I like Penn, though ; we all do," said 
Dan. " We ought to ha' give him a tow, 
but I wanted to tell ye first." 

They were close to the schooner now, the 
other boats a little behind them. 

" You needn't heave in the dories till 
after dinner," said Troop from the deck. 
** We'll dress daown right off. Fix table, 
boys ! " 

** Deeper'n the Whale-Deep," said Dan, 
with a wink, as he set^the gear for dressing 
down. " Look at them boats that hev edged 
up sence mornin'. They're all waitin' on 
dad. See 'em, Harve ? " 

" They are all alike to me." And indeed 
the nodding schooners around seemed, to a 
landsman, run from the same mould. 

" They ain't, though. That yaller dirty 
packet with her bowsprit steeved that way, 
she's the * Hope of Prague.' Nick Brady's 
her skipper, the meanest man on the Banks. 
We'll tell him so when we strike the Main 
Ledge. 'Way off yander's the * Day's Eye.' 
The two Jeraulds own her. She's from 
Harwich ; fastish, too, an' hez good luck ; 
but dad, he'd find fish in a graveyard. 
Them other three, side along, they're the 
* Margie Smith,' * Rose,' an' * Edith S. Wa- 
len,' ail frum home. Guess we'll see the 
*Abbie M. Deering ' to-morrer, dad, won't 
we } They're all slippin' over from the 
shoal o' 'Queereau." 

"You won't see many boats to-morrer, 
Danny." When Troop called his son 
Danny, it was a sign that the old man was 
pleased. " Boys, we're too crowded," he 
went on, addressing the crew as they clam- 
bered inboard. " We'll leave 'em to bait 
big an' catch small." He looked at the 
catch in the pen, and it was curious to see 
how little and level the fish ran. Save for 
Harvey's halibut, there was nothing over 
fifteen pounds on deck. 

" I'm waitin' on the weather," said Troop. 

"Ye'Il have to make it yourself, Disko, 
for there's no sign / can see," said Long 
Jack, sweeping the clear horizon. 

And yet, half an hour later, as they were 
dressing down, the Bank fog dropped on 
them, " between fish and fish," as they say. 
It drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and 
smoking along the colorless water. The 
men stopped dressing down without a word. 
Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the 

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windlass brakes into their sockets, 
and began to heave up the anchor, 
the windlass jarring as the wet 
hempen cable strained on the bar- 
rel. Manuel and Tom Piatt gave 
a hand at the last. The anchor 
came up with a sob, and the rid- 
ing-sail bellied as Troop steadied 
her at the wheel. " Up jib and 
foresail," said he. 

" Slip 'em in the smother," 
shouted Long Jack, making fast 
the jib-sheet, while the others 
raised the clacking, rattling rings 
of the foresail ; and the foreboom 
creaked as the "We're Here" 
looked up into the wind and dived 
ofif inta blank, Whirling white. 

** There's wind behind this fog," 
said Troop. 

It was all wonderful beyond 
words to Harvey ; and the most 
wonderful part was that he heard 
no orders except an occasional 
grunt from Troop, ending with, 
'* That's good, my son I " 

" Never seen anchor weighed 
before ? " said Tom Piatt, as Har- 
vey gaped at the damp canvas 
of the foresail. 

** No. Where are we going ? " 

" Fish and make berth, as you'll *^^^^ 

find out 'fore you've bin a week 
aboard. It's all new to you, but we never 
know what may come to us. Now, take me 
—Tom Piatt— /'^ never ha' thought—" 

" It's better than fourteen dollars a month 
an' a bullet in your belly/* said Troop, from 
the wheel. " Ease your jumbo a grind." 

** Dollars an' cents better," returned the 
man-o'-war's man, doing something to a big 
jib with a wooden spar tied to it. " But we 
didn't think o' that when we manned the 
windlass brakes on the * Miss Jim Buck,' * 
outside Beaufort Harbor, with Fort Macon 
pourin' hot shot at our stern, an' a livin' 
gale atop of all. Where was you then, 
Disko ? " 

** Jest here, or hereabouts," Disko replied, 
**earnin' my bread on the deep waters, an' 
dodgin* Reb privateers. Sorry I can't ac- 
commodate you with red-hot shot, Tom 
Piatt, but I guess we'll come aout all right 
on wind 'fore we see Eastern Point." 

There was an incessant slapping and chat- 
ter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud 
and a little spout of spray that clattered 
down on the foc'sle. The rigging dripped 
clammy drops, and the men lounged along 
the lee of the house, all but Uncle Salters, 

•The "Gcrasbok," U. S. N. ? 


who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his 
stung hands. 

" Guess she'd carry stays'le," said Disko, 
rolling one eye at his brother. 

*' Guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit. 
What's the sense o' wastin' canvas ? " the 
farmer-sailor replied. 

The wheel twitched almost imperceptibly 
in Disko's hands. A few seconds later a 
hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across 
the boat, smote Uncle Salters between the 
shoulders, and drenched him from head to 
foot. He rose sputtering, and went forward 
only to catch another. 

** See dad chase him all around the deck," 
said Dan. ** Uncle Salters he thinks his 
quarter share's our canvas. Dad's put this 
duckin' act up on him two trips runnin'. 
Hi I That found him where he feeds." 
Uncle Salters had taken refuge by the fore- 
mast, but a wave slapped him over the 
knees. Disko's face was as blank as the cir- 
cle of the wheel. 

** Guess she'd lie easier under stays'le, 
Salters," said Disko, as though he had seen 

** Set your old kite, then," roared the vic- 
tim through a cloud of spray ; " only don't 

Digitized by 




lay it to me if anything happens. Penn, 
you go below right off an* git your coffee. 
You ought to hev more sense than to bum 
araound on deck this weather." 

** Now they'll swill coffee an' play check- 
ers till the cows come home," said Dan, as 
Uncle Salters hustled Penn into the fore- 
cabin. ** Look's to me like's if we'd all be 
doin' so fer a spell. There's nothin' in cre- 
ation deader-limpsey- idler *n a Banker when 
she ain't on fish." 

" I'm glad ye spoke, Danny," cried Long 
Jack, who had been casting round the boat 
in search of amusement. " I'd clear forgot 
we'd a passenger under that T-wharf hat. 
There's no idleness for thim that don't 
know their ropes. Pass him along, Tom 
Piatt, an' we'll lam him." 

" 'Tain't my trick this time," grinned Dan. 
" You've got to go it alone. Dad learned 
me with a rope's end." 

For an hour Long Jack walked his prey 
up and down, teaching, as he said, " things 
ivry man must know, blind, drunk, or asleep." 
There is not much gear to a seventy-ton 
schooner with a stump foremast, but Long 
Jack had a gift of expression. When he 
wished to draw Harvey's attention to the 
peak halyards, he dug his knuckles into the 
back of the boy's neck and kept him at gaze 
for half a minute. He emphasized the dif- 
ference between fore and aft generally by 
rubbing Harvey's nose along a few feet of 
the boom, and the lead of each rope was 
fixed in Harvey's mind by the end of the 
rope itself. 

The lesson would have been easier had the 
deck been at all free ; but there appeared 
to be a place for everything except a man. 
Forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with 
the chain and hemp cables, all very un- 
pleasant to trip over ; the foc'sle stove-pipe, 
and the gurry-butts by the foc'sle hatch to 
hold the fish-livers. Aft of these the fore- 
boom and booby of the main hatch took all 
the deck that was not needed for the pumps 
and dressing-pens. Then came the nests 
of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quar- 
ter-deck ; the house, with tubs and things 
lashed all around it ; and the sixty-foot 
main-boom in her crutch, splitting things 
length wise,' to duck and dodge under every 
time. It was like trying to dance in a ship- 
chandler's store ; the store itself dancing to 
no known step. 

Tom Piatt, of course, could not keep his 
oar out of the business, but ranged along- 
side with enormous and unnecessary de- 
scriptions of sails and spars on the old 
" Ohio." 

" Niver mind fwhat he says ; attend to 

me, Innocince. Tom Piatt, this bally-hoo's 
not the ' Ohio,* an' you're mixin* the bhoy 

" He'll be ruined for life, beginnin' on a 
fore-an'-after this way," Tom Piatt pleaded. 
" Give him a chance to know a few leadin' 
principles. Sailin's an art, Harvey, as Td 
show you if I had ye in the fore-top o' 

" I know ut. Ye'd talk him dead an* 
cowld. Silince, Tom Piatt ! Now, after 
all I've said, how'd you reef the foresail, 
Harve ? Take your time." 

"Haul that in," said Harvey, pointing to 

" Fwhat ? The North Atlantuc ? " 

"No, the boom. Then run that rope 
you showed me back there — " 

" That's no way," Tom Piatt burst in. 

"Quiet! He's larnin', an* has not the 
names good yet. Go on, Harve.'* 

" Oh, it's the reef-pennant. Fd hook the 
tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let 
down — " 

" Lower the sail, child ! Lower ! '* said 
Tom Piatt, in a professional agony. 

" Lower the throat and peak halyards," 
Harvey went on. Those names stuck in 
his head. 

" Lay your hand on thim," said Long 

Harvey obeyed. " Lower till that rope- 
loop — on the after-leach — kris — no, it's 
cringle — till the cringle was down on the 
boom. Then I'd tie her up the way you 
said, and then I'd hoist up the peak and 
throat halyards again." 

" You've forgot to pass the tack -earing, 
but wid time and help ye'll larn. There's 
good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, 
or else 'twould be overboard. D'ye follow 
me ? 'Tis dollars an' cents I'm puttin* into 
your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so 
that fwhin ye've filled out ye can ship from 
Boston to Cuba an' tell thim Xong Jack 
larned you. Now I'll chase ye around a 
piece, callin' the ropes, an' you'll lay your 
hand on thim as I call." 

He began, and Harvey, who was feeling 
rather tired, walked slowly to the rope 
named. A rope's end licked round his 
ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of 

" When you own a boat," said Tom 
Piatt, with severe eyes, "you can walk. 
Till then, take all orders at the run. Once 
more — to make sure ! ** 

Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, 
and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. 
Now, he was a singularly smart boy, the son 
of a very clever man and a very sensitive 

Digitized by 




woman, with a fine resolute temper that 
systematic spoiling had nearly turned to 
mulish obstinacy. He looked at the other 
men, and saw that even Dan did not smile. 
It was evidently all in the day's work, 
though it hurt abominably. So he swal- 
lowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and 
a grin. The same smartness that led him 
to take such advantage of his mother made 
him very sure that no one on the boat, ex- 
cept, maybe, Penn, would stand the least 
nonsense. One learns a great deal from 
a mere tone. Long Jack called over half 
a dozen more ropes, and Harvey danced 
over the deck like an eel at ebb tide, one 
eye on Tom Piatt. 

"Ver' good. Ver' good done,*' said 
Manuel. "After supper I show you a 
little schooner I make, with all her ropes. 
So we shall learn." 

" Fust-class fer — a passenger,'* said Dan. 
" Dad he's jest allowed you'll be wuth 
your salt maybe 'fore you're drownded. 
Thet's a heap fer dad. I'll learn you more 
our next watch together." 

" Taller ! " grunted Disko, peering 
through the fog as it smoked over the 
bows. There was nothing to be seen ten 
feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while 
alongside came the endless procession of 
solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping 
one to the other. 

" Now I'll learn you something I>ong 
Jack can't," shouted Tom Piatt, as from a 
locker by the stern he produced a battered 
deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared 
the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tal- 
low, and went forward. ** I'll learn you 
how to fly the blue pigeon. Shooo ! " 

Disko did something to the wheel that 
checked the schooner's way, while Manuel, 
with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was 
Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the 
boom. The lead sung a deep droning 
sons: as Tom Piatt whirled it round and 

*' Go ahead, man," said Long Jack, im- 
patiently. *' We're not drawin' twenty-five 
feet olt Fire Lsland in a fog. There's no 
trick to ut." 

*' Don't be jealous, Galway." The re- 
leased lead plopped into the sea far ahead 
as the schooner surged slowly forward. 

** Soundin' is a trick, though," said Dan, 
** when your dipsey lead's all the eye you're 
like to hev for a week. What d'you make 
it, dad ? " 

Disko's face relaxed. His skill and 
honor were involved in the march he had 
stolen on the rest of the fleet. " Sixty, 
mebbe — ef I'm any judge," he replied. 

with a glance at the tiny compass in the 
window of the house. 

'* Sixty," sung out Tom Piatt, hauling in 
great wet coils. 

The schooner gathered way again. 
" Heave ! " said Disko, after a quarter of 
an hour. 

"What d'you make it?" Dan whispered, 
and he looked at Harvey proudly. But 
Harvey was too proud of his own perform- 
ances to be impressed just then. 

" Fifty," said the father. " I mistrust 
we're right over the nick o' Green Bank on 
old Sixty-Fifty." 

" Fifty," roared Tom Piatt. They could 
scarcely see him through the fog. " She's 
bust within a yard — like the shells at Fort 

*' Bait up, Harve," said Dan, diving for a 
line on the reel. 

The schooner seemed to be straying 
promiscuously through the smother, her 
headsail banging wildly. The men waited 
and looked at the boys. 

" Heugh ! " Dan's lines twitched on the 
scored and scarred rail. " Now haow in 
thunder did dad know ? Help us here, 
Harve. It's a big un. Poke-heoked, too." 
They hauled together, and landed a gog- 
gle-eyed twenty-pound cod who had taken 
the bait right into his stomach. 

" Why, he's all covered with little crabs," 
cried Harvey, turning him over. 

" By the great hook-block, they're lousy 
already," said Long Jack. " Disko, ye kape 
your spare eyes under the keel." 

Splash went the anchor, and they all 
heaved over the lines, each man taking his 
own place at the bulwarks. 

" Are they good to eat ? " Harvey panted, 
as he lugged in another crab-covered cod. 

" Sure. When they're lousy it's a sign 
they've all been herdin' together by the 
thousand, and when they take the bait that 
way they're hungry. Never mind how the 
bait sets. They'll bite on the bare hook." 

**Say, this is great," Harvey cried, as the 
fish came in gasping and splashing— nearly 
all poke-hooked, as Dan had said. " Why 
can't we always fish from the boat instead 
of from the dories ? " 

*' Alius can, till we begin to dress down. 
Efter thet, the heads and offals 'ud scare 
the ,fish to Fundy. Boat fishin' ain't reck- 
oned progressive, though, unless ye know 
as much as dad knows. Guess we'll run 
aout a trawl to-night. Harder on the back, 
this, than from the dory, ain't it?" 

It w^as rather back-breaking work, for in 
a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne 
till the last minute, and you are, so to speak. 

Digitized by 




abreast of him ; but the few feet of a schoon- 
er's freeboard make so much extra dead 
hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks 
cramps the stomach. But it was wild and 
furious sport so long as it lasted ; and a 
big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased 

" Where's Penn and Uncle Salters ? " Har- 
vey asked, slapping the slime off his oil- 
skins, and reeling up the line in careful imi- 
tation of the others. 

*' Git's coffee and see." 

Under the yellow glare of the lamp on 
the pawl-post, the foc'sle table down and 
opened, utterly unconscious of fish or 
weather, sat the two men, a checker-board 
between them, Uncle Salters snarling at 
Penn's every move. 

" What's the matter naow ? " said the for- 
n:er, as Harvey, one hand in the leather loop 
at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to 
the cook. 

** Big fish and lousy— heaps and heaps," 
Harvey replied, quoting Long Jack. 
'* How's the game ?" 

Little Penn's jaw dropped. " 'Tweren't 
none o' his fault," snapped Uncle Salters. 
•* Penn's deef." 

" Checkers, weren't it ? " said Dan, as Har- 
vey staggered aft with the steaming coffee 
in a tin pail. ** That let's us out o* cleanin' 
up to-night. Dad's a jest man. They'll 
have to do it. " 

** An' two young fellers I know '11 bait up 
a tub or so o' trawl, while they're cleanin'," 
s.iid Disko, lashing the wheel to his taste. 

" Um ! Guess I'd ruther clean up, dad." 

** Don't doubt it. Ye wunt, though. 
Dress down I Dress down ! Penn'll pitch 
while you two bait up." 

** Why in thunder didn't them blame boys 
tell us you'd struck on ? " said Uncle Salters, 
shufflmg to his place at the table. ** This 
knife's gum-blunt, Dan." 

** Ef stickin' out cable don't wake ye, 
guess you'd better hire a boy o* your own," 
said Dan, muddling about in the dusk for 
the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to wind- 
ward of the house. ** O Harve, don't ye 
want to slip down an' git's bait ? " 

** Bait as we are, " said Disko. " I mistrust 
shag-fishin' will pay better, ez things go." 

That meant the boys would bait with 
selected offal of the cod as the fish were 
cleaned — an improvement on paddling bare- 
handed in the little bait-barrels. The tubs 
were full of neatly coiled line, carrying a big 
hook each few feet ; and the testing and 
baiting of every single hook, with the stow- 
age of the baited line, so that it shall run 
clear, is a scientific business. Dan managed 

it in the dark, without looking, while Har- 
vey caught his fingers on the barbs and 
bewailed his fate. But the hooks flew 
through Dan's fingers like tatting on an old 
maid's lap. " I helped bait up trawl ashore 
'fore I could well walk," he said. *' But 
it's a putterin' job all the same. O dad ! " 
This shouted towards the hatch, where 
Disko and Tom Piatt were salting. " How 
many skates you reckon we'll need ? " 

" 'Baout three. Hurry ! " 

" There's three hundred fathom to each 
tub," Dan explained ; ** mor'n enough to lay 
out to-night. Ouch ! 'Slipped up there, I 
did." He stuck his finger in his mouth. 
** I tell you, Harve, there ain't money in 
Gloucester 'ud hire me to ship on a reg'lar 
trawler. It may be progressive, but, barrin' 
that, it's the putterinest, slimjammest busi- 
ness top o' the earth." 

** I don't know what this is, if 'tisn't regu- 
lar trawling," said Harvey sulkily. " My 
fingers are all scratched to frazzles." 

" Pshaw ! This is jest one o' dad's blame 
experiments. He don't trawl 'less there's 
mighty good reason fer it. Dad knows. 
Thet'^ why he's baitin' ez he is. We'll hev 
her saggin' full when we take her up er we 
won't see a fin." 

Penn ■ and Uncle Salters cleaned up. as 
Disko had ordained, but the boys profited 
little. No sooner were the tubs furnished 
than Tom Piatt and Long Jack, who had 
been exploring the inside of a dory with a 
lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the 
tuDS and some small, painted trawl-buoys, 
and hove the boat overboard into what Har- 
vey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. 
** They'll be drowned. Why, the dory's 
loaded like a freight-car," he cried. 

** We'll be back," said Long Jack, " an' 
in case you not be lookin' for us, we '41 lay 
into you both if the trawl's snarled," 

The dory surged up on the crest of a 
wave, and just when it seemed impossible 
that she could avoid smashing against the 
schooners side, ^lid over the ridge, and was 
swallowed up in the damp dusk. 

" Take hold here, an' keep ringin' steady," 
said Dan. passing Harvey the lanyard of a 
bell that hung just behind the windlass. 

Harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives 
depended on him. But Disko in the cabin, 
scrawling in the logbook, did not look like 
a murderer, and when he went to supper he 
even smiled dryly at the anxious Harvey. 

" This ain't no weather," said Dan. ** Why, 
you an' me could set thet trawl ! They've 
only gone out jest far 'nough so's not to 
foul our cable. They don't need no bell, 

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N- ^ 







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** Clang ! cling ! clang ! ** Harvey kept 
it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for 
another half-hour. There was a bellow and 
a bump alongside. Manuel and Dan raced 
to the hooks of the dory-tackle ; Long Jack 
and Tom Piatt arrived on deck together, it 
seemed, one-half the North Atlantic at 
their backs, and the dory followed them in 
the air, landing with a clatter. 

" Nary snarl," said Tom Piatt as he 
dripped. " Danny, you*ll do yet." 

" The pleasure av your company to the 
banquit," said Long Jack, squelching the 
water from his boots as he capered like an 
elephant and stuck an oil-skinned arm into 
Harvey's face. '* We do be condescending 
to honor the second half wid our presence." 
And off they all four rolled to supper, where 
Harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish- 
chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep 
just as Manuel produced from a locker a 
lovely two- foot model of the '* Lucy 
Holmes," his first boat, and was going to 
show Harvey the ropes. He never even 
twiddled his fingers as Penn pushed him 
into his bunk. 

" it must be a sad thing — a very sad 
thing," said Penn, watching the boy's face, 

" for his mother and his father, who think 
he is dead. To lose a child — to lose a 
man-child ! " 

" Get out o* this, Penn," said Dan. ** Go 
aft and finish your game with Uncle Salters. 
Tell dad I'll stand Harve's watch ef he 
don't keer. He's played aout." 

" Ver' good boy," said Manuel, slipping 
out of his boots and disappearing into the 
black shadows of the lower bunk. •* Expec' 
he make good man, Danny. I no see he is 
any so mad as your parpa he says. Eh, 
wha — at ? ' 

Dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in 
a snore. 

It was thick weather outside, with a risin^r 
wind, and the elder men stretched their 
watches. The hours struck clear in the 
cabin ; the nosing bows slapped and scuffled 
with the seas ; the foc'sle stove-pipe hissed 
and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the 
boys slept on, while Disko, Long Jack, Tom 
Piatt, and Uncle Salters, each in turn, 
stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward 
to see that the anchor held, or to veer out 
a little more cable against chafing, with a 
glance at the dim anchor-light between each 

(To be continued.) 


By Henry Seton Merriman, 

Author of "The Sowers," " Flotsam," etc. 

THE Grand Hotel at Zell-am-Zee has, 
as many know, a garden bordered by 
the lake, where in the very necessary shade 
of lilac trees contemplative Austrians sit at 
small tables and consume the deep-colored 
beer, so called, of Munich. 

Among these, and within sound of their 
sober exclamations of wonderment at the 
beauty of the prospect, sat a young Eng- 
lishman, gracefully idle, and wearing with 
a becoming indifference a most trying 
headcovering at that time fashionable and 
still known at Cambridge as a "beast" hat. 
He was watching the approach of a coun- 
trywoman — young, wholesome, sunburnt, 
and energetic — who had just emerged from 
the door of the hotel. 

The Englishman was startlingly clean, 
with thin soft hair carefully brushed back 
from a bland forehead. His face was nar- 
row, with a prominent nose, suggesting 

the frequent use of soap and water. The 
countenance was expressive of one domi- 
nant quality, as nearly all countenances 
are if studied with understanding, and 
that nothing less than the desire to be in- 
stantly and persistently agreeable. Ladies 
given to the exercise of that species of 
hospitality which has for its aim the bring- 
ing together of young people, and for its 
end the hope that some of these may 
elect to remain together till death do them 
release, invariably secured Algernon Au- 
gustus Passavant. Algernon, it appeared, 
made things go. Some very young girls 
thought him stupid, and did not always 
understand his humor. They thought that 
he lacked poetry and was uninteresting. 
His hair, in fact, was too thin and too 
short. The more elderly sirens engaged 
in the pursuit of eligible junior attaches, 
kept an eye on Passavant as a sheep dog 

hv H. S Scott. 

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keeps an eye upon the shepherd. A few 
mistaken mammas set little traps for him, 
and he made himself invariably agreeable 
to the bait, without being hooked. 

Passavant had seen two ambassadors 
come to and go from Vienna, where he 
held office. And a third — a power in 
Europe — in bed in the best bedroom of the 
Grand Hotel at Zell-am-Zee — seemed at 
this time about to receive a call to a higher 
court from whence no despatches are de- 

On the nearer approach of his country- 
woman, Passavant stood up, raised his 
hat, and drew forward an iron chair. 

** Those flowers,*' he said, gravely point- 
ing to some fronds in the girl's hand, *' do 
not grow wild in this part of the world. 
But so long as you were not observed — " 

*' I gathered them right up there," an- 
swered Miss Britten, with all the careless 
confidence of her generation, pointing 
toward the mountains with her parasol. 

** As a nation we are inclined to think 
that if we only climb high enough we rise 
above the law. There is a villa just above 
the spot where you — stole those flowers." 

*' I never saw it." 

** No — but it was there." 

The girl laughed. She was no longer 
quite youthful, and had that air of capa- 
bility which is a characteristic of the day. 
She had obviously tried most things— ex- 
cept love, bien entendu. The universal 
young person has usually missed that, and 
fills up the blank with the current amuse- 
ments ill their due course, prosecuting 
them with a skill worthy of a higher object 
than the mere killing of time. 

** And as 1 came down," she continued, 
" a queer thing happened to me." 

Passavant looked gravely at her. The 
modern knight errant is a young woman, 
and she seeks adventures, for the most 
part, in continental hotels or on board the 
great steamers. Passavant thought that 
Miss Britten was too good for that sort of 
adventure, and his face being eminently 
guileless, did not express that thought. 

"I was mistaken for some one else," 
she said; " for Miss Burdon, the ambassa- 
dor's daughter." 

" Ah, I have twice been mistaken for 
some one else. Once it was for a book- 
stall man, when, with great presence of 
mind, I sold a penny newspaper. The 
second time I was mistaken for Mr. Lin- 
coln or Mr. Bennett, I never ascertained 
which, while I was standing bareheaded 
in the shop waiting for my hat to be 
ironed. I took it as a compliment. They 

make excellent hats. By whom were 
you mistaken for Miss Burdon?" 

** By a German gentleman who must 
have followed me up the hill. I met him 
when I turned back. He asked me the 
way out; then asked me whether he was 
mistaken in supposing that I was Miss 
Burdon. I thought I told him he was, 
but he seems to have understood me to say 
that I was Miss Burdon." 

Passavant's attention, which had been 
centred on a free-hand design executed in 
gravel with a walking-stick, was suddenly 

" Ah," he said, ** and this German gen- 
tleman is still under the impression that 
you are Miss Burdon ? " 

" Yes," answered Miss Britten. 

Passavant reflected, with his light-blue 
eyes fixed on a small girl half-concealed 
behind a huge mug of beer. 

"Ah! Your boxes were marked with 
a large *B.' I noticed it myself. Miss 
Burdon was expected yesterday, but did 
not come. She sent a telegram to say 
that she was detained at Vienna by the 
illness of her mother." 

"Then you know the ambassador?" 
suggested Miss Britten, who had an ex- 
alted idea of the diplomatic service. 

"I am his domestic chaplain," returned 
Algernon Augustus Passavant with solem- 
nity. "It is my privilege to comfort his 
last moments." 

Miss Britten laughed, and then looked 
grave again. 

" Is he so very ill ? " 

"Very," answered Passavant abstract- 

" But why is his health so important ?" 
inquired Miss Britten, who was intelligent, 
and therefore inquisitive. " No one 
speaks of anything else — all Europe seems 
to have its attention fixed on Zell-am-Zee." 

"Ah, that is a long story. But who 
has displayed this enormous interest in 
Lord Burdon's life — your German friend, 
I suppose ? " 

" Well, yes. He made inquiries." 

" Hm — yes. A man with a mild gray 
eye and a beautiful crop of hair — speaks 
English well ? " 

" Yes; that describes him." 

Passavant nodded his head with an air 
of abstraction which had frequently been 
accounted to him for foolishness. Miss 
Britten looked at him with shrewd, calcu- 
lating eyes, such as one would expect in 
a girl who is cleverer than her parents 
and kindly tolerant of their ignorance of 
the world. 

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** Do you know this Miss Burdon — but 
of course you do," she said. 

** She is my cousin." 

** Then Lord Burdon is your uncle." 

" Precisely, and my badge of respecta- 
bility. He has made me — well — what 
you see. Irreproachable. He sort of 
adopted me — years 
ago, when I was a 
youth — in the ma- 
hogany age, early 
Victorian, you 

He sighed, and 
dusted the toe of his 
narrow boot with his 

*' Is Lord Burdon 
such a very impor- 
tant person ? " asked 
Miss Britten. 

" Next to myself 
he is at once the 
hope and despair of 
Europe. He knows 
so much to the dis- 
credit of his neigh- 
b o r — t he surest 
means to success." 

Passavant rose. 

"We are ob- 
served," he said, 
" by the lady who 
travels with you. 
What is her name — 
Smale, is it not ? I 
hope she is not a re- 
lation. She has been 
watching us from her 
bedroom window for 
some time, and now, 
having pinned her 
veil round her hat — 
ought she not to 
wear bonnets, by the 
way, at her time of 
life ? — she is coming 

down to interrupt. She thinks I am not 
respectable — probably because I wear pat- 
ent leather shoes. Will you tell her I do 
it in order to save the expense of reward- 
ing the hotel boots? Tell her I have a 
real lord for an uncle, and teach in the 
Sunday-school attached to the British Em- 
bassy at Vienna. Tell her I am respect- 
able. Miss Britten. And — if you will 
allow me to suggest it — you might let the 
German gentleman continue to think that 
you are Miss Burdon. It may be amusing 
— and don't let him j^fet into conversation 
with Miss Smale. Here she comes. She 


is surprised and hurt to see you talking 
to a young man — she belongs to that 

" What is Miss Burdon's Christian name, 
and what are her tastes?" asked Miss 
Britten, with her energetic laugh. 

" Alice; musical," he answered, and 
wandered away be- 
neath the lilac trees. 
During the next 
two days Europe 
continued, as* Miss 
Britten had jesting- 
ly said, to watch 
Zell-am-Zee. Lord 
Burdon's illness 
was, in fact, most 
ill-timed. A confer- 
ence of the Powers 
had been summoned 
to meet at Vienna 
for the purpose of 
amicably dividing a 
territory as large as 
the British Isles. 

"It is to be a 
raffle," explained 
Passavant to Miss 
Britten in a moment 
of expansion, "a 
sort of lucky bag; 
but Lord Burdon 
tied up the pack- 
ages, so they want 
to keep his hand out 
of the bag if pos- 

The representa- 
tives of certain other 
countries were at 
this time endeavor- 
ing to exclude Lord 
Burdon from the 
conference by the 
simple means of re- 
wiTH TMi'. MHi.i>-f.i.AssHs. fuslug to delay their 
sitting any longer. 
They were so kind as to name another 
noble lord as a suitable substitute for the 
sick man — said noble lord being well 
known for the length of his descent and 
the shortness of his comprehension. In 
the mean time, the representatives ex- 
changed formal calls at Vienna and dis- 
played an astonishing amount of brotherly 
love. A German newspaper, however, 
with singularly little tact, suddenly blurted 
out its opinion, that Lord Burdon's illness 
was a ruse to gain time, and that Eng- 
land expected important despatches by a 
certain steamer which could not reach 

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Southampton before the end of the week. 
The writer of the article thought it likely 
that his lordship would be better on Mon- 

Passavant smiled as he read this jour- 
nal» and then wrote out a bulletin which 
he posted to Vienna. There are cross- 
roads in a man*s career where it is woefully 
easy to take a wrong turning, and Pas- 
savant had awaited his promotion through 
long, uneventful years. He had improved 
upon his slight acquaintance with Miss 
Britten, and sat next to her at table d'hote. 
Miss Smale, whose watchfulness over her 
neighbor's morals was frequently inter- 
rupted by a poignant anxiety respecting 
her own health, was fortunately stung by 
a wasp at this time, and retired to her 
own apartment. The wasp, it appears, 
stung her on the nose while she was eating 
its peach. 

** It was certain to happen, sooner or 
later," commented Passavant; **she eats 
peaches all day." 

There were, however, other ladies who 
were duly scandalized at this time by the 
behavior of Mr. Passavant and Miss Brit- 

" He is only amusing himself with her," 
said some. 

"She is making a fool of him," 
laughed the rest. And the German gen- 
tleman, who was always endeavoring to 
get speech with Miss Britten and was in- 
variably frustrated just in time by Passa- 
vant, scowled over his soup-spoon with 
such ardor that he spilt more potage-d-ia- 
Jardiniere than usual. 

"Tell them," said Passavant to Miss 
Britten one evening, "that Lord Burdon 
is better, and will probably take the air in 
a bath-chair to-morrow. His lordship 
would like you to walk by the side of the 

The next day Passavant's servant and 
Lord Burdon's confidential valet took 
Lord Burdon out for a solemn promenade 
in the sun, with the hood of the lined chair 
drawn over him to protect his ancient head 
from the heat of the day. Miss Britten 
walked by the side of the chair and 
stooped to arrange the patient's cushions 
from time to time with a most touching 
filial devotion. 

The newspapers of Europe, and more 
especially those of Germany, took due 
note of these facts. They reported that 
Lord Burdon, attended by his devoted 
daughter, the Honorable Alice Burdon, 
was now convalescent at Zell-am-Zee. 
His lordship had, however, been forbid- 

den to attend to his official duties, and did 
not even receive his usual correspond- 
ence. Under these circumstances, it was 
now certain that England would not be 
represented at the International Confer- 
ence by her ambassador to the court of 
Austria. And the joy of the journals was 
but ill-concealed. 

The affable gentleman who had accosted 
Miss Britten continued to enjoy the in- 
comparable views obtainable on the sur- 
rounding mountains, and in order to lose 
nothing of their beauty, carried a pair of 
field-glasses slung across his shoulders 
with all the dash of a city clerk at a sub- 
urban race-meeting. He was in the habit 
of sitting for hours on the vine-clad slopes 
above the village, looking down through 
his binoculars at the Grand Hotel and its 
shady garden. Passavant, from his win- 
dow in the bedroom adjoining Lord Bur- 
don's private salon, looked up frequently 
and saw the German gentleman concealed 
like that small man Zaccheus among the 

Thus the week drew toward its close, 
and the great and good journals contra- 
dicted each other daily, while a certain 
steamer pounded up Channel, and a brown- 
faced little man sat in one of its deck 
cabins writing out vast reports on Colonial 
Office stationery, and cursing between 
times the slowness of the engines. Then 
it was decided by the Powers that the con- 
ference could no longer be delayed, but 
must take place on the following Monday, 
Lord Burdon or no Lord Burdon. And 
"Ignotus," and "Paterfamilias," and 
"True Briton" wrote to the "Times," 
naming substitutes who were either impos- 
sible, absent, or dead. And Algernon 
Augustus Passavant sat gravely and wrote 
bulletins for the newspapers. 

" All lies," commented Miss Britten one 
day. They had grown singularly familiar, 
as people do who possess in common 
some knowledge desired of others. 

** feux de mots, we call them," replied 
Passavant, with his boyish smile. 

It was on the Saturday night that the 
small comedy for the moment threatened 
to turn to drama. It was, in fact, after 
ten o'clock that Miss Britten sought Pas- 
savant where he sat under the lilac trees 
smoking. For a moment he looked sur- 
prised, then noted that her face was white. 

" What is it ? " he asked curtly. 

" There is some one unscrewing the lock 
on the door of communication between 
my room and the next," answered she un- 
steadily. However modern, however 

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of m( 
they ^ 

femin ^ __ _ , 

burglar, for instance, or a mouse, or the 

** But there is a bolt," said Passavant, 
with apparent heartlessness. 

" It has been drawn back." 

** And you did not dare to push it for- 
ward again." 

*' No," confessed Miss Britten. 

" I am glad of that. I feared that you 
were afraid of nothing. Have you the 
key of your salon ? " 

She looked at him. The moonlight 
filtering through the trees showed his face 
to be as bland and pleasant as usual. She 
handed him the key. 

" If I may suggest that you go to Miss 
Smale*s room for a moment," he said, as 
they walked toward the house together, 
" just to see how the sting on her nose is 
progressing. Give me ten minutes." 

"What are you going to do?" she 

" The room next to yours is Lord Bur- 
don's salon. Some one has got locked in 
there by mistake, Miss Britten. A man of 

resource — he is unscrewing the lock in 
order to effect his escape through the 
neighboring salon, which he can see 
through the keyhole to be deserted. You 
probably never go in there at night." 

" Never — I forgot something this eve- 
ning and went to get it. What are you 
going to do ? " 

She repeated the question rather anx- 
iously, and Passavant, noting the tone of 
her voice, paused for a moment, looking up 
to the moon with a mildly speculative eye. 

" Mine are the ways of peace," he said. 

" But it is useless to run risks," said 
Miss Britten angrily. " Send the hotel 

" No — this is a delicate matter." 

And Passavant laughed softly. 

"Theft," muttered Miss Britten with a 
deep scorn. 

"They call it journalism," explained 
Passavant. He ran swiftly and silently 
upstairs, and Miss Britten followed him. 

She saw Passavant take the key of Lord 

Digitized by 




Burdon's private salon from his pocket 
and open the door of that mystic apart- 
ment. She heard the click of the electric- 
light button, and was on the threshold 
of the room before the light leaped into 
life. She saw a dark form vanish into the 
room beyond, — her own private salon, 
where Passavant immediately followed into 
the darkness, unarmed. She had time to 
think that he was brave, at all events, as 
she closed the door behind her and stood 
with her back against it. There came 
from the room the sound of hurrying feet 
and overthrown furniture. In a moment 
the German gentleman who had been so 
affable on every occasion came stum- 
blingly out into the brilliantly lighted 
room. His face fell when he saw the 
closed door with Lilian Britten standing 
before it. He turned on his heel — another 
closed door with Passavant in front of it. 
For a moment there was a distressed, rat- 
like look behind the gold eye-glasses. 

'* Ah," said the journalist. 

'* Yes," answered Passavant, ** caught." 

The man looked from one to the other 
and bit his lip. The cruel electric light 
shone down on his twitching gray face. 

"But I will let you go," said Passa- 
vant, almost kindly, " because it suits my 
purpose. You have suited my purpose 
most excellently all along." 

" Ah, yes! " said the journalist, with a 
sickly smile. "You think yourself very 
clever — you and Miss Burdon." 

" There is no Miss Burdon in this hotel. 
There never has been," said Passavant. 

The German shrugged his shoulders and 
looked at Miss Britten, who had flushed 
suddenly. He was about to say something, 
and had a spiteful air. 

" Be careful! " said Passavant, sharply, 
and the other changed his mind. 

" However," he said carelessly, " Lord 
Burdon is ill in that room, so your pur- 
pose is frustrated." 

" Pardon me, Lord Burdon is now trav- 
elling from Southampton to Vienna, where 
he will arrive on Monday morning, in time 
to attend the International Conference." 

" But I saw him taking the air in his 

" Myself," explained Passavant suavely. 
" I am not strong," he paused and gave 
the conventional chest cough, "and Miss 
Britten was kind enough to speak to me 
in my — perambulator. You cannot have 
seen very plainly through your field- 
glasses from the hillside." 

" And the Conference was delayed — " 

" By me," explained Passavant blandly. 

" I only issued bulletins of his lord- 
ship's health on receipt of my daily tele- 
gram from him in England. You sup- 
plied the rest — the local color, I think you 
call it. Burdon was really very unwell — 
but not too ill to travel — you understand." 

"You are very clever," muttered the 
journalist sarcastically. 

Passavant bowed. 

" Considering that these rifled drawers 
and dishevelled bureaus do not look well, 
I would suggest that you take from your 
room such light luggage as you may re- 
quire, and — er — well, are called suddenly 
away. I will put this room tidy before 
the hotel servants see it." 

He went toward the door, from which 
Miss Britten had now stood aside, and 
opened it. The German passed out, and 
Passavant followed him. 

" By the way," he said at the head of 
the stairs, with his sudden smile. " Shall 
we agree to forget this little affair ? After 
all, it was with both of us merely a matter 
of business." He held out his hand. 
The German looked at it, and then took 
the thin fingers in his great grasp, swal- 
lowing some obstruction in his throat the 
while. They both turned at the rustle of 
a dress and saw Miss Britten pass upstairs 
to her room. 

It being Sunday, the beer-garden was 
fuller than usual the next day, and Miss 
Smale read at her open window a book 
which could only have been devotional, so 
stiff was her attitude. She was obviously 
conscious of putting to shame the whole 
beer-drinking Austrian nation. Miss 
Britten, with the intelligent and inquiring 
enterprise of her generation, attended a 
Roman Catholic service in the little church 
near the lake. It was glaringly hot, and 
there are few warmer spots in Europe than 
Zell-am-Zee. Miss Britten retired to her 
own room after luncheon, and Algernon 
Augustus Passavant smoked gloomy cigar- 
ettes in the verandah. 

After table d'hdte, which Miss Smale 
attended under visible compulsion and 
with a protestant appetite, the visitors 
sought the garden. Passavant took a 
walking-stick, called his dog, and set off 
rather ostentatiously for a walk. He 
turned back, however, before he had been 
gone ten minutes, and rather neatly 
caught Miss Britten in her favorite chair 
under the lilac tree nearest to the lake. 
Night was just falling, and a full moon 
sailing amid fleecy clouds cast a silver 
shaft across the lake to the very wall of 
the hotel garden. Passavant brought a 

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chair, picked up in passing, and sat quietly 
down beside Miss Britten, which set more 
than one head to wag. Miss Britten had 
a book in her hand, but it was now too 
dark to read. She, however, after a side 
glance at her companion — opened the 
volume and fixed her eyes upon the 

** Miss Britten.** 

** Yes,** answered that young lady, with- 
out any encouragement in her voice. If 
Passavant had made a jest then — even a 
mild one — she would have hated him. But 
Passavant was not inclined to be humor- 
ous at that moment. 

** I go to Vienna to-morrow morning,** 
he said. 


** At five-thirty.** 


*' Yes, Miss Britten,** said Passavant. 

** And I am glad to have this opportunity 
of thanking you for your assistance. We 
— we tricked Europe, and that is not so 
easily done as one would imagine. This 
success may make a difference to my un- 
important career." 

She was sitting a little in front of him, 
and was conscious of his steady gaze. 
He spoke lightly, but there was a ring of 
anxiety in his voice. 

** I was honest with^^w at any rate,*' he 
added bluntly. " And I have done some- 
thing that I have never done before." 


" Yes — I have fallen in love. Miss Brit- 
ten," and Passavant caught his breath. 
Miss Britten liked him for it. She looked, 
over her book, across the moonlit water 
shimmering at their feet. Not only did 
she detect the little catch of the breath, 
but also a note in Passavant's quiet voice 
which suddenly opened up a new world to 
her — a world which had hitherto been shut 
off, and around which she had bicycled, 
and ridden, and danced, and otherwise 
travelled vainly all her life. 

"I am thirty-one," he went on, "and 
too old to change my mind now. But I 
am deadly poor. Miss Britten." 

She turned, looked at him slowly, and 
gave a queer little laugh which suddenly 
threw open the gates of Eden for Alger- 
non Augustus Passavant. 


By William Canton. 

I WOKE at dead of night ; 

The room was still as death; 
All in the dark I saw a sight 

Which made me catch my breath. 

Heavens ! how those steadfast eyes 

Their eerie vigil kept ! 
Was this some angel in disguise 

Who searched us while we slept ; 

Although she slumbered near, 
The silence hung so deep 

I leaned above her crib to hear 
If it were death or sleep. 

Who winnow'd every sin, 

Who tracked each slip and fall, 
One of God's spies — not Babykin, 

Not Babykin at all ? 

As low — all quick — 1 leant, 

Two large eyes thrust me back; 

Dark eyes — too wise — which gazed intent; 
Blue eyes transformed to black. 

Day came with golden air ; 

She caught the beams and smiled ; 
No masked inquisitor was there, 

Only a babbling child ! 

From " W. V. Her Book," by William Canton ; Sione & Kimball, publishers, New York. By special permission. 

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Google ^« 

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From a painting now in the National Gallery, London. The painting is commonly credited to Sandro Bott^ 
celli (borp at Florence, 1447 ; died there, 1515) ; but some of the authorities hold that it is more probably the work 
of one of Botticelli's students, done, possibly, from a cartoon by the master. Whether Botticelli's or not, there » 
agreement that it is entirely worthy of him ; and it is one of the celebrated Madonnas. Reproduced by permissioQ 
of Braun, Clement & Co. 

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The Tower of David is on the left as one leaves Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate for Bethlehem. The road to Bethlehem is 

shown winding away on the right. 


By S. S. McClure.- 

Illustrated from photographs taken under the direction of the writer expressly for McClure's Magazine. 

BETHLEHEM lies six miles almost di- 
rectly south of Jerusalem. One of 
the few macadamized roads in Palestine 
runs from Jerusalem through Bethlehem 
to Hebron — about twenty-five miles in 
all. It is one of the oldest and most his- 
toric routes in the world. Abraham made 
journeys, back and forth, over it between 
lands northeast of Palestine and Hebron, 
where he lived many years. The Moham- 
medans call Hebron, El Khalil, which means 
**the friend," because Abraham was called 
"The friend of God." Between Jerusalem 
and Bethlehem the road lies mainly on a 
cultivated plateau in the midst of the hills 
of Judea. 

The easiest way to go from Jerusalem to 
Bethlehem is by carriage, but as I was plan- 

ning a long tour in Palestine, from Jeru- 
salem to Damascus and thence by Baalbeck 
to Beyrout — a fifteen days' journey that 
must be made on horseback — I determined 
to overcome as far as possible the disadvan- 
tage of twenty years of a horseless life by 
making my short journeys around Jerusalem 
on horseback; I was accompanied by Jussuf, 
a dragoman, who, after the manner of his 
kind, rode a gayly caparisoned animal. 

Less than a mile from Bethlehem, and 
immediately on the roadside, one comes 
upon a striking and pathetic memorial of 
the early times — the tomb of Rachel. Jacob 
had slowly made his way southward, stop- 
ping a long time at Shechem, a place about 
two days* journey north of Jerusalem, sacri- 
ficing at Bethel, a place about half a day's 

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This convent is about four miles from Jerusalem, on the Bethlehem road, and about two miles from 



The tower shown in the distance on the ri^ht is on the Mount of Olives, and Jerusalem lies about a mile 

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Drawn from a photograph taken for McClukk's Magazine. 



Trom a pholr)^'raph taken for M(Chkh's Magazine 

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1 86 


less, she was destined to be the mother of 
kings, and to be a part of the most impor- 
tant genealogy in human history. David 
was her great-grandson. 

On these hills and in these valleys David 
watched the flocks of his father Jesse. His 
love for this part of Judea, arising both from 
the fascination of its scenery and from his 
constant outdoor life, is evidenced by many 
words and acts of his later life. In what- 
ever direction one looks, one sees scenes 
made famous by David's deeds. Fifteen or 
twenty miles to the west, across the hills, 
in the Valley of Elah, the armies of the 
Israelites and Philistines were drawn up in 
battle array. David was sent by his father 
with provisions for his brothers. When 
he arrived the people were excited by the 
daily challenge of a great Philistine warrior 
named Goliath, who came from a town about 
six miles west of the battlefield. David, 
though a mere stripling and not a man at 
arms, said : ** Who is this uncircumcised 
Philistine that he should defy the armies 
of the living God ? " He accepted the chal- 
lenge, and slew the Philistine. 

Twelve or fifteen miles to the southwest 
of Bethlehem tradition locates the Cave of 
Adullam. David, with a few brave fol- 
lowers, was entrenched in this cave when 


journey north of Jerusalem, and had nearly 
reached Bethlehem, when his beloved wife 
Rachel was overtaken with child-labor and 
died in giving birth to Benjamin. The 
account in the Bible is brief, but it is not 
difficult, standing on the spot, to realize the 
tragedy of four thousand years ago. 

Bethlehem is the centre of one of the 
most pleasing and fertile regions in Pales- 
tine, and is probably one of the oldest 
towns in the East. It is the scene of the 
story of Ruth. Just across the hills and the 
Dead Sea, to the southeast, is Moab, and 
there Naomi and her husband and two sons 
went from Bethlehem during a famine. Her 
husband died, as well as her two sons, who 
had married daughters of the land of Moab. 
She determined to return to her own coun- 
try, and one of her daughters-in-law, Ruth, 
insisted on accompanying her. If the story 
of Ruth is unfamiliar to any of my readers, 
now is a good time to read one of the master- 
pieces of the world's literature. Ruth, soon 
after she came to Bethlehem, married a kins- 
man, Boaz, evidently the foremost man of 
the place ; and, although Ruth was a Moabi- 


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MNRKKr ri \rK, nKTHI fhem. 

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1 88 



Drawn from a photograph taken for McCll'ke's Magazine. 

Bethlehem was in the hands of the Philis- 
tines. He expressed an eager desire for a 
drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem, 
and three of his bravest warriors made their 
way through the forces of the enemy and 
secured the coveted water. 

VolNO OIKLS t.ih bt IHI-hMEM. 

Much of the story of David's life is 
interwoven with this locality. But it is not 
interest in David especially that attracts the 
eyes of the world to Bethlehem. Centuries 
after David's time — centuries during which 
Greece waxed and waned, and a new 
nation, founded long after David's death, 
became mistress of the world, with the 
land of Israel for one of its provinces — 
the emperor of Rome had issued a decree 
that all peoples under his rule should be 
taxed ; and because David had been born 
in Bethlehem, and because Joseph and 
Mary were of his lineage, nearly two thou- 
sand years after the fatal journey of Rachel 
and a thousand years after David's time, 
Mary, the mother of Jesus, passed down 
this same highway, having journeyed from 
Nazareth, through Shechem, past Shiloh, 
through Bethel and past Jerusalem — a four 
days' journey— since " all went to be taxed, 
everyone into his own city." 

The recorded circumstances of the birth 
of Jesus are very meagre ; yet one cannot 
i)ass over the very route traversed four thou- 
sand years ago by Rachel and nearly two 
thousand years ago by Mary, both travelling 
in much the same way, and both enduring 
much the same suffering, without filling out 
the picture. Speaking of the manner of the 
birth of our Lord, Dr. Stalker savs : 

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Drawn from a photograph taken for McCluke's Magazine. 


Drawn from a photograph taken for McCi t re's Ma«.azinb. 

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Google ^ 




" No friendly house opened its door to 
receive them, and they were fain to clear 
for their lodging a corner of the inn-yard, 
else occupied by the beasts of the numer- 
ous travellers. There, that very night, she 
brought forth her first-born Son ; and be- 
cause there was neither womanly hand to 
assist her, nor couch to receive Him, she 
wrapped Him in swaddling-clothes and laid 
Him in a manger. 

" Such was the manner of the birth of 
Jesus. I never felt the full pathos of the 
scene, till, standing one day in a room of 
an old inn in the market-town of Eisleben, 
in Central Germany, I was told that on that 
very spot, four centuries ago, amidst the 


noise of a market-day and the bustle of a 
public-house, the wife of the poor miner, 
Hans Luther, who happened to be there 
on business, being surprised like Mary 
with sudden distress, brought forth in sor- 
row and poverty the child who was to be- 
come Martin Luther, the hero of the 
Reformation and the maker of modern 

I went to Bethlehem several times, return- 
ing usually towards dusk. I constantly met 
the " Bethlehem men," as they are called — 
mechanics, masons, carpenters, laborers — 
returning en foot from their long and hard 
day's work in Jerusalem. The hours of 
labor in the East are from sunrise to sun- 
set ; and these men would leave 
Bethlehem early in the morning, 
and, after walking the six miles 
to their daily task, work all day, 
and walk back at dusk to their 
late and scanty supper. The 
younger men looked worn out ; 
the older men seemed to have 
lost all strength, and their eyes 
frequently looked dull and almost 

I was invited to visit a family 
in Bethlehem. Their home was 
on the second floor of a building. 
It consisted of a single room, 
about fifteen feet square, with a 
concrete floor, and not a single 
article of furniture save a tiny 
charcoal stove. It was clean ; 
there were plenty of windows ; 

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and the window-sills were low and broad and 
were used instead of chairs. There were 
little cupboards built in the walls, which 
held the food and the few dishes. At one 
side of the room was a larger recess, per- 
haps two feet deep, three feet high, and 
six feet long. Here were piled blankets, 
rugs, and quilts, neatly folded. At night 
the rugs were spread on the floor and the 
family slept on them, using the blankets 
and quilts for covering. On great occa- 
sions a little circular table, about three 
feet across and one foot high, was used as 
a dining-table. 

In all the vineyards and fields around 
Bethlehem are towers — circular structures 
with an elevated floor inside —which are 

occupied by the owner or his servants, to 
guard the fruit or crops at night, remind- 
ing one of the parable of the " householder 
which planted a vineyard, and hedged it 
round about, and digged a wine-press in it, 
and built a tower." 

I have not mentioned the Church of the 
Nativity, nor given any pictures of the place 
where it is claimed that Jesus was born. 
No one can tell the place ; but the hills 
and mountains and valleys and fields ; the 
sun, the sky, the air ; the distant view of 
the mountains of Moab across the Dead Sea 
— these have remained ; and it is enough 
to feel that Rachel and David and Mary 
and Jesus and John saw them, just as we 
see them now. 


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It has been well said that any book that could be 
read with interest by young readers would be found 
equally interesting to older readers. The editors of 
McC lure's Magazine believe that they have estab- 
lished the converse of this proposition ; and they 
wish to call the attention of parents to the value of 
this magazine as interesting and instructive reading 
for their children. Mr. Kipling's serial story will 
be found of especial interest to the boys and girls of 
America. It is written, in a certain sense, expressly 
for them, just as the Jungle stories were written for 
them. It is Mr. Kipling's first long story for younger 
readers. At the same time we venture to say that 
the story will be none the less interesting to our 
grown-up readers. 

Again, Mr. Garland's articles on the early life of 
General Grant might very appropriately have ap- 
peared in a magazine devoted to young people. 
Practical and yet picturesque articles on such 
subjects as flying-machines, balloons, submarine 
boats, and fast railroading, which are appearing 
in McClurk's from time to time, and articles like 
the one on Dr. Nansen in the present number, are, 
we have reason to believe, read as eagerly by the 
young as by the old. In fact, if an article on 
exploration, adventure, or scientific discover)' is 
sufficiently clear to be enjoyed by the average adult 
reader, it will be found attractive to the bright boy 
or girl. The extraordinary series of portraits of 
Franklin, Hamilton, Washington, Webster, and the 
other great Americans, which is to begin in the 
January number, will be found not only interesting 
to young people, but instructive to a degree. In no 
better way can the personality and services of the 
great patriots of our country be brought to the minds 
of American youth. 

It is, indeed, our constant aim, inasmuch as we 
have a magazine that almost any one can afford to 
buy, to so conduct McClure's as to render it of 
great service to our younger readers. We want it 
to be, to every family, an uplifting force. 


Miss Tarbell's next paper will be entitled " The 
Election of Lincoln to the Presidency." It will be 
published in the February or March number. In 
her last two papers, ** The Lincoln- Douglas Debate " 
and " The Nomination of Lincoln," Miss Tarbell 
shows with what force and brilliancy she may be 
expected to deal with the story of Lincoln as the 
great War President. In preparing the new series 
of articles Miss Tarbell will not only make a careful 
study of material in America, including recollections 

of livi 
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McClure's Magazine. 

Vol. VIII. JANUARY, 1897. No. 3. 

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After a daguerreotype taken, probably, when Grant was on his way to Mexico. The original portrait 
we have been unable to secure or trace, even with the aid of members of the Grant family. But Mr. U. S. 
Grant, Jr., has kindly loaned us a photograph copy of it ; and this the artist Mr. T. V. Chominski has redrawn 
for the present reproduction, giving a ver>' faithful and vivid interpretation. 

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*i.4 ATM 


From an instantaneous photograph by Pach Brothers, New York. 



By Hamlin Garland, 

Author of " Main-Travelled Roads," ** Prairie Folks," etc. 

[this series of papers on the LIFK of grant began in the NOVEMBER NUMBER.] 



'O go to West Point was 
a great distinction in 
1839, especially to the son 
of a Western tanner. It 
meant, supposedly, associa- 
ti6n with brilliant young 
men from all over the 
United States, assembled 
in a historic and most beau- 
tiful spot. It meant a free 
education in a good school, 
and also an honorable posi- 
tion under the government 
after graduation; and Jesse 
Grant had in him the mili- 
tary heart of Captain 
Noah Grant, His strong, 
alert, aggressive nature 
assorted well with mili- 
tary affairs. Whether, in 

Copyright. 1S06, by the S. S. M 

seeking an appointment to West Point for 
his son, he intended that Ulysses should 
become a soldier, however, is in doubt. 

The outlook for an appointment was not 
at the moment promising. A year or two 
before, Jesse Grant had fallen into violent 
discussion of the banking question with his 
friend and neighbor, the Hon. Thomas L. 
Hamer, Congressman from that district. 
They had succeeded in saying bitter things 
and had parted in anger; and they were 
no longer in correspondence, and did not 
shake hands when they met in the street, 
though secretlv each felt for the other the 
same hip' i:ard, and Mr. Hamer loved 
Ulysses he were a son, and held 

Hannah (r,ant in high esteem as a most 
noble and capable woman. 

During this estrangement Mr. Hamer 
appointed to the cadetship George Bart- 
lett Bailey, a son of Dr. Bailey, who lived 
just across the street, and whose family 

cClure Co. All rights reserved. 

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Thomas Morris of Ohio, asking if he had 
a vacancy in his appointment. Senator 
Morris replied : 

'* I have not. There being no application for the 
cadetship, I waived my right to appoint in favor of a 
member of Congress from I'ennsylvania. But there 
is a vacancy in your own district, and doubtless Mr. 
Hamer. your representative, will till it with your 
son." * 

This was news to Jesse Grant, and he 
immediately wrote to Mr. Hamer a polite 
and dignified letter. f 


was very intimate with the Grant house- 
hold. In February, 1839, young Bailey re- 
signed, but his resignation did not become 
at once known in Georgetown. Mean- 
while Jesse Grant, knowing that each 
United States Senator had the power also 
to appoint a cadet, wrote to Senator 

(iKORGETOWN, Fibruary 19, 1S39. 
To Hon. Thos. L. IIa.mer : 

Dear Sir : — In consequence of a remark from 
Mr. Morris (Senator from Ohio). I was induced to- 
apply to the War Department, through him, for a 
cadet appointment for my son. H. Ulysses. A letter 
this morning received from the department informs 
me that your consent will be necessary to enable him 
to obtain the appointment. I have thought it advis- 
able to consult you on the subject, and if you have 
no other person in view for the appointment, and feel 
willing to consent to the appointment of Ulysses, 
you will please signify that consent to the department. 

♦ Richardson's '* Life of Grant." 

t This letter, hitherto unpublished, and one which Ulysses 
Grant did not know was in existence, is valuable for several 
things. It fixes the boy's name and the method of appoint- 
ment. This letter is now in possession of Wm. Loudon. The 
Grants were unaware of its existence at the time the " Me- 
moirs" appeared. 






From the Civil War collection of Mr. Robert Coster. 

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From an old engraving. 

lor, and which afforded the best instruc- 
tion in the country. 

Several of Grant's classmates still live 
in Ripley, and remember him very well. 

Grant was then about sixteen years 
old," said one of them, Mr. W. B. Camp- 
bell, ** and in appearance was short, stout, 
stubby, hearty, but rather sluggish in 
mind and body. I was in the same class 
with him. We studied algebra together. 
He was excellent in mathematics. We 
studied Latin also, as beginners. He was 
not much of a talker — was rather quiet 
and serious. We all spent a good deal 
of time on the river in little boats. He 

When I last wrote to Mr. Morris I referred him to 
you to recommend the young man, if that were neces- 
sary. Respectfully yours, 

'* Jesse R. Grant." 

Mr. Hamer generously gave his endorse- 
ment, and Ulysses was appointed. It is 
pleasant to add that by this manly act the 
Hamers and Grants were reunited. 

It is a tradition in Georgetown that, 
when the news of Ulysses Grant's appoint- 
ment came, there was much surprise. One 
man meeting Jesse Grant on the street, 

** I hear Ulysses is appointed to West 
Point. Is that so ? " 

**Yes, sir." 

"Well, that's a nice job. Why didn't 
they appoint a boy that would be a credit 
to the district ?" * 

To Ulysses himself the honor came with 
certain obvious disadvantages. One of 
these was home-leaving. He loved his 
home. Then he was the most unmilitary 
of boys in a military age. The story of 
his grandfather's battles, sieges, and 
marches had seemingly made little impres- 
sion upon him. The "trainings" and 
"general muster" of the militia had in- 
terested him rather less than the infre- 
quent circuses of the day. He had small 
love for guns, could not bear to see things 
killed, and was neither a hunter nor a 
fighter. When the news of his appoint- 
ment came he was living in Ripley. He 
had entered an academy there, which was 
superintended by the Rev. William Tay- 

• This ttory, told by Richardson, is corrolK>rated by general w. b. kranklin, leadrr of grant's class at 
people in Ripley and Georgetown. west point. 

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Reproduced by permission from the oriffinal, owned by Mrs. Rothcrey, Newark, N. J., and now first published. 


Reproduced by permission from the orif^inal drawingr, owned by C. F. Gunther, Chicago, and now fir« publish^ 

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From a photof^raph by Pach Brothers, New York. 

played ball and was good at it. When 
roused he was strong and active. He 
used to wrestle, but I never knew him to 
fight, and he was never quarrelsome. 

'* His habits were good. 1 don't re- 
member of his using tobacco or liquor. 
He never talked about military life. He 
never went on trips or excursions with us 
except in our boating or skating ; he was 
occupied with his studies. Everybody liked 
him, for he was so amiable and friendly 
and helpful. He was a good student, 
though we did not consider him a brilliant 
boy in studies.*' 

Richard Rankin, another schoolmate, 
talked with clear memory of Ulysses. 
** Ulyss was a heavy-made, good-look- 
ing boy, clever and social, modest and 
quiet. He was steady and studious. He 
was there for business. I sat in the same 
seat with him the spring term. He was a 
good, steady boy, with no bad habits." 

Jane Porter Chapman, whose brother was 
a classmate of Grant's, remembers him as 
a ** fair-faced boy of sandy complexion, 
short and stocky. He looked awkward 
and countrified, and as if he didn't think 
much how he looked. He was quiet and 
slow in everything he did." 

Benjamin Johnson, another classmate, 
adds a new observation to the meagre list: 
** He was a great hand to ask questions. 
He seemed to want to get information and 
opinions from everybody. He said little 
himself." Mrs. Mary A. Thompson recol- 

lects that *' he was always dressed in 
home-made butternut jeans." 

In a letter to a Ripley friend long after- 
ward, Grant said: "I remember with 
pleasure my winter in Ripley." He lived 
pleasantly as a member of the Johnson 
household, and it is related of him that he 


From a painting in the Army and Navy Club, VVashinKlon ; 
by special permission. 

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From a photoKraph by Pach Brothers, 

taught Betty Osbon, the cook, how to 
make buckwheat cakes, and that he took his 
*' trick " at baking them of a morning. He 
was not in the society of girls much, though 
he took a shy delight in speech with them. 
In such wise was he living when the ap- 
pointment to West Point came to change 
the gentle current of his life. There is no 
record that he showed exultation or that he 
dwelt upon it in talk with his mates. His 
life had been active and happy. He had 
lived securely, 
though meagrely. 
He had experi- 
enced no struggle 
nor turbulence in 
his life in George- 
town, and while 
he breathed quick 
with the thought 
of the great cities 
to be seen, he left 
Georgetown with 
regret. His 
mother said good- 
by in her singular 
sel f-repressive 
manner, and 
Ulysses started 
out to take the 
stage to Ripley. 
As he went by 

the Bailey house ^ " 

Mrs. Bailey and ^^^^ a photograph 

her daughters 
came out to wish 
him good jour- 
ney. It was a 
beautiful May 
day, the most be- 
witching time of 
all the year in 
southern Ohio, 
and the girls met 
Ulysses on the 
soft green grass 
before the house. 
Mrs. B a i 1 e )• , 
w a r m - h earted 
and impulsive, 
kissed him and 
said tearfullv, 
' • G o o d - b y , 
Ulysses." As 
she turned away, 
Ulysses, deeply 
moved, said won- 
deringly, *' VVhy, 
BATTERY, WEST POINT. Mts. Bailcy, my 

New York. own mother 

didn't cry!" Yet 
there can be no question of his mother's 
love for him. 

It is at this moment that we come upon 
the change of name. Up to the start 
for West Point, Grant had been Hiram 
Ulysses, or H. Ulysses Grant. The young 
traveller required a trunk, and Thomas 
Walker, a local *' genius," was the man to 
make it. He did so, and, to finish it off, 
he traced on the cover, in big brass tacks, 
the initials H. U. G. Tames Marshall, 


loaned by Lieutenant S. C. Hazzard, West Point. 

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Ulysses's cousin, went to help him carry 
the new trunk home. Ulysses looked at 
the big glaring letters. **I won't have 
that so," he said. '* It spells * hug '; the 
boys would plague me about it.'* An^ he 
thereupon shifted his middle name, and 
became Ulysses H. Grant, and so he went 
forth into the world. 

By his teaming and farming he had ac- 
cumulated about $ioo, which was a great 
deal of money for a boy of his age in 
those days. Forty-eight dollars of this 
was used for the deposit at West Point, 
and he took a manly pride in knowing 
that he had earned more than enough to 
pay his entrance charges. 

Of the long journey by boat to Pittsburg, 
and by stage and canal to Philadelphia, 
there is little record. An aunt on his moth- 
er's side in Philadelphia remembers Ulysses 
as he then appeared: a rather awkward 
country lad, wearing plain, ill - fitting 
clothes, and large coarse shoes with toes 
as broad as the soles. He strolled about 
the streets, seeing all there was to be seen.* 
He enjoyed his visit thoroughly; that is 
known, for he lingered, boy-fashion, to the 
last moment in Philadelphia and New York, 
and headed toward West Point only when 
he felt he must. 

He registered at Roe's Hotel, West 
Point, on the 29th of May, as '* U. H. 
Grant," and the same day reported to the 
adjutant, George G. Waggaman, deposited 
forty-eight dollars, and signed his name 
Ulysses Hiram Grant. His name as re- 
ported from Washington, however, was U. 
S. Grant, and the error arose in this way: 
The Hon. Thomas Hamer received the let- 
ter of Jesse Grant only the day before the 
close of his term, and being much hurried, 
sat down at once and wrote to Secretary 
of War Poinsett, asking for the appoint- 
ment of his neighbor's son. He knew 
the boy's name to be Ulysses, and infer- 
ring that his middle name was Simpson, 
so filled in the application, and thus it 
stood when Ulysses faced the adjutant. 

He asked to have it changed, but was 
told it was impossible without the con- 
sent of the Secretary of War. 

** Very well," he said; ** I came here to 
enter the military academy, and enter I 
shall. An initial more or less does not 
matter. " \ He was known to the Govern- 
ment thereafter as U. S. Grant. 

This being settled, he was given the 
** Book of Regulations," and sent across 

• Prom an interview in the Philadelphia "Times," July, 
t Richardson's " Life of Grant." 

the area to the old South Barracks to report 
to the cadet officers. Next he was sent to 
the quartermaster for his outfit, which con- 
sisted of two blankets, pillow, water-pail, 
broom, a chair, etc. ; and he was required 
to carry all these things himself on the 
handle of his broom, past the oificers' 
quarters, past the howling cadets, while 
every mother's son of them said: 

** Hello, plebe; how do you like it ? " 

These belongings he was taught to pile 
and place in his room under instruction of 
his room-mates. For two weeks he slept 
on the floor in the barracks, on two thin 
blankets. It was all literally camping 
under a roof. Ulysses and Rufus Ingalls 
were assigned to the upper floor of the old 
North Barracks (which long since gave 
place to new buildings) ; and here, in a bare, 
dreary room, he faced the four years of a 
cadet's life. *' It was a mournful time 
for us," says General W. B. Franklin.* 
** We were all homesick and lonesome, and 
depressed by the hard manner of life. We 
knew no one, and were not in a condition 
to resent any impertinence or joke of the 
upper classmen." 

During this time Grant was drilled by 
"squad marchers" in "plebe" drill, in 
" cits " clothing, and suffered all modes of 
" plebe jumping." Life must often have 
been a burden and a weariness of flesh. 
At last, when he had passed his prelimi- 
nary examination, he shucked out of his 
home-made clothes and into the skin-tight 
uniform, and became a private soldier in 
the summer camp of the cadets. He went 
into training as a cog in the machinery of 
an army. " The clothes of the * plebes ' 
in Grant's day," says General Franklin, 
" were wonderful. They were of all cuts, 
colors, and kinds. They came with the 
local peculiarities of Ohio, Tennessee, 
Maine, South Carolina, and Boston; and 
when we lined up in squad drill we were as 
comical as the awkward squad of a spring 
training. We were not measured for uni- 
forms till the authorities felt sure we were 
to stay." 

The entering class and the bulk of all the 
cadets were ranked as private soldiers with 
the pay of corporals. From the third class 
twenty corporals were detailed to act as 
junior non-commissioned officers. From 
the second class a sergeant-major, quarter- 
master sergeant, and four first sergeants 
and sixteen sergeants were detailed as 
senior non-commissioned officers. From 
the first or graduating class the commis- 

♦ General W. B. Pranklin, Grant's classmate, led the 
class during the four years. 

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grant's barlibst autograph at west point. 



Grant re^stered at Roe's Hotel, West Point, May ao, 1839, as " U. H. Grant.** Four names below his, on the same date, 
appears the name of Frederick T. Dent, whose sister some years later became Mrs. Grant. 

sioned officers were appointed, and con- 
sisted of four captains, sixteen lieutenants, 
a quartermaster, and sergeant - major. 
These men were subject only to the in- 
structors and to the regular army officers 
in charge. The promotions in Grant's 
day were made without reference to aca- 
demic standing; they were always for 
soldierly qualities. From the dullest 
**plebe" to the superintendent of the post 
was a regular series of commands, each 
succeeding higher rank with less numbers, 
until, like the glittering apex to the pyra- 
mid, the superintendent shone solitary and 

At this time had already grown up cus- 
toms and traditions stronger even than 
military regulations. In a half-jocular 
and half-ferocious way the entering man 
is made to feel the power of those above 
him. The names by which he is desig- 
nated show this. He is called a '* thing,** 
a ** beast," an *' animal," before his 
examinations. **Plebe" is his kingliest 
title during his first year. From the time 
he comes in sight of the adjutant's office 
to the end of his first encampment he is 
not allowed to forget that he cumbers the 
earth. He is the victim of orders, of 
jests, of hootings, and of revilings. He 
is under command of everybody, and like 
a wastrel cat he has no place of refuge. 
It matters not whether he be the son of a 
Senator, a millionnaire, or a farmer, he 
must suffer the same. This first year's 
persecution is a levelling process. It in- 
structs, yet seems hard. At the end of 
two days the **plebe" wishes in his se- 
cret heart to resign, and only pride and 
rage enable him to go on. 

The summer camp of cadets is precisely 

like a bivouac in the face of an enemy. 
It is an army in miniature. A complete 
guard is posted, and no one is allowed 
to leave camp without permit. Every- 
where is elaborate and grim detail of 
procedure — detail enough to govern the 
army of Russia, or destroy it. Grant and 
his fellow * 'animals'* were at once be- 
wildered by the salutes innumerable, the 
wheelings, marchings, roll-calls, policing 
calls, shouts of command real and mock. 
They were hustled into ranks with oppro- 
brious mutterings of comment on the part 
of the corporals, whose delight was to 
send a man to the guard-house. 

They slept little the first night; the floor 
of the tent was harder even than the floor of 
the barracks, — and the mosquitoes fed on 
each ** plebe " with the spirit of the upper 
classmen. Hardly had they fallen asleep 
when the vicious clamor of the ** reveille " 
awoke them to another day's routine. 
Wild, fierce cries arose. ** Fall in. Get 
out of here! Move! What d' ye mean by 
that? Step lively, now. Fall in!" 

Thus assisted they got into line for roll- 
call ; with jackets fairly on, but with 
dreaming eyes. All about, the fog and 
chill of early dawn made the world unreal. 
Then the ** policing call'* brought more 
work: sweeping out and making ready for 
morning inspection. Ulysses kept a sharp 
eye on his neighbors, and so got through 
tolerably well — though once some one 
yelled ferociously: 

"You want to wake up there, Mr. 
Grant! " 

When the " sick-call " sounded, many a 
man felt like responding who did not. 

Then came "peas upon a trencher" 
call, and everybody formed into line for 

Digitized by 



This dimatiire— *' Ulysses Hiram Grant "—was written the same day as the one—" U. H. Grant "—in the register at Roc's 

Hotel, May 39, 1839. 


This certificate was signed by Grant September 14, 1839, after he had passed his examinations. 
It bears what is, so far as known. Grant's earliest autograph as U. ** S." Grant. By this time, the 
mistake of Congressman Hamer in so naming him to the War Departm^t^t had fixed that as his 
official designation. 

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breakfast: the " plebes " in the rear rank 
of course, with palms thrown forward and 
backs strained almost to breaking, and 
with the " file-closer *' giving them fits as 
they moved. 

Breakfast was as simple as a lumber- 
camp meal. The dining-hall was bare, and 
the tables without cover. There were no 
napkins, and only common steel knives 
and forks. The cups were heavy as bowls, 
and the plates were white-ware. 

*'The fare was very bad," says Gen- 
eral Franklin. **West Point at that time 
was isolated from the world. It had no 
railways, and in winter no steamboats. 
There were, in fact, no farms very near. 
Breakfast was quite generally hashed beef 
with coffee. Dinner, roast beef or boiled 
beef, with sometimes fish or mutton. 
Mutton was not a popular dish. We used 
to ba-a like a sheep when we came into the 
dining-room. I think we had a table-cover, 
but I am not certain. Of this I am cer- 
tain: Our forks were of the two-tined, 
bone-handled variety, and from long wash- 
ing in hot, greasy water they had decom- 
posed, and they gave out a powerful smell, 
which no old cadet can forget as long as 
he lives. It was horrible. * Tea * was 
largely tea and very little besides, and the 
boys used to provide for it by sticking a 
fork into a big hunk of beef from the 
dinner and jabbing it fast under the 
table. This, when unperceived by the 
*tack,* helped out the starvation menu of 

*' This thin fare led to all sorts of * for- 
aging on the enemy,* and men were de- 
tailed to steal from the dinner-table. We 
wore caps of morocco with a big flat top. 
We calle^them * gig-tops,' and they held 
potatoes and salt-cellars and bread very 
comfortably. One man was detailed to 
steal bread, another meat, another salt 
and pepper, and so on. The sentinels who 
stood guard over our eating wore a sort of 
bell-crown cap of stiff leather, like those 
of Napoleon's body-guard, and these caps 
could contain four quarts of boiled pota- 
toes, and only add to the soldierly bearing 
of the sentinel. 

** This stuff we put into a pillow-case, 
and at night we beat it up with a bayonet 
and cooked it over the grate, which was 
of anthracite coal and quite handy. Our 
dishes were slices of bread or toast. 
These were * cadet hashes,* and were an 
institution in our day. No man, no cadet 
officer in fact, was ever known to refuse an 
invitation to a ' cadet hash.' I don't par- 
ticularly recall Grant in this connection, 

but as he was a farmer boy and a growing 
boy, I've no doubt he accepted every 
possible chance to eat * cadet hash.' " 

It is said that one night a chicken was 
being roasted in Grant's room, when a 
** tack " (tactical officer) was heard at the 
door. Grant hid the chicken and sauce- 
pan and stood ** attention " before the fire 
with face quite impassive. The officer en- 
tered. Grant saluted, the officer walked 
around the room, looking very hard at the 
ceiling and walls, where nothing could be 
seen. ** Mr. Grant, I think there is a 
peculiar smell in your room." 

" I've noticed it, sir," replied Grant. 

" Be careful that something does not 
catch fire." 

** Thank you, sir. I will, sir." 

The poor ** plebes " ** were assigned 
seats near the centre of the table, where it 
was hardest to get anything," and they 
commonly went away hungry. 

At last came the call, "Prepare to 
rise! " 

'' Company A, RISE!" 

*' Company D, Rise! " 

Once more the torture of the march 
back to the camp, whence no one could 
escape without permission. Each hour 
thereafter was filled with "calls" to 
duties, drills, and studies. There seemed 
to be no free hour. Mock inspectors 
came by and rated the ** plebes." Third- 
class men, assuming authority, demanded 
salutes and service. Innocent and scared 
"plebes" were sent to the professor of 
mathematics for a half-dozen right lines 
and on other fool's errands across "the 
guard line," only to be stopped and turned 
back with military promptness by the 
guard. They forgot to salute the officer 
of the day as he came by, and received 
more heart-bruising instruction. 

They were drilled incessantly by acting 
corporals, ambitious for promotion, who 
thrust their noses almost into their victim's 
eyes, while they hissed and snarled out 
blasting phrases whose words were harmless 
— even polite. At morning inspection each 
scared " plebe " had his musket clawed 
from him by a stubby little martinet, who 
flung it back at his victim with intent 
(apparently) to smash his nose. 

At noon "roast-beef call," and more 
marching to dinner and marching back. 
Moredrill — alwaysdrill and always "clean- 
ing up" tent or gun. The " plebe's " 
clothes fitted so close he felt compressed ; 
he had no moment of ease in all the day. 
At last " Retreats" sounded, and the gun 
boomed imperiously, and supper, even 

Digitized by 



more welcome than dinner, was eaten. The 
night came, and sly deviltry broke loose. 
Some '* plebes " escaped by inconspicuous- 
ness, but others were made to do absurd 
and useless tasks. Some were put on false 
guard and made to walk all night. Torment- 
ing went on in the tents farthest from the 
officer of the day — quietly, of course, but 
with precision, nevertheless. *' Plebes" 
were set to catching imaginary flys in 
some ** yearling's ** tent. Boat races in 
wash-bowls were arranged. 

At 9.30 came the wailing sweet music of 
** tattoo," then **taps," and not even the 
mosquitoes and the **yearling** or the hard 
boards beneath could keep the weary 
" plebe*' awake. 

"There are few compensations during 
the first year; it is hard work, early rising, 
close application. You rise at 5 a.m. 
summers and 6 a.m. winters, and every 
hour is filled till 7.30 p.m. You are obliged 
to scrub the floor and to make up your 
own bed and keep your gun and room and 
uniform in perfect order, and also to be sub- 
ject to the upper classmen. 

" In the second year, however, you can 
bully the entering clas^ and swagger 
around doing corporal duty. The third 
year you can bully two classes, and wear a 
red sash around your waist in parade, to 
show you are a senior cadet officer; and in 
the fourth year you can do most anything 
you please. You can, in fact, do the very 
things you kept your subordinates from 
doing in the second year." 

All this, or something like it, Ulysses 
Grant went through. No doubt he was 
able to escape much by reason of his quiet 
and obliging nature. Then, too, he be- 
came a favorite, speedily, of some of the 
more powerful men in the classes above 
him, and that smoothed his way a little ; 
but he studied the tack, "braced," 
"finned out," policed camp, scrubbed 
floors on Saturday, got ** skinned " for 
leaving the flint in his gun instead of the 
** bone-snapper," and endured all the edu- 
cational abuse and discomfort which is the 
lot of the average " plebe." 

In a letter to McKinstry Griffiths, a 
cousin in Batavia, he expressed his general 
feeling about the place — a fine, buoyant, 
well-expressed letter it is, too. It had 
a few misspelled words, but it is doubtful 
whether there were many more young men 
of seventeen in Georgetown who could 
have written so bright a letter.* 

* The oriffinal was long in the possession of Mr. Griffiths, 
And was first published in a Clermont County paper in 1885. 
It is now in the po«8easion of C. F. Gunther of Chicago. 

Military Academy, West Point, N. Y., 
September 22, 1839. 
Dear Coz : 

I was just thinking that you would be right glad 
to hear from one of your relations who is so far 
away as I am. So I have put away my algebra and 
French, and am going to tell you a long story about 
this prettiest of places, West Point. So far as it re- 
gards natural attractions, it is decidedly the most 
beautiful place that I have ever seen. Here are hills 
and dales, rocks and river ; all pleasant to look upon. 
From the window near I can see the Hudson — that 
far-famed, that beautiful river, with its bosom stud- 
ded with hundreds of snowy sails. 

Again, I look another way I can see Fort " Putt," 
now frowning far above, a stern monument of a 
sterner age, which seems placed there on purpose to 
tell us of the glorious deeds of our fathers, and to bid 
us to remember their sufferings — to follow their ex- 

In short, this is the best of places — the place of all 
places for an institution like this. 1 have not told 
you HALF its attractions. Here is the house Wash- 
ington used to live in — there Kosciuszko used to walk 
and think of His country and of ours. Over the 
river we are shown the dwelling-house of Arnold — that 
BASE and HEARTLESS traitor to his country and his 
God. I do love the place — it seems as though I 
could live here forever, if my friends would only come 
too. You might search the wide world over and then 
not find a better. Now all this sounds nice, very nice ; 
what a happy fellow you are ; but I am not one to 
show false colors, or the brightest side of the picture, 
so I will tell you about some of the drawbacks. 
First, I slept for two months upon one single pair of 
blankets. Now this sounds romantic, and you may 
think it very easy ; but I tell you what, Coz, it is tre- 
mendous hard. 

Suppose you try it, by way of experiment, for a night 
or two. I am pretty sure that you would be perfectly 
satisfied that it is no easy matter ; but glad am I these 
things are over. We are now in our quarters. I have 
a splendid bed (mattress) and get along very well. 
Our pay is nominally about twenty-eight dollars a 
month, but we never see one cent of it. If we wish 
anything, from a shoestring to a coat, we must go to 
the commandant of the post and get an order for it. 
or we cannot have it. We have tremendous long and 
hard lessons to get, in both French and algebra. I 
study hard, and hope to get along so as to pass the 
examination in January. This examination is a hard 
one, they say ; but I am not frightened yet. If I am 
successful here you will not see me for two long years. 
It seems a long while to me, but time passes on very 
fast. It seems but a few days since I came here. It 
is because every hour has its duty which must be per- 
formed. (^.1 the whole I like the place very much — 
so much that I would not go away on any account. 
The fact is, if a man graduates here, he is safe for 
life, let him go where he will. There is much to dis- 
like, but more to like. I mean to study hard and stay 
if it be possible ; if I cannot, very well, the world is 
wide. I have now been here about four months, and 
have not seen a single familiar face or spoken to a 
single lady. I wish some of the pretty girls of 
Bethel were here, just so I might look at them. But 
fudge ! confound the girls. I have seen great men, 
plenty of them. Let us see : CJeneral Scott, Mr. Van 
Buren, Secretary of War and Navy, Washington Irv- 
ing, and lots of other big bugs. If I were to come 
home now with my uniform on, the way you would 
laugh at my appearance would be curious. My pants 
set as tight to my skin [the trousers were poorly 
made uf white stuff that would shrink] as the bark to 

Digitized by 



tree, and if I do not walk military, — that is, if I bend 
over quietly, or run, — they are very apt to crack with 
a report as loud as a pistol. My coat must always be 
buttoned up tight to the chin. It is made of sheep's 
gray cloth, all covered with big round buttons. It 
makes one look very singular. If you were to see me 
at a distance, the first question you would ask would 
be, * * Is that a fish or an animal ? " You must give my 
very best love and respects to all my friends, particu- 
larly your brothers, uncles Ross and Samuel Simpson. 
You must also write me a long letter in reply to this, 
and tell me about everything and everybody, includ- 
ing yourself. If you happen to see any of my folks, 
just tell them that I am happy, alive, and well. 
I am truly your cousin and obedient servant, 

McKiNSTRY Griffiths. ^' H. Grant. 

N. B. — In coming I stopped five days in Philadel- 
phia with our friends. They are all well. Tell Grand- 
mother Simpson that they always have exf>ected to see 
her before, but have almost given up the idea now. 
They hope to hear from her often. 

U. H. Grant. 

I came near forgetting to tell you about our demerit 
or *' black marks." They give a man one of these 
** black marks" for almost nothing, and if he gets 
two hundred a year they dismiss him. To show how 
easy one can get these, a man by the name of Grant, 
of this State, got eight of these *' marks " for not go- 
ing to church. He was also put under arrest, so he 
cannot leave his room perhaps for a month , all this for 
not going to church. We are not only obliged to go to 
church, but must march there by companies. This 
is not republican. It is an Episcopal church. Con- 
trary to the expectation of you and the rest of my 
Bethel friends, I have not been the least homesick. 
I would not go home on any account whatever. 
When I come home in two years (if I live), the way I 
shall astonish you natives will be curious. I hope 
you will not take me for a baboon. 

My best respects to Grandmother Simpson. I think 
often of her. I put this on the margin, so that you 
will remember it better. I want you to show her this 
letter and all others that I may write to you. I am 
going to write to some of my friends in Philadel- 
phia soon. When they answer I shall write you 
again to tell you all about them, etc. 

Remember and write me very soon, for I want to 
hear much. 

** I remember, as plain as if it were yester- 
day, Grant's first appearance among us," 
said General Sherman. ** I was three years 
ahead of him. I remember seeing his 
name on the paper in the hall on the bul- 
letin board, where all the names of the 
newcomers were posted. I ran my eye 
down the columns and there saw * U. S. 
Grant.' A lot of us began to make up 
names to fit the initials. One said ' United 
States Grant.* Another ' Uncle Sam 
Grant.* A third said * Sam Grant.' That 
name stuck to him.** * 

Grant fell into ranks quietly and with 
little friction, being so equable and oblig- 
ing of temper no one but a bully could 
find heart to impose upon him. He was 
small, also, and there was meagre sport in 

♦ An interview in July, 1885, New York " Herald." 

" jumping '• such a little fellow. He was a 
good boy here, as at home. He took little 
part in the small rogueries of the class. 
** It was impossible to quarrel with Grant,** 
said one who roomed with him for a year. 
** We never had a 'spat.' I never knew 
him to fight.*' 

His page of demerits shows scarcely a 
single mark for any real offence against 
good conduct. They are mainly ** lates " 
and negligences. He was ** late at 
church,** ** late at parade,*' ** late at drill.** 
He was a growing boy, and a little slug- 
gish of a morning, no doubt. Once he 
sat down on his post between five and six 
in the morning ; for this he received eight 
demerits. Twice in his second year as 
squad marcher he failed to report delin- 
quencies in others and received five de- 
merits each time. His amiability led to 
this. Once he spoke disrespectfully to his 
superior officer on parade. The provoca- 
tion must have been very great to have led 
to this. The probabilities are the officer 
was mistaken. 

** I remember Grant well,*' says General 
D. M. Frost. ** He was a small fellow, 
active and muscular. His hair was a red- 
dish brown, and his eyes gray-blue. We 
all liked him, and he took rank soon as a 
good mathematician and engineer, and as 
a capital horseman. He had no bad 
habits whatever, and was a great favor- 
ite, though not a brilliant fellow. 

** He couldn't or wouldn*t dance. He 
had no facility in conversation with the 
ladies, — a total absence of elegance, — and 
naturally showed off badly in contrast 
with the young Southern men, who prided 
themselves on being finished in the ways 
of the world. Socially the Southern men 
led. At the parties which were given 
occasionally in the dining-hall, Grant had 
small part. I never knew Grant to at- 
tend a party. I don't suppose in all his 
first year he entered a private house." 

*' A military life had no charms for 
me," he wrote many years after,* **and 
I had not the faintest idea of staying in 
the army, even if I should be graduated, 
which I did not expect. The encampment 
which preceded the commencement of 
academic studies was very wearisome and 
uninteresting. When the 28th of August 
came, the date for breaking up camp and 
going into barracks, I felt as though I 
had been at West Point always, and that 
if I stayed till graduation I would have to 
remain always." 

♦ ** Personal Memoirs." This is the old man's comment. 
The boy's letter should be set over against it. 

Digitized by 



Undoubtedly the boy was homesick. 
Every wind that blew from the west was a 
lure and whisper of recall. Every letter 
from his cousins, his companions, from his 
father and mother, made him long for the 
little Ohio town. He had no realization 
of its squalor, its narrow bigotry. He 
knew only the boy's side of it. It was all 
poetry when in recollection. Its security, 
repose, and homely good-will seemed the 
most desirable things in the world. 

During this time, before he had settled 
into place among the fellows. Grant read 
a great many novels of the standard sort, 
and was much benefited thereby. He 
wrote some capital letters home, telling of 
his life and reading. When the examina- 
tion came in January he surprised himself 
by taking a very good place in the class, 
especially in mathematics and kindred 
studies. He was not a good linguist, as 
might be inferred, but was not positively 
disreputable, even in his French. He 
never quite reached the foot in anything. 

He was not resigned to being a soldier 
even after the January examination, and 
when in the mid-winter a bill was intro- 
duced in Congress to abolish the West 
Point Academy, he read the debates with 
wonderful interest, hoping it would be 
carried. ** It never passed, and a year 
later I would have been sorry to have seen 
it succeed. My idea was then to get 
through the course, secure a detail for a 
few years as assistant professor of mathe- 
matics at the academy, and afterward 
obtain a permanent position in some 
respectable college; but circumstances 
always did shape my course different from 
my plans." * 

He was not involved in any mischief at 
the academy, and there is no record that 
he ever went to ** Benny Havens',*' though 
he may have done so. ** Benny Havens* " 
was one of the institutions at West Point 
— a little tavern and bar on the river 
bank, just outside the reservation. It was 
considered very wild to slip down to 
Benny's and smoke a cigar and drink a 
glass of gin. Grant was a good boy 
without being effeminate. The testimony 
of his companions, Quinby, Ingalls, Ham- 
ilton, Longstreet, Franklin, is concurrent 
at this point. 

** He was a lad without guile," testifies 
General Longstreet. f " I never heard him 
utter a profane or vulgar word. He was 
a boy of good native ability, although by 

• ** Personal Memoirs." 

t General James Lon^^treet, afterwards an eminent and 
able general m the Confederate army. 

no means a hard student. So perfect was 
his sense of honor that, in the numerous 
cabals which were often formed, his name 
was never mentioned, for he never did 
anything which could be subject for criti- 
cism or reproach. He soon became the 
most daring horseman in the academy." 
He had a way of solving problems out of 
rule, by the application of good hard 
sense, and Rufus Ingalls ends by saying : 
" When our school days were over, if the 
average opinion of the members of the 
class had been taken, every one would have 
said: * There is Sam Grant ; he is a splen- 
did fellow, a good honest man, against 
whom nothing can be said, and from 
whom everything may be expected.' " 

Allowing for the bias of his after life 
upon the above witnesses, their statements 
will stand as probably the approximate 
estimate of young Grant's powers. He 
knew as little of his latent capabilities as 
any one else. They were far down below 
consciousness, involved and dormant. 
One of the keenest observers in his class, 
for a year his room-mate, perceived more 
in him than his instructors. " He had 
the most scrupulous regard for truth. 
He never held his word light. He never 
said an untruthful word even in jest. 

** He was a reflective mind and at times 
very reticent and sombre. Something 
seemed working deep down in his thought 
— things he knew as little about as we. 
There would be days, even weeks, at a 
time, when he would be silent and sombre 
— not morose. He was a cheerful man, 
and yet he had these moments when he 
seemed to feel some premonition of a 
great future — wondering what he was to 
do and what he was to become. He was 
moved by a very sincere motive to join the 
Dialectic Society, which was the only 
literary society we had. I did not belong, 
but Grant joined while we were room-mates, 
with the aim to improve in his manner of 
expressing himself." 

All this does not mean that he was re- 
served or priggish. He was generally 
ready for any fun which did not involve 
deceit or lying. " He had a sense of 
humor," W. B. Franklin said. " No man 
can be called *a good fellow,' as Grant 
was, and be a dullard. He was ready for a 
frolic or a game of foot-ball at anytime." 

The two years wore away at last, and 
with a very good record he applied for a 
vacation and secured it. 

In Bethel memories still linger of Grant's 
return on furlough when he was nineteen 
years of age. His father had removed 

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from Georgetown to Bethel, a small town 
a few miles nearer Cincinnati, and had 
established a fine tannery there. The 
cadets of that day were allowed only one 
furlough during the course of study, and 
Ulysses looked forward with great eager- 
ness to his return to Ohio. 

From Harrisburg homeward he had the 
company of his Grandmother Simpson and 
of Miss Kate Lowe, a young lady from 
New York, who helped him bear in pa- 
tience the long canal-boat ride to Holli- 

** Miss Lowe, now Mrs. Rotherey, hark- 
ing back to those bygone days, says that 
Grant dt that time was a fine-looking, 
smooth-faced young man, with clear eyes 
and good features; but was chiefly attrac- 
tive on account of his splendid carriage 
and soldierly bearing. He was fastidious 
in dress, wearing always white duck trous- 
ers and blue sack coat; and Mrs. Rotherey 
adds that he must have had a fresh pair 
for every day in the week. She says also 
that though somewhat bashful, he was 
never awkward, and though rather re- 
served and reticent in company, there was 
always a perfectly easy flow of talk when 
tHe-h-tite, He never lacked either a sub- 
ject of conversation or words. The 
strongest bond between them was their 
mutual love of riding, and horses and 
horsemanship were topics of unfailing 
interest, while current events and neigh- 
borhood gossip came in for their proper 
share; polite literature was also a fruitful 
theme, for Grant at this time was a great 
lover of good novels — was given, indeed, 
to spending rather too much of his time 
at West Point devouring them ; Bulwer, 
Cooper, Marryat, Scott, Lever, and Wash- 
ington Irving taking their turn with many 

** His most charming characteristic, 
however, was his extreme courtesy; he 
was full of delicate and kind attentions, 
not less to his aged grandmother than to 
the most fascinating young woman. When 
asked if Grant was much of a smoker at 
that time, Mrs. Rotherey said that she only 
knew that he never smoked in the pres- 
ence of ladies."* 

Grant, on reaching home, went straight 
to his sAveet and gentle mother, of course. 
"Why, Ulysses," she said, with a face 
shining with pride, "you've grown much 
straighter and taller." 

" Yes, mother," he replied ; " they teach 
us to be erect." 

The father's pride in his boy was 

♦ From an interview written by Delia T. Davis. 

boundless. He provided him with a fine 
young colt to ride, and after a day at 
home Grant rode, like a pursued Sioux 
Indian, over to Georgetown to see the girls 
and boys of his acquaintance. 

The people commented freely on the 
young cadet's improved manners, and the 
Georgetown "Gravel Club," which met 
under the trees before the court-house 
door, admitted that he might make a 
decent mark for muskets after all. "I 
remember well," his friend George W. Fish- 
back writes, " his neat undress uniform, 
his erect carriage, pleasant face, and his 
easy and graceful horsemanship. I re- 
member his father also ; he was often in 
litigation, and came to attend the sittings 
of the court at Batavia, where my father. 
Judge Fishback, lived. Jesse Grant was 
a stern, aggressive man, but never grew 
tired of talking of * my Ulysses.' " 

With rides and walks with the girls and 
games with the boys, the vacation passed. 
It was all too sorrowfully short, and the 
young cadet said good-by with a sigh of 
pain. To return to the barrack life after the 
glorious freedom of the vacation was like 
returning to prison. Again the insistent 
gnarl of the drum summoned to roll-call. 
The drum, the morning gun, the staccato 
commands of officers brought a routine 
which clamped like an iron band ; * but this 
wore off in a few days, and the pleasant 
things reasserted their charm. 

It had its compensations, this life, which 
got hold of Cadet Grant at last. It was a 
healthful life — this ceaseless marching to 
and fro, this vigorous regular routine. 
The instruction was good, the exercise 
well-timed and well -considered, and the 
cadets were all markedly graceful, strong, 
and well. It had its beautiful side, too. 
Its surroundings were noble, and the sun 
rose and set in unspeakable glory of 
color. The shaven green of the lawn, the 
gleam of tents, the ripple of pliant snow- 
white trousers beneath a band of blue, the 
crash of horn and cymbals, the clamor 
and squeal of drum and fife, the boom of 
sunset gun, the rumble and jar of wheel- 
ing artillery, all these sounds and pictures 
came to be keen pleasures to divide the 
dull gray hours of hard study with mo- 
ments of purple and gold. 

The cavalry drill, which was added in 
1841, undoubtedly helped Cadet Grant to 
endure these last years. Every morning 
of the autumn, while the maples turned 
from green to gold and orange and scar- 

♦ This is made evident by the incrcaae of demerit marks 
durin(( the first month after vacation. 

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let, the battalion wheeled over the parade 
ground. The call of the bugles, the thrill- 
ing commands, the reel of the horses, the 
clang of sabres, the splendid voices of the 
commanders, the drumming of hoofs, the 
swift swing into perfect alignment — all 
these things helped him to forget his 
homesickness and gave him appetite for 
dinner and what came after. Riding his 
horse '* York," he leaped a bar five feet 
six and a half inches high — a mark, it is 
said, which has never been surpassed. 
General James B. Frye recalls this: 

** One afternoon in June, 1843, while I 
was at West Point, a candidate for admis- 
sion to the Military Academy, I wandered 
into the riding-hall, where the members of 
the graduating class were going through 
their final mounted exercises before Major 
Richard Delafield, the distinguished engi- 
neer, then superintendent, the academic 
board, and a large assemblage of specta- 
tors. When the regular services were 
completed, the class, still mounted, was 
formed in line through the centre of the 
hall, the riding-master placed the leaping- 
bar higher than a man's head and called 
out, 'Cadet Grant! ' 

" A clean-faced, slender young fellow, 
weighing about 120 pounds, dashed from 
the ranks on a powerfully built chestnut- 
sorrel horse, and galloped down the oppo- 
site side of the hall. As he turned at the 
farther end and came into the straight 
stretch across which the bar was placed, 
the horse increased his pace and measured 
his strides for the great leap before him, 
bounded into the air and cleared the bar, 
carrying his rider as if man and beast were 
welded together. The spectators were 

"'Very well done, sir,' growled old 
Herschberger, the riding-master, and the 
class was dismissed." * 

When spoken to about this feat. Grant 
was accustomed to smile a little bashfully 
and retreat by saying, '* Yes, York was a 
wonderfully good horse." 

A deeper effect was beginning to appear. 
He felt some stirrings of ambition to be a 
military leader. They were not very pro- 
nounced, but sufficiently definite to enable 
him to write afterwards: 

" In fact, I regarded General Scott and 
Captain C. F. Smith, the commandant of 
cadets, as the two men most to be envied 
in the nation." 

He concluded at length to remain in the 

♦ General lames B. Frye In '* North American Review." 
Captain L. Shields and General E. G. Viele also speak of 
Grant's remarkable horsemanship. 

army, and wished to enter the cavalry — 
moved thereto, of course, by his love of 
horses; but as there was only one regi- 
ment of cavalry in the army at that time, 
the chance for a position in the cavalry was 
not good. Nevertheless, he indicated as 
his first choice the cavalry, and as his sec- 
ond choice the Fourth Infantry. 

He was brevetted second lieutenant of 
the Fourth Infantry, and ordered to report 
to his command at Jefferson Barracks, St. 
Louis, after a short vacation. 

The entire army of the United States 
at that time numbered less than 8,000 
men, and the supply of officers was em- 
barrassingly large. It was the custom, 
therefore, to brevet graduates second 

He graduated twenty-first in a roll of 
thirty-nine, with a fair record in all things 
— a good record in mathematics and engr 
neering and a remarkable record as horse- 

More than a hundred had entered with 
him, but one by one they had dropped out 
till only thirty-nine remained. 

Apparently Grant remained markedly un- 
military throughout the four years* course. 
He served as a private throughout the first 
two years. During the third year he was 
made sergeant, but was dropped (promo- 
tions at that time were made for soldierly 
qualities, and had no exact relation to ex- 
cellence in studies), and during the fourth 
year he served again as private. He had 
no real heart in the military side of the 
life. Its never-ending salutes, reprimands, 
drills, and parades wore upon him. 

" I did not take to my studies with avid- 
ity; in fact, I rarely read over a lesson 
the second time during the entire cadet- 
ship. I devoted more time to reading 
books from the library than to books re- 
lating to the course of studies."* 

Notwithstanding this modest statement, 
Cadet Grant stood well in his studies. The 
first year he took up French and mathe- 
matics, and though the course was severe, 
including algebra, geometry, trigonom- 
etry, application of algebra to geometry, 
etc., he stood fifteenth in a class of sixty 
in mathematics, and forty-ninth in French, 
and twenty-seventh in order of general 
merit. The second year he climbed three 
points in general merit, and stood twenty- 
fourth in a class of fifty-three. He ranked 
Frederick Steele and Rufus Ingalls, and 
stood tenth in mathematics, twenty-third 
in drawing, but was below the middle in 
ethics and French. In his third year he 

• " Personal Memoin," 

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rose in his drawing to nineteen, and was 
twenty-second in chemistry and fifteenth 
in philosophy, which was a very good stand- 
ing indeed. He rose to twenty in general 
merit, sixteen in engineering, seventeen 
in mineralogy and geology, but was a 
little below the average in ethics, artillery 
and infantry practice. 

In general, it may be said that he left 
the academy with a good average record 
as a student and a very high record 
as a man. He was not a man of obvious 
powers. Certain things he knew to 
their very heart; and yet, as he left 
the gate of West Point, he seemed the 
last man to do great things. He was 
small, obscure, poor, and without political 
friends or influential relatives. No man 
then would have had the temerity to name 
Cadet Grant as other than a kind, oblig- 
ing, clean - lipped, good - hearted country 
boy, who could ride a horse over a picket 
fence or across a tight rope. In such 
ways do human judgments run. The 
brilliant, expressive, erratic men attract. 
Grant had repose, balance, inner powers 
not set lightly and easily to the surface. 

Daniel Ammen, one of his playmates, 
remembers meeting him in Philadelphia 
early in July, 1843. ** I found the young 
man I had left a few years before in 
Georgetown rather an ordinary boy, now 
a self-reliant, well-balanced, brevet second 
lieutenant of infantry." 

Grant left West Point in midsummer and 
spent his furlough in Bethel and George- 
town. He was invited by the officers of 
the militia to drill the troops at ** general 
muster," which took place at Russelsville 
during August of 1844. These semi- 
annual musterings of the possible soldiery 
of the nation had come to be a jolly farce. 
The people came on horseback and afoot 
from every nook of the country, with such 
soldierly belongings as they had — guns of 
all eras and coats and caps of all sorts and 
colors. The officers, pompous in martial 
toggery, woofed and grunted and howled 
their orders at the straggling files for an 
hour or two; then laid off to lunch and 
talk politics, while the men traded horses, 
and settled any odd scores they might have 
on hand by fist and face encounters, and 
at sundown every one went home conscious 
of a duty well done. 

In 1844, however, the Mexican War ex- 
citement was rising, and the turnout was 
naturally larger; then, too, it was known 
that Cadet Grant was to be present and 

drill the troops, and that added to the in- 
terest. William Wilson and Peter Wamax 
are two of the few witnesses living who 
remember the splendid occasion. 

It impressed itself ineffaceably on young 
Wilson's mind, because it seemed wonder- 
ful, even revolutionary, to see a young 
lad such as Cadet Grant looked, ordering 
the pompous old officers about. ** He 
looked very young, very slender, and very 

/* He was dressed in a long blue coat 
with big epaulettes and big brass buttons, 
and his trousers seemed to be white, 
though they may have been a light gray. 
He wore a cap, and a red sash around his 
waist, and he rode his horse in fine style. 

"I was particularly struck with his 
voice — that is, his way of using it. The 
old men barked out their commands. You 
couldn't tell what they said. Noise 
seemed to be their idea of command, but 
Grant's voice was clear and calm and cut 
across the parade ground with great pre- 
cision. It was rather high in pitch, but it 
was trained; I could tell that, though I 
was only a boy." 

At this time Grant was a small young 
fellow, a little over five feet seven inches in 
height, and weighing but 117 pounds. His 
face was strongly lined like his father's, 
with fine straight nose and square jaws. 
A pleasant and shrewd face it was, with a 
twinkle in the gray-blue eyes when amused, 
and a comical twist in the long flexible 
lips when smiling. His hair was a sandy 
brown, and his complexion still inclined 
to freckles. Here he stands, unstained, 
untroubled, facing the world's millions. 
What will he do ? What can he do ? What 
did he care to do ? 

His ambitions were not inordinate. He 
still held to the idea of getting permission 
to teach in some quiet place, with a salary 
sufficient to support a wife and babes. 
He had no corrupting desire for glory, 
for personal aggrandizement. He had no 
sombre and lurid dreams of conquest. 
He did not look away to Mexico or Peru 
as a field for a sudden rise to sole and 
splendid command. He had in mind a 
little wooden cottage somewhere under 
the maples, with a small woman to care 
for the home and to meet him at the door 
as he returned from his daily duties as pro- 
fessor of mathematics in Blank College. 
In the least military of moods he finally 
took his way to his regiment in the Far 

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LESS attractive 
town than 
Ballyquay could probably not be found 
in the three kingdoms. 

Situated, as all the world doubtless is 
aware, in the great county of Donegal, 
much nearer to the Ennishorn Mountains 
than Muckish, it stands not " with back to 
Great Britain and face to the West," but 
with back turned uncompromisingly on 
the rest of Ireland and face to the North 

It has a fine outlook over some thou- 
sands of miles of ocean, without even a 
lighthouse to mar the effect of distance, 
and possesses that which is of much more 
importance to its inhabitants than any sea 
view — a substantial stone quay and shel- 
tered harbor, where vessels of two hun- 
dred tons can ride at anchor, the like of 
which might be sought for many a long 
mile along that wild coast, and sought in 

A cold, bare-looking, many-windowed 
hotel faces the quay. More inland stands 
the original town, which consists of three 
wide streets and several narrow lanes. In 
the latter are to be found the small tene- 
ments, with what auctioneers would call 
'* no elevation," which form the rank and 
file of an Irish town. In the former a few 
shops, a Presbyterian meeting-house, an 
old hotel, patronized chiefly by anglers, 
commercial travellers, and others who 
from any cause have occasion to visit 
Ballyquay frequently. 

More inland still are the parish church 
and Roman Catholic chapel, both sur- 
rounded by bog and heather; and the visi- 
tor who cares to pursue the ro^ds leading 
to church and chapel farther up the rising 
ground which backs the town, will find 
himself rewarded by glimpses of wild and 
lovely scenery — lakes sparkling in the 
sun; farms green as emeralds, set in the 
midst of gray rocks and barren moor; hills 
and valleys, mountains and defiles — a 
glorious land, though one where food has 
to be literally wrested from mother earth, 

who, in Donegal, is not inclined to give 
her children bread. 

At some not remote future period a rail- 
road will be cut to Ballyquay, and the 
little town become famous. Meantime, 
save for a dozen new houses built along 
the modern esplanade, a branch bank, and 
the cold-looking hotel previously men- 
tioned, the place does not look very differ- 
ent from what it did five years after the 
great famine of 1846, when the stoutest 
hearts might well have failed them for 
fear, had they realized starvation and 
pestilence were but the precursors of 
worse troubles to come. 

About half way along the present 
esplanade, which was then but a rough 
cart track, there stood, jutting out beyond 
the line of frontage, a good-sized shed, 
which, before the famine, had been util- 
ized by an enterprising Glasgow dealer as 
a store for potatoes, oatmeal, bacon, and 
any other articles he could export or im- 
port with advantage. 

Concurrently with the famine, trade 
languished at Ballyquay. Mr. M'Cracken, 
the Glasgow dealer, being a shrewd indi- 
vidual and seeing all chance of profit 
stopped for an indefinite period, came to 
an arrangement with his landlord, Mr. 
Deamer, shut up his store, and departed. 
No one else proving equally enterprising, 
or, rather, everyone else evincing an amaz- 
ing amount of common sense, the agent 
was glad to let the edifice for a mere trifle; 
and thus it chanced that a certain cold 
winter found Mr. M'Cracken's former 
store tenanted, as indeed it had been ten- 
anted for two years, by an old man and 
his donkey. 

The old man's name was Peter Craig, 
and he called his donkey Tom. 

Craig made his home in what had been 
the warehouse. Tom munched his hay in 
the counting-house, while the cart he 
drew found shelter in an outer oflice where 
much business had been transacted and a 
great deal of bad language spoken and 
heard. For there the country folk once 

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upon a time tried to drive very hard bar- 
gains with Mr. M'Cracken's manager, and 
there the manager, strong in possession of 
what he called "the coin," usually won 
the day. 

But all that good period of prosperity 
was gone by, and from week's end to 
week's end no voice broke the silence of 
that formerly busy place, save when Peter 
spoke to his donkey or to a vision which 
he sometimes thought he saw. 

As regards human companionship, the 
poor old fellow had none. He was alone 
in Ireland. Two living sons were in 
America, and a dead wife and child lay in 
a quiet graveyard ten miles from Bally- 
quay. No other kith or kin, not a soul 
belonging to him; poor as, even in that 
land of poverty, a man could* well be. 

He never made merry — heaven save the 
mark — in any neighbor's house; neither 
did he ever ask any neighbor to make 
merry with him. He had too much to do 
to keep the wolf from the door to think of 
pleasure, even if he had been inclined to 
it; and his heart was full of such bitter 
memories that he did not feel that life 
could ever seem aught but a very solemn 
thing for him for the future. 

Yet, though grave, he was not morose 
or desponding, and toiled on contentedly, 
strong in the belief that whatever fortune 
it might please God to send was the right 

** Praise him for this grand shelter," he 
would reverently say when the glowing 
turf fire lit up the rough dresser, with its 
display of old and cracked crockery ware, 
all set out "best face to London," and 
revealed the rest of his furniture — two 

chairs; a round wooden table; a three- 
legged stool; a pair of bellows; a few 
cooking utensils; a red curtain, drawn 
across the six panes of glass which formed 
the window; a four-post bedstead, up- 
holstered in blue and white check, and 
covered with a patchwork quilt; and a 
clothes-horse, which, when some old sacks 
were thrown over it, formed a " fine 
screen " from the wind. 

The floor was of earth beaten hard, the 
walls rough and bare — but what do ex- 
ternals matter if the eye which beholds 
them be satisfied, Und the mind which con- 
siders them grateful ? 

And Peter was grateful. Many a man 
he knew, as industrious and as well-to-do 
as himself, had not, when swept away from 
old landmarks by the famine, powerful 
and relentless as any flood, been drifted 
into such a safe haven. The roadside, 
the workhouse, the pauper's grave, proved 
the last refuge of most. Some few hun- 
dred thousand found work and homes in 
America; but of those who could not go to 
America, what man shall ever surely tell 
the fate ? 

Craig was in possession of a snug farm 
when the blight appeared. He had money 
in the bank, a horse and cart, and pigs and 
cows; but it was not long ere he had to 
part with first one thing and then another, 
in order to stave off the inevitable end, 
which came at last. 

Everything was against him. The down- 
hill journey once commenced, the pace 
grows more rapid day by day. To begin 
with, he had not much of a reserve; but 
that he could not keep for himself. 


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He could not. One of 
a people amongst whom, 
whatever their faults, 
selfishness is almost un- 
known, with whom char- 
ity is a religion, how was 
it possible for him to turn 
hollow-cheeked, wild- 
eyed, famine-stricken 
creatures from his door 
empty ? No. The hand- 
ful of meal, the battered 
penny, the few sods for 
a fire, the fervent '*God 
help you," never failed 
while Peter Craig had 
meal or penny or turf- 

True, it was not much 
he had to give, but we 
know how heavy such 
seeming trifles will weigh 
in the scales of eternity. 

At that time there was great talk about 
a new land of promise, called America, a 
name which has since become mightily 
familiar to Irishmen of all ranks and 
classes. Then it was not so familiar, but 
the enchantment which hung round it 
proved none the less on that account. 

Those who could and would work, it 
was said, had but to get there to be pros- 
perous, happy, and respected. The only 
difficulty in the way of all these good 
things was to get there; and many never 
succeeded in their endeavors, because the 
passage money was to them as hard to 
raise as it would be for a chancellor of the 
exchequer to pay off the national debt. 

Craig's elder son, however, was among 
the fortunate minority. He went out, and 
sent enough money back to enable his 
brother to join him. He also set sail for 
the land of promise; and his last words 
were: ** I'll not be parted long from you, 
father. I'll work hard to make enough 
money to pay the passage for you and 
mother to come to us. Ye will come, 
won't ye ? " 

Peter answered that they would, but a 
mightier than Peter intervened. Mrs. 
Craig sickened, and after a long illness, 
died. For her there was no America, or 
for Peter either. He was a prematurely 
old, broken man. 

**What for would I go to a strange 
country now ? " he wrote. "I'll just con- 
tent myself here for the rest of my time, 
and be laid beside her that's gone." 

So far he had held on to his farm, but 
at last he was forced to give it up. His 


landlord could not be accounted a hard 
man, y^wt the times had tried him, like 
everyone else. Craig's rent was two 
years in arrears, and not a farthing re- 
mained in the bank. Land cannot be 
cropped without seed, or tilled lacking 
labor; and both seed and labor cost 
money, which Craig had not. 

He did not wait to be turned out of his 
holding. He went; and the few articles 
he owned not being worth ten shillings, 
he was permitted to take them and Tom 
and Tom's cartlet to that house beside 
the wide Atlantic where Mr. M'Cracken 
had once driven a prosperous trade, and 
where Peter Craig hoped to ** make off a 

It was a cold, raw winter's morning; 
there had been a slight fall of snow over 
night, which lay on the ground, waiting 
for more; the north wind was whistling 
between its teeth a low, ominous tune; the 
sky looked gray and lowering; the air was 
bitter, when Peter Craig opened his door 
and looked away straight to the Pole. 

He did not think about the view, grand 
though it was, for his mind felt troubled. 
He had "made off a living," but it was 
getting a poorer living each day. He and 
Tom were growing older and somehow 
able to earn less; and though his sons sent 
what they could, the help did not reach 
him regularly. In their last letter they 
said he might expect to receive an order 
in a fortnight, and now five weeks had 
passed, and there was no remittance. 

Matters were very hard with him that 

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morning, but they had been very hard be- 
fore and came right. It is always the 
darkest hour before dawn; and, turning 
back into his house, Peter felt as if the 
dawn must be very nigh at hand. 

He did not light a fire, because when a 
man feels no desire to shave, and has 
neither tea nor coffee, nor any sort of food 
to prepare, fire seems a superfluity. Peter 
was going out, also; he had a job over the 
hills which would bring him in a trifle, and 
there was nothing to delay his departure 
except swallowing a mouthful of break- 
fast. Tom had eaten up his last morsel 
of hay, and stood ready, harnessed with 
many an old bit of rope knotted together. 
His mastec backed him into the little cart, 
tied up the traces with some twine, and 
then went indoors for a piece of Indian- 
meal bread that he knew lay on the shelf. 
It was the only scrap of food in the house, 
yet Craig could not finish it. He broke 
off a corner and offered it to Tom, but the 
donkey decidedly refused it. 

"Ah, ye rogue," said Craig. ** Noth- 
ing will serve ye but white bread or, at 

the worst, oat-cake. Well, may be we'll 
contrive to get ye a bite of a loaf to-night. 
I've only to put on my coat and then we 
can start." 

This was the way he talked to the dumb 
brute, who seemed in a fashion to under- 
stand what was said. 

Man and donkey had lived so long alone 
together, that it would have been strange 
if no comprehension existed between 

'* Now we'll be going," cried Peter, in 
as cheerful voice as he could muster, clos- 
ing the door while he spoke — there was no 
need to lock it. The possession of noth- 
ing confers an important feeling of inde- 
pendence when one's lot is cast even 
amongst an absolutely honest population. 

The donkey moved slowly on, and the 
man walked beside him. Craig was tall 
and large boned, and the rough frieze coat 
he wore gave his figure an artificial ap- 
pearance of bulk his worn, hard-featured 
face belied. Tom was small, and seemed 
to grow smaller each time his master har- 
nessed him; indeed, Peter did not much 

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care to pat the poor creature, the bones 
lay so near the skin. 

Such as they were, however, they pur- 
sued their way, along the cart track, now 
the present esplanade, up the main road 
leading from the quay to the town, till 
they arrived at a cross street where, in 
front of a mongrel sort of shop, Craig, 
with a ** whoa, Tom," brought the donkey 
to a stand. 

The shop was a double one, separated 
only by a door, and it belonged to a cer- 
tain Mr. Hagarty, who dispensed whiskey 
on the right-hand side of the premises, 
while his wife, on the left, sold almost 
every imaginable article in the way of oil 
and butterman's good, as well as grocery. 
Bread, moreover, could be had there, and 
Mrs. Hagarty further presided over the 
Ballyquay postoffice; letters were only 
delivered in the town proper. Everyone 
who resided outside a certain very small 
radius had to send for what fate might 
have provided, and many a missive was to 
be seen stuck against the glass in Mrs. 
Hagarty's window, among glass bottles 
filled with lozenges, comfits, barley-sugar, 
and various other delicacies which caused 
the mouths of the Ballyquay children to 

Craig went into the grocery department, 
his stick, with which he could never find it 
in his heart to strike Tom, held as a use- 
less ornament. It was the roughest shop 
imaginable, paved with bricks, the counter 
of plain deal, the walls white-washed, the 
rafters bare; yet the Hagarty s did a good 
business, and had plenty of money in the 

There was also a baby on view in the 
shop. In one corner, near the turf fire, 
stood what might be called a day-cradle, 
since it was never used save to lay the 
(time-being) infant down in working 
hours. The Hagartys owned two cradles, 
which had come to them as heirlooms. 

** That's a cold morning, Mrs. Hag- 
arty," said Craig, looming big and tall 
against the counter. ** Tm glad to see 
you home again." 

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Craig; and 
indeed I never was better pleased than to 
be back in Ballyquay. I have not been 
away more than three weeks this very day, 
and yet it seemed to me like three months; 
and what can I get for you ? " 

" I just called to ask if there was a let- 
ter for me," answered Peter, shyly. He 
had called on the same errand so often 
lately he began to feel ashamed of his 
own persistence. 

Mrs. Hagarty looked among her sweet 
stuff, and turned over all the correspond- 
ence exhibited in the window. Very care- 
fully she examined each address, while 
Peter watched the proceedings with an 
anxious face. 

"There is none for you this time, Mr. 
Craig," said Mrs. Hagarty at last. 

"When will the next post be in from 
America ? " asked Craig. 

" * Deed, I'm not rightly sure," was the 
reply. " Father Freeling is the one knows 
best about that." 

There was a pause; then Craig, gathering 
himself together, prepared to depart. 

" I'm going over the hill," he observed, 
as a sort of afterthought; "can I take 
any message for you ? " 

" If I'd known ten minutes ago, you 
might have left my sister's box for her; 
but I gave it to Jim Kennan, as he said he 
would be passing the door." 

Craig checked a sigh. Jim was young 
and strong, earning regular wages, and 
there was no harm in wishing the few 
pence attached to that box had come to a 
man who wanted money far more than 

" We've got on the wrong side of good 
luck to-day, I'm thinking, Tom, my man," 
said the poor old fellow to his donkey, as 
they resumed their journey. " But I 
mustn't talk like that and may be one of 
the boys ill. They'd never — " 


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Google _^ 



"Have you heard the news?" said a 
voice at this instant, which prevented 
Craig from finishing his muttered conjec- 

"What news?" he asked, turning 
towards the speaker. 

"That Mrs. Deamer is coming home 

•• Ay ? — after all this time ? " 

" She thinks she ought to spend her 
money in the place she gets it from; it'll 
be a sore trouble to her going back to the 
house husband and son were carried out 
of in one day." 

" It will be so." 

" They say she's greatly changed; that 
her hair's gray and her eyes dim. 1 mind 
her hair dark as a raven's wing,and her eyes 
as black as sloes. You never saw her ? " 

" I never set eyes on her." 

" There was not a prettier or better lady 
betwixt this and Dublin; and many a poor 
body's heart will rejoice to know she's 
back at Fairy Hill. She used to have the 
sweetest laugh. It minded me of a lot of 
spring birds all singing together. God 
help her! I'm thinking there is not much 
of a laugh left in her now." 

"It was a great trial," agreed Craig; 
and he went on his way with a heart full 
of pity for the lonely woman death had 
left desolate, who was poor in the midst 
of plenty and more solitary even than 

" There's mostly something to fret 
about," he considered — a truism he im- 
mediately supplemented with, " but there's 
always something to be thankful for." 

To outward view what had this gaunt 
old fellow, whose youth and prosperity were 
left so far behind, to be thankful for ? 
Just that which a rich, man might envy 
and many a king lacks; for the power of 
being happy cannot be bought by money 
or conferred by rank. 

Master and donkey trudged up the hill, 
and for a little way down the descent lead- 
ing to a pleasant valley which lay beyond. 
There Craig had a few things to move for 
a man who was " flitting." 

He asked for water for the "beast," 
but Tom would not drink; so his bit being 
taken out, he was left to nibble such herb^ 
age as he could find. Tom did not nibble, 
however, though Craig was unaware of 
the fact. He stood still where he was 
left, looking straight before him, with no 
speculation in his eye, a patient, willing, 
half-starved old donkey. 

When he and his master had finished 
their work, the woman who should have 
paid them said: " Tim will be in town to- 
morrow and pay you, Mr. Craig." 

Mr. Craig had been right in telling 
Tom they had got that day on the wrong 
side of good luck. 

It was growing dark when donkey and 
owner started to return home. How long 
the road seemed, how weary the way! the 
old donkey feeble and spent, the old man 
faint and empty. Peter tried to speak to 
his dumb companion, but the sound of his 
own voice frightened him. It was not his 
own which he had been wont to hear, but 
a hollow, changed voice, that might have 
belonged to some broken-down and hope- 


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less creature. Never before had he so 
longed for the sight of his home, to see 
the ruddy glow of the peat fire, to hear 
the music of the great Atlantic, to feel 
safe within bare though kindly walls — safe 
and sheltered, free to forget his cares for a 
space. Like his predecessor who flourished 
many years ago, he walked, so as not to 
distress his donkey, and thus they finally 
arrived at Ballyquay, where once again 
they passed the grocery shop, and Craig 
walked into the public house. 

**Will you let me have an armful of 
hay?" he asked. **ril pay ye when I 
get paid myself, to-morrow likely." 

Poor Craig! He would not have asked 
credit for his own needs, but the ** brute 
beast ** could not altogether fast. 

**As much as you want. Here, Ned, 
fill a sack and put it on Mr. Craig's cart. 
It is a nasty night, Peter; a glass of whis- 
key will do you no harm.** 

** Thank ye kindly,** was the answer, 
** but don't fill one for me. I used to be 
able to take half a glass with any man, 
but I can*t now — no, I can't now.*' 

Mr. Hagarty, struck by something in the 
old man*s tone, looked at him curiously 
for a moment. His wife had told him 
about Craig*s anxiety concerning the 
American letter, and added that she 
thought he had ** failed greatly of late.** 

*' There was a letter came for him the 
day I left home,*' she went on, ** but I*m 
afraid what he wanted was not in it.** 
And for this reason that repetition of ** I 
can*t now ** sounded to the publican almost 

** Is there nothing else we can put up for 
ye ? ** he asked, full of a vague impression 
help was wanted, and great desire to help 
if he could. ** You know ye can have what 
ye like here, and pay when ye please,** 
which was certainly most liberal. 

** I am obliged, but I need nothing 
more,** answered Craig with a certain 
stiffness. He felt he could starve, but 
he knew he could not endure anyone to 
think he was starving. In all countries 
there live such people, and sure am I that 
in that wild and desolate land, where 
Atlantic waves sing the children*s lullaby 
and the storm king rides in his might, 
could be found hundreds who, like Peter 
Craig, would rather die than beg. 

Ned put the hay in the little cart. ** It's 
tuning up for a storm, it's my notion,** he 
remarked as Craig came out to Tom's head. 

"Ay, it looks that way," answered 
Peter, and then he and the donkey took 
the homeward road. 


As they drew near the shore, Peter 
heard the dull roar of the distant cannon, 
which on that awful coast heralds an ap- 
proaching hurricane. For twenty-four 
hours that artillery practice precedes the 
tempest, and well did Craig know its 

As he and Tom plodded along the rough 
cart track, he heard a noise as if of the 
cannon of Waterloo. 

" Now God help all women who have 
sons, lovers, husbands at sea this night," 
he said solemnly, and then he came to his 
own door. 

It did not take long to unharness Tom 
and lead him to his stable, or to push the 
cart into the outer office, or to open his 
own door and grope his way to the fire, 
and kindle a blaze on the hearth. When 
he had done all this, he drew water for the 
donkey and set it before him, at the same 
time placing some hay in the rough box 
which served for a manger. 

"Fill yourself, boy,** said Craig. 
"We're now all safe and sound, with 
plenty for you to eat over to-morrow, 
meadow hay as good as ever I smelled. 
Come, lad." 

But the lad would not come or fill him- 
self, and when Craig laid a persuading 

Digitized by 




hand on his neck, he found the animal was 
shivering like someone in ague. 

** Ah, Tom, dear, and it's starved with 
the cold ye are! *' he exclaimed. ** Poor 
old chap, come and have an air of the 
grand fire I've made up. My good Tom, 
my fine, brave Tom!" And thus dis- 
coursing, he led the donkey to the hearth, 
where, after stupidly blinking at the blaze 
for a moment, the animal sank wearily to 
his knees; and then, slowly, like some stiff 
old man, lay down and stretched out his legs 
that had travelled so many a long mile. 

** Ah, poor boy! you're getting fond of 
a bit of heat, like your master,*' said 
Craig; ** just lie there at your ease." 

Tom, nothing loth, lay there, but cer- 
tainly not at his ease, for he was trem- 
bling and shaking all over. 

"It was cruel cold out there to-day, 
wasn't it?" observed Peter; and the 
donkey, as if in answer, shivered exceed- 

" Well, just content yourself," went on 
the old man; "you needn't stir all night, 
and you've no call to go out to-morrow." 

It was quite still in the cottage when 


Craig bethought him that he would look 
whether a handful of meal were left in 
the barrel, or a morsel of bread on the 

No; as he believed, the barrel was 
empty and the shelf bare. 

"I can do well enough," said the old 
man. " Thanks be to God, there is hay 
for Tom! " and he was crossing the bare 
floor when his door opened and a gentle- 
man came in. 

The stranger was well clad and not un- 
pleasant to look at, yet a ghost would 
have appalled Craig less. 

"What a glorious fire you have," said 
the newcomer, advancing to the hearth, 
and holding first one hand and then the 
other to the glowing peat. 

" Ay, it's a brave fire," answered Craig, 
not knowing what he uttered. 

" I looked in a while ago," went on the 
gentleman, " but you were out. You 
have the rent ready, I hope." 

"No, sir; but I'm expecting money 
every day." 

" So you were six weeks ago. There 

is more than a year due. I have been 

very patient, but you'll have to make up 

the money by twelve o'clock 

to-morrow, or else — " 

"What, sir?" 

"Give up possession. I 

can let this place for much 

more than you pay;" and 

he turned towards the door 

with an easy, swinging gait, 

as if he had said the pleas- 

antest thing in the world, 

and was going out into the 

night, when Craig stopped 


" For God's sake, sir," he 

" Now, now, my good fel- 
low, that will do. We un- 
derstand all about that. 
Twelve o'clock to-morrow." 
With which clincher he 
pushed Craig gently to one 
side and departed. 

The old man stood for a 
couple of minutes like one 
dazed, wringing his hands in 
abject despair. Then he 
seized his hat, and rushed 
out into the night. 

A keen wind stirred his 
scant gray hair, and drove a 
salt rime on his cheek; but 
Craig did not feel the bitter 

blast or misty spray. Tbere 

Digitized by 





was a storm in his heart which would have 
drowned the noise of a fiercer tempest than 
ever raged and raved along that terrible 
coast. He had left home with one idea, 
which sufficed to carry him on through 
darkness and biting cold, past the large 
houses, beyond the quay, up the road 
leading to the town. 

"Lord grant," he muttered over and 
over again. Soul and body were too 
numb with misery to permit of his finish- 
ing the prayer, but He who made him 
knew the words his lips failed to articu- 
late. On for another mile, through the 
cold and the darkness; on, with that 

storm which never lulled sweeping madly 
through his heart, losing memory now and 
again, staggering at times as though 
drunk, feeling a horrible faintness — for, 
save the scrap of bread, he had not broken 
his fast for twenty-four hours — the old 
man held grimly to his task till he stood 
at the hall door of Fairy Hill, and gave 
one loud, single knock which echoed 
through the house. 

" Could I have speech with the mis- 
tress ? " he asked. 

*' I'll see," was the reply. '* Sit down 
off your feet a minute." 

But Craig did not sit. He stood as in 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC ^ 


a sort of dream, seeing the hall and yet 
not perceiving it; looking at the furniture, 
but taking no heed of a single article. 
The while Mrs. Deamer was asking: 

" And who is this Craig, Jane ? " 

** He is a decent old fellow, mem, as 
ever lived, and the world has been very 
sore against him. Do see him, mem. He 
looks in some great trouble, and he is 
breaking up fast. I see a wonderful 
change in him." 

Mrs. Deamer left her tea, a comfort- 
able chair, and warm fire, and passed into 
the hall, where Craig stood awaiting his 

When he saw her he tried to speak, but 
could not. He could only stand looking 
with eyes of misery at the sweet woman, 
who said in a low voice, like the faint 
chime of bells: 

" You wished to see me ? " 

Twice Craig essayed to answer, and 
twice no word passed his lips. 

Mrs. Deamer saw he was struggling for 
speech, saw some mortal trouble was keep- 
ing him dumb. 

•* What can I do for you ? " she asked. 
** If it is in my power to help you I will." 

Then, all at once, the string of his tongue 
was loosed, and he poured forth the misery 
that had been pent up within him. 

Without break, without pause, in one 
impulsive sentence the gaunt old man told 
the tale of his sorrows. He who had 
never begged before, begged then for 
time. He would pay her honestly if — if 
she would wait a little while for her money. 
He did not say anything against the 
agent. He did not inveigh against fate. 
He did not make mention of his age, or 
his losses, or his loneliness. He only 
prayed for — time. 

'* It has been home to me, mem," he 
said, in that rugged Northern accent 
which holds such power for pathos in its 
vary harshness; ** and if you'll let me 
stop you'll not be a penny the loser. O 
mem! will you? A pound, maybe, isn't 
very much to you to lie out off, but it is 
as bad as thousands to me till my sons 
send the order they've promised. I never 
kneeled before but to my God, but I do 
kneel now to pray that you won't turn me 
out without a roof over my head — me and 
the dumb beast, too, that has nobody be- 
sides." And the poor old fellow fell at 
her feet, and raised his clasped hands in 
an agony of entreaty, while the tears 
streamed down cheeks that were furrowed 
by care and worn by privation. 

** My poor man! my poor man! " cried 

Mrs. Deamer, inexpressibly shocked, try- 
ing to steady her own voice. ** You shall 
not be turned out of your house. Do rise. 
I cannot bear to see you kneeling to me. 
You may go home quite happy." 

"Did you say I might stop?" he fal- 
tered. The reaction was so great he could 
scarce believe his ears and he had no 
power to cease sobbing. 

"Of course you shall stop. Now sit 
down for a little while, and try to com- 
pose yourself." 

" What' 11 I say to ye, mem ? What can 
I say to ye ? " he asked, covering his face 
with his hands and weeping hysterically. 

"Why, nothing," she replied. "I am 
very glad to be able to help you. Pres- 
ently you must go into the kitchen and 
have a cup of tea; you look ill and tired." 

"I couldn't touch bite or sup," he 
answered huskily. " I want nothing but 
words;" and he stopped as if about to 
break down again; then went on bravely: 
"I want words to thank you, but they 
won't come." 

" Do have a cup of tea; I am sure one 
would do you good." 

" It is you, mem, who have done me all 
the good in the world, and I want nothing 
more, thank you kindly, but to be alone 
with my God, that I may praise his name 
and ask him to bless you." 

With a humble gesture of deep gratitude 
he was moving to the door when Mrs. 
Deamer stopped him. 

" You are quite without money. Let 
me lend you a trifle till your son's remit- 
tance arrives." 

It was characteristic of her that, speak- 
ing even in haste, she said lend, not give; 
but she knew well enough such men as 
Craig to be aware that in the one case her 
offer might be accepted, and in the other 
prove an offence. 

"You can pay me at your convenience," 
she went on, seeing that he hesitated. 
" You had better take a pound; " and she 
opened a little case in which many a crisp 
note lay snug. 

" I'd be dreaming I was robbed and 
murdered if I'd as much as that in the 
house," Craig answered with a smile, such 
a smile, so wan, so feeble, it haunted Mrs. 
Deamer's memory for many a long day; 
" but if you'd give me a bit of white 
bread, I'd like well to have it for Tom." 

" Who is Tom ? " she asked. 

" Just my donkey, mem; and he has as 
much sense as many a Christian." 

The fire had burned low by the time 
Craig reached home, and that vision he so 

Digitized by 



often saw seemed to his fancy to come out 
of the shadows and meet him. 

** We'll do yet, Jane, my woman," he 
said. **0h, but that is the lovely lady! 
And see what she gave me for Tom. My 
boy, you haven't stirred far since I went 

He broke off a piece of bread and 
offered it to the donkey, who made no 
effort to take it, only opened one eye and 
looked wearily at his master. 

** Well, ril leave it beside you. You've 
quit trembling, I see; that's right." And 
he made up the fire, drew the stool close 
beside the hearth, sat down with his back 
against the wall — for chimney-piece there 
was none — and, without intending to do 
so, fell off to sleep. 

After three weeks* absence Mrs. Hag- 
arty, feeling that the place required a thor- 
ough cleaning, sent for Moggy Stewart to 
come the following morning to *'ridd things 
up." Moggy was a capital worker, and 
proceeded to turn everything upside down. 
Amongst other matters she took the straw, 
out of the day cradle, and carried it in her 
apron to the pig-stye. As she threw it 
over she caught sight of something white, 
and boldly going in among a number of 
porkers, rescued a letter from destruction. 

"I found this in the child's cradle," 
Moggy said, handing her find to Mrs. 

The postmistress cried out: ** How did 
this come in the cradle ? " 

The little nurse-girl's face showed that 
she knew; but, without waiting to adminis- 
ter to her more than a stinging box on the 
ear, Mrs. Hagarty called, "William." 

" What do you want ? " asked her hus- 

" Look here at what Moggy has found." 

"Is it a letter?" 

" It is so, and the one that came for 
Peter Craig the morning I left, and that 
he has never had. I'll kill that little 
huzzy; she has given it to the baby to play 

" The best thing I can do is to take the 
letter to Craig and tell him the truth," 
said Hagarty. 

When he reached Craig's house he lifted 
the latch without ceremony and went 
in. The red curtain was still drawn across 
the window, and he could not at first see 
anything very distinctly. 

"Hello, Peter," he shouted, "you are 
having your sleep out this morning. 
Wake up, man; I've a letter for you." 

Then he began to discern objects more 
clearly, and saw the old man sitting on 
the stool, and the donkey lying before 
a fire which had burnt itself to white 

Something in the silence struck him. 
He made one stride to the window, and 
tore aside the curtain. Then the cold 
daylight streaming into the room showed 
that the donkey lay stiff, with a piece of 
bread beside him, and that Craig was 
dead, too, with a smile on his lips. 

Digitized by 




By Rudyard Kipling, 

Author of *• The Jungle Book," " Barrack-room Ballads,** etc. 


Harvey Chesme, the pampered son of an American mill- 
ionnaire, falls overboard from an Atlantic liner as he is 
voyaging to Europe in company with his mother. He is 
picked up, off the Grand Banks, by the fishing schooner 
'* We're Here," of Gloucester. His story of his nch connec- 

tion is too fabulous to be believed by die humble-minded 
skipper of the " WeVe Here," and he is forced to fall to 
work as a member of the crew, and bide with the schooner 
on the Banks until she finishes her season. It is a hard 
ordeal, but soon brings out in the boy a rather fine spirit. 


HARVEY waked to find the " first half " 
at breakfast, the foc*sle door drawn 
to a crack, and every square inch of the 
schooner singing its own tune. The black 
bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny 
galley over the glare of the stove, and the 
pots and pans in the pierced wooden board 
before it jarred and racketted to each 
plunge. Up and up the foc'sle climbed, 
yearning and surging and quivering, and 
then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came 
down into the seas. He could hear the 
flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was 
a pause ere the divided waters came down 
on the deck above, like a volley of buck- 
shot. Followed the woolly sound of the 
cable in the hawse-hole ; a grunt and squeal 
of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, 
and the " Were Here " gathered herself 
together to repeat the motions. 

" Now, asho -^ " he heard Long Jack 
saying, " ye've chores, an* ye must do 
thim in any weather. Here we're well 
clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores — an' 
that's a blessin*. Good night, all." He 
passed like a big snake from the table to his 
bunk, and began to snore. Tom Piatt fol- 
lowed his example, and Uncle Salters, with 
Penn, fought his way up the ladder to 
stand his watch, and the cook set for the 
"second half." 

It came out of its bunks as the others had 
entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. It 
ate till it could eat no more ; and then 
Manuel filled his pipe with some terrible 
tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl- 
post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet 

up on the table, and smiled tender and 
indolent smiles at the smoke. Dan lay at 
length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, 
gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went 
up and down with the pitching of the 
" We're Here." The cook, his shoulders 
against the locker where he kept the fried 
pies (Dan was fond of fried pies), peeled 
potatoes, with one eye on the stove in case 
of too much water finding its way down the 
pipe ; and the general smell and smother 
were past all description. 

Harvey considered affairs, wondered that 
he was not deathly sick, and crawled into 
his bunk again, as the softest and safest 
place, while Dan struck up " I don't want 
to play in your yard," as accurately as the 
wild jerks allowed. 

" How long is this for ? " Harvey asked 
of Manuel. 

" Till she get a little quiet, and we can. 
row to trawl. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps 
two days more. You do not like ? Eh, 
wha-at ? " 

" I should have been crazy sick a week 
ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now 
— much." 

" That is because we make you fisherman, 
these days. If I was you, when I come to 
Gloucester I would give two, three big can- 
dles for my good luck." 

"Give who?" 

" To be sure — the Virgin of our Church 
on the Hill. She is very good to fishermen 
all the time. That is why so few of us Por- 
tugee men ever are drowned." 

" You're a Roman Catholic, then ? " 

" I am a Madeira man. I am not a Porto 
Pico boy. Shall I be Bapptist, then ? Eh, 

Copyright, 1896, by Rudyard Kipling. 

Digitized by 





S-/^^}^. •• .^ 



wha-at? I always give candles — two, 
three more whei> I come to Gloucester. 
The good Virgin she never forgets me, 

" I don*t sense it that way," Tom Piatt 
ptit in from his bunk, his scarred face lit 
up by the glare of a match as he sucked at 
his pipe. "It stands to reason the sea's 
the sea ; and you'll git jest about what's 
goin*, candles or kerosine, fer that matter." 

" Tis a mighty good thing," said Long 
Jack, " to have a frind at coort. though. 
I'm o' Manuel's way o* thinkin'. About 
tin years back I was crew to a Sou* Boston 
market-boat. We was off Minot's Ledge 
wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, 
thicker'n burgoo. The ould man was 
dhrunk, wid his chin waggin* on the tiller, 
an' I sez to myself, * If iver I stick my boat- 
huk into T-wharf again, I'll show the saints 
fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out 
av.' Now, I'm here, as ye can well see, 
an' the model of the dhirty ould * Kathleen ' 
that took me a month to make, I gave ut 
to the priest, an* he hung nt up fominst the 
altar. There's more sense in givin' a model 

that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any 
candle. Ye can buy candles at the store, 
but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk 
trouble an* are grateful.*' 

" D*you believe that, Irish ? " said Tom 
Piatt, turning on his elbow. 

" Would I do ut if I did not, Ohio ? " 

" Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model 
o* the old * Ohio,* and she's to Salem museum 
now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I 
guess Enoch he never done it fer a sacrifice ; 
an* the way I take it is ** 

There were the makings of an hour-long 
discussion of the kind that fishermen love, 
where the talk runs in shouting circles and 
no one proves anything in the end, had not 
Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme : 

Up jumped the mackerel with his strip^ back. 
Reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack ; 
/^or it's windy weather — 

Here Long Jack joined in. 

j4fu/ it's blowy weather ; 
fVAm the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands to- 
gether ! 

Digitized by 



''CAPTAINS courageous:' 

Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tern 
Piatt, holding the accordion low in the bunk: 

Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, 
Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead ; 
For it's windy weather, etc. 

Tom Piatt seemed to be hunting for 
something. Dan crouched lower, but sung 
louder : 

Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. 
Chuckle-head ! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound! 

Tom Piatt's huge rubber boot whirled 
across the foc'sle and caught Dan's uplifted 
arm. There was war between the man and 
the boy ever since Dan had discovered that 
the mere whistling of that tune would 
make him angry as he heaved the lead. 

** Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, re- 
turning the gift with precision. "If you 
don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I 
ain't goin* to lie here all day an' listen to 
you an' Long Jack arguin' 'baout candles. 
Fiddle, Tom Piatt ; or I'll learn Harve 
here the tune ! " 

Tom Piatt leaned down to a locker and 
brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel's 
eye glistened, and from somewhere behind 
the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, little 
guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he 
called a macheite, 

" 'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beam- 
ing through the smoke. " A reg'lar Boston 

There was a burst of spray as the hatch 
opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, de- 

" Ye 're just in time, Disko. Fwhat's she 
doin* outside ? " 

** Jest this ! " He dropped on to the 
lockers with the push and heave of the 
" We're Here." 

"We're singin' to kape our breakfasts 
down. Ye'U lead, av course, Disko," said 
Long Jack. 

" Guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old 
songs I know, an* ye've heard them both." 

His excuses were cut short by Tom Piatt 
launching into a most dolorous tune, like 
unto the moaning of winds and the creak- 
ing of masts. With his eyes fixed on the 
beams above, Disko began this ancient, 
ancient ditty, Tom Piatt flourishing all 
round him to make the tune and words fit a 
little : 

*' There is a crack packet — crack packet o* fame, 
She hails from Noo York, an* the ' Dreadnought's* 
her name, 

You may talk o' your fliers — ' Swallow-tail * and 

* Black Ball '— 
But the ' Dreadnought's * the packet that can beat 

them all. 

** Now the 'Dreadnought* she lies in the River 
Because of the tug-boat to take her to sea ; 
But when she's off soundings you shortly will 

She's the Liverpool packet— O Lord, let her go ! 

** Now the * Dreadnought' she's howlin' *crost the 

Banks o' Newfoundland, 
Where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all 

Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro : 

' She's the Liverpool packet — O Lord, let her go!* " 

There were scores of verses, for he* 
worked the " Dreadnought " every mile of 
the way between Liverpool and New York 
as conscientiously as though he were on her 
deck, and the accordion pumped and the 
fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Piatt 
followed with something about " the rough 
and tough McGinn, who would pilot the ves- 
sel in." Then they called on Harvey, who 
felt very flattered, to contribute to the en- 
tertainment ; but all that he could remember 
were some pieces of " Skipper Ireson's Ride" 
that he had been taught at the camp-school 
in the Adirondacks. It seemed that they 
might be appropriate to the time and place, 
but he had no more than mentioned the 
title when Disko brought down one foot 
with a bang, and cried, " Don't go on, young 
feller. That's a mistaken jedgment — one o' 
the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin* to 
the ear." 

" I orter ha' warned you," said Dan. 
" Thet alius fetches dad." 

" What's wrong ? " said Harvey, surprised 
and a little angry. 

" All you're goin' to say," said Disko. 
" All dead wrong from start to finish, an* 
Whittier he's to blame. I've no special call 
to right any Marblehead man, but 'tweren't 
no fault o' Ireson's. My father he told me 
the tale time an* again, an* this is the way 

" For the wan hundredth time," put in 
Long Jack under his breath. 

"Ben Ireson he was skipper o' the 
* Betty,' young feller, comin' home frum 
the Banks — that was before the war of 1812, 
but jestice is jestice at all times. They fund 
the * Active ' o' Portland, an' Gibbons o* 
that town he was her skipper ; they fund 
her leakin* off Cape Cod Light. There 
was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin* 

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the * Betty* home 's fast as they could 
craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there 
wasn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that 
sea ; the men they wouldn't hev it ; and he 
laid it before them to stay by her till the 
sea run daown a piece. They wouldn't hev 
that either, hangin' araound the Cape in 
any sech weather, leak or no leak. They 
jest up stay'sle an* quit, nat'rally takin' 
Ireson with 'em. Folks to Marblehead 
was mad at him not runnin' the risk and 
becaze nex* day, when the sea was ca'amer 
(they never stopped to think o* thai)^ some 
o' the * Active's ' folk was took off by a 
Truro man. They come into Marblehead 
with their own tale to tell, sayin' how Ireson 
had shamed the town an* so forth an* so 
on ; an* Ireson 's men they was scared, seein' 
public feelin* agin* *em, an* they went back on 
Ireson, an* swore he was respons'ble for the 
hull act. *Tweren*t the women neither that 
tarred and feathered him — Marblehead wo- 
men don't act that way — 'twas a passel o* 
men an' boys, an' they carted him araound 
town in an old dory till the bottom fell 
aout, an* Ireson he told *em they'd be sorry 
for it some day. Well, the facts come aout 
later, same's they usually d6, too late to be 
any ways useful to an honest man ; an' 
Whittier he come along an* picked up the 
slack eend of a lyin* tale, and tarred an* 
feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more 
after he was dead. 'Twas the only time 
Whittier ever slipped up, an' *tweren*t fair. 
I whaled Dan good when he brought that 
piece back from school. You don't know 
no better, o* course, but I've give you the 
facts, hereafter an* evermore to be remem- 
bered. Ben Ireson weren't no sech kind o* 
man as Whittier makes aout ; my father he 
knew him well, before an' after that busi- 
ness, an* you beware o* hasty jedgments, 
young feller. Next ! ** 

Harvey had never heard Disko talk so 
long, and collapsed with burning cheeks ; 
but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could 
only learn what he was taught at school, 
and life was too short to keep track of 
every lie along the coast. 

Then Manuel touched the jangling, jar- 
ring little machette to a queer tune, and sang 
something in Portuguese about '^Nina^ inno- 
cente!'' ending with a full-handed sweep 
that brought the song up with a jerk. Then 
Disko obliged with his second song, to an 
old fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in 
the chorus. This is one stanza : 

'* Now Aprile is over and melted the snow, 
And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow ; 
Yes. out o* Noo Bedford we shortly must clear, 
We're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear." 

Here the fiddle went very softly for 
a while by itself, and then : 

*• Wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin' ; 
Wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin* off to sea ; 
Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin'; 
When I come back a loaf o' bread you'll be ! " 

That made Harvey almost weep, though 
he could not tell why. But it was much 
worse when the cook dropped the potatoes 
and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still 
leaning against the locker door, he struck 
into a tune that was like something very 
bad but sure to happen whatever you did. 
After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, 
his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his 
white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. 
Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear bet- 
ter ; and amid the straining of the timbers 
and the wash of the waters the tune crooned 
and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, 
till it ended with a wail. 

" Jiminy Christmas ! Thet gives me the 
blue creevles," said Dan. " What in thunder 
is it?" 

"The song of Fin McCoul," said the 
cook, "when he wass going to Norway.' 
His English was not thick, but all clear cut, 
as though it came from a phonograph. 

"Faith, I've been to Norway, but I didn't 
make that unwholesim noise. 'Tis like 
some of our old songs, though,'* said Long 

" Don't let*s hev another *thout somethin* 
between," said Dan ; and the accordion 
struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended : 

*' It*s six an' twenty Sundays sence las' we saw the 
With fifteen hunder quintal, 
An' fifteen hunder quintal, 
'Teen hunder toppin' quintal, 
'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand ! " 

" Hold on," roared Tom Piatt. " D'ye 
want to nail the trip, Dan ? That*s Jonah 
sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet." 

"No, *tain't. Is it, dad? Not unless 
you sing the very las* verse. You can't 
learn me anything on Jonahs ! " 

" What's that ? '* said Harvey. " What's 
a Jonah ? ** 

" A Jonah's anything that spoils the luck. 
Sometimes it's a man — sometimes it's a boy 
— or a bucket. I've known a splittin'-knife 
Jonah two trips till we was on to it,*' said 
Tom Piatt. "There's all sorts o* Jonahs. 
Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on 
George's. Td never ship with Jim Bourke, 
not if I was starvin*. There wuz a green 
dory on the * Ezra Flood.' Thet was 
a Jonah too, the worst sort o' Jonah. 

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2 26 

''CAPTAINS courageous:' 


Drowned four men she did, an' ased to 
shine fiery o* nights in the nest** 

** And you believe that ? '* said Harvey, 
remembering what Tom Piatt had said 
at>out candles and models. " Haven't we 
all got to take what's served ? *' 

A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. 
" Outboard, yes ; inboard, things can hap- 
pen," said Disko. '* Don't you go to makin' 
a mock of Jonahs, young feller." 

" Well, Harve ain't no Jonah. Day after 
we catched him," Dan stuck in, "we had 
a toppin* good catch." 

The cook threw up his head and laughed 
suddenly — a queer, thin laugh. He was 
a most disconcerting nigger. 

" Murder ! " said Long Jack. " Don't do 
that again, doctor. We ain't used to ut.** 

" What's wrong ? " said Dan. "Ain't he 
our mascot, an' didn't they strike on good 
after we'd struck him ? " 

" Oh ! yess," said the cook. " I know 
that, but the catch iss not finish yet." 

" He ain't goin' to do us any harm," said 
Dan, hotly. " What are ye hintin' an* 
edgin' to ? ffe*s all right." 

" No harm. But one day he will be your 
master, Danny." 

"That all?" said Dan, placidly. "He 
wun't — not by a heap." 

" Master," said the cook, pointing to 
Harvey. "Man f" and he pointed to Dan. 

" That's news. How soon ? " said Dan, 
with a laugh. 

" In some years, and I shall see it. 
Master and man — man and master." 

" How in thunder d'ye work that out?" 
said Tom Piatt. 

" In my head, where I can see." 

"How?** This from all the others at 

" I do not know, but so it will be." He 
dropped his head, and went on peeling the 

potatoes, and not another word could they 
get out of him. 

" Well," said Dan, ** a heap o* things '11 
hev to come abaout 'fore Harve's any master 
o* mine ; but I'm glad the doctor ain*t 
choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, 1 
mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest 
Jonah in the fleet regardin' his own ^)ecial 
luck. Dunno ef it's spreadin' same's small- 
pox. He ought to be on the * Carrie Pit- 
man.' That boat's her own Jonah sure — 
crews an' gear no make no differ. Jiminy 
Christmas ! She'll etch loose in a flat 

" We're well clear o* the fleet, anyway," 
said Disko. "* Carrie Pitman' an' all.*' 
There was a rapping on the deck. 

" Uncle Salters has catched his luck," 
said Dan, as his father departed. 

" It's blown clear," Disko cried, and all the 
foc'sle tumbled up for a breath of fresh air. 
The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in 
great rollers behind it. The "We're Here" 
slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and 
ditches which felt quite sheltered and 
homelike if they would only stay still ; but 
they changed without rest or mercy and 
flung up the schooner to crown one peak 
of a thousand gray hills, while the wind 
hooted through her rigging as she zig- 
zagged down the slopes. Far away a sea 
would burst in a sheet of foam, and the 
others would follow suit as at a signal, till 
Harvey^s eyes swam with the vision of 
interlacing whites and grays. Four or five 
Mother Carey*s chickens stormed round in 
circles, shrieking as they swept past the 
bows. A rain squall or two strayed aim- 
lessly over the hopeless waste, ran down 
wind and back again, and melted away. 

" Seems to me I saw somethin* flicker 
jest naow over yonder," said Uncle Salters, 
pointing to the northeW 

"Can't be any of the fleet,** said EHsko, 
peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the 
foc'sle gangway as the solid bows hatchetted 
into the troughs. " Sea's oilin' over dretful 
fast. Danny, don't you want to skip up a 
piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays ? " 

Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather 
than climbed up the main rigging (this con- 
sumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself 
around the reeling cross-trees, and let his 
eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy- 
flag on tlie shoulder of a mile-away swell. 

"She's all right," he hailed. "SailO! 
Dead to the noth'ard, comin* down like 
smoke ! Schooner she be, too." 

They waited yet another half -hour, the 
sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of 
sickly sun from time to time, that made 

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patches of olive-green water. Then a stump- 
foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to 
be followed on the next wave by a high 
stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-hom 
davits. The sails were red tanned. 

" Frenchmen ! " shouted Dan. " No, 'tain't 
neither. Da-ad ! " 

" That's no French," said Disko. " Salt- 
ers, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw 
in a keg-head." 

" You can't nowise tell fer sure." 

"I've eyes. It's Uncle Abishai," 

"The head-king of all Jonahs," groaned 
Tom Piatt. " O Salters, Salters, why wasn't 
you abed an' asleep ? " 

"How could I tell?" said poor Salters, 
as the schooner swung up. 

She might have been the very "Flying 
Dutchman," so foul, draggled, and unkempt 
was every rope and stick aboard. Her old- 
style quarterdeck was some four or five 
feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and 
tangled like weed at a wharf -end. She was 
running before the wind — yawing fright- 
fully — her staysail let down to act as a sort 
of extra foresail, "scandalized," they call it, 
and her foreboom guyed out, over the side. 
Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fash- 
ioned frigate's ; her jib-boom had been 
fished and spliced and nailed and clamped 
beyond further repair ; and as she hove her- 
self forward, and sat down on her broad 
tail, she looked for all the world like a 
blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering 
at a decent girl. 

"That's Abishai," said Salters. "Full 
o* gin an' Judique men, an' the judgments 
o' Providence layin' fer him an' never takin* 


good holt. He's run in to bait, Miquelon 

" He'll run her under," said Long Jack. 
" That's no rig fer this weather." 

" Not -he, 'r he'd a-done it long ago," 
Disko replied. "Looks if he cal'lated to 
run us under. Ain't she daown by the head 
more'n natural, Tom Piatt t " 

" Ef it's his style o* Joadin' her she ain't 
safe," said the sailor, slowly. " Ef she's 
spewed her oakum he'd better git to his 
pumps mighty quick." 

The creature threshed up, wore round 
with a clatter and rattle, and lay head to 
wind within ear-shot. 

A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, 
and a thick voice yelled something Harvey 
could not understand. But Disko's face 
darkened. " He'd resk every stick he hez 
to carry bad news. Says we're in fer a shift 
o' wind. He's in fer worse. Abishai ! 
Abishai ! " He waved his arm up and 
down with the gesture of a man at the 
pumps, and pointed forward. The crew 
mocked him and laughed. 

" Jounce ye, an' strip ye, an' trip ye ! " 
yelled Uncle Abishai. "A livin' gale — a 
livin* gale. Yah! Cast up fer your last 
trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You 
won't see Gloucester no more, no more ! " 

"Crazy full — as usual. " said Tom Piatt. 
" Wish he hadn't spied us, though." 

She drifted out of hearing while the gray- 
head yelled something about a dance at 
the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the 
foc'sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen 
the sloven decks and the savage-eyed crew. 
" An' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer 
her draught," said Long Jack. " I won- 
dher what mischief he's been at ashore." 
" He's a trawler," Dan explained, " an' 
he runs in fer bait all along the coast. 
Oh no, not home, he don't go. He 
deals along the south an' east shore up 
yonder." He nodded in the direction 
of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. 
" Dad won't never take me ashore there. 
They're a mighty tough crowd — an' 
Abishai's the toughest. You saw his 
boat? Well, she's nigh seventy year 
old, they say ; the last o* the old Marble- 
head heel-tappers. They don't make 
them quarterdecks any more. Abishai 
don't use Marblehead, though. He 
ain't wanted there. He jes' drifs 
araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' 
like you've heard. Bin a Jonah fer 
years an* years, he hez. Gits liquor 
frum the Feecamp boats fer makin' 
spells an' sellin' winds an' such truck. 
Crazy, I guess." 

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" 'Twon't be any use underrunnin' the 
trawl to-night,*' said Tom Piatt, with quiet 
despair. "He come alongside special to 
cuss us. I'd give my wage an' share to see 
him at the gangway o' the old * Ohio ' 'fore 
we'd quit floggin*. Jest about six dozen, an' 
Sam Mocatta layin' em on criss-cross ! " 

The dishevelled ** heel-tapper " danced 
drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed 
her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phono- 
graph voice : " It wass his own death made 
him speak so ! He iss fey — fey, I tell you ! 
Look ! " She sailed into a patch of watery 
sunshine three or four miles distant. The 
patch dulled and faded out, and even as 
the light passed so did the schooner. She 
dropped into a hollow and — was not. 

" Run under, by the Great Hook-Block ! " 
shouted Disko, jumping aft. "Drunk or 
sober, we've got to help 'em. Heave short 
and break her out ! Smart." 

Harvey was thrown on the deck by the 
shock that followed the setting of the jib 
and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, 
and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily 
from the bottom, heaving in as they moved 
away. This is a bit of brute force seldom 
resorted to except in matters of life and 
death, and the little " We're Here " com- 
plained like a human. They ran down to 
where Abishai's craft had vanished ; found 
two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a 
stove-in dory, but nothing more. " Let 'em 
go," said Disko, though no one had hinted at 
picking them up. " I wouldn't hev a match 
that belonged to Abishai aboard. Guess 
she run clear under. Must ha' been spewin' 
her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought 
to pump neither. That's one more boat 
gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk." 

" Glory be ! " said Long Jack. " We'd ha* 
been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' 

" Thinkin* o* that myself," said Tom 

" Fey ! Fey ! " said the cook, rolling his 
eyes. *' He hass taken his own luck with 

" Ver' good thing, I think, to tell the fleet 
when we see. Eh wha-at?" said Manuel. 
" If you runna that way before the wind and 

she work open her seams " He threw 

out his hands with an indescribable gesture, 
while Penn sat down on the house and 
sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. 
Harvey could not realize that he had seen 
death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. 

Then Dan went up the cross-trees, and 
Disko steered them back to within sight of 
their own trawl-buoys just before the fog 
blanketted the sea once again. 

"We go mighty quick hereabouts when 
we do go," was all he said to Harvey. 
" You think on that fer a spell, young feller. 
That was liquor." 

After dinner it was calm enough to fish 
from the decks — Penn and Uncle Salters 
were very zealous this time — and the catch 
was large and large fish. 

" Abishai has shorely took his luck with 
him," said Salters. " The wind hain't backed 
ner riz ner nothin'. How about the trawl? 
I despise superstition, anyway." 

Tom Piatt insisted that they had much 
better haul the thing and make a new berth. 
But the cook said : " The luck iss in two 
pieces. You will find it so when you look, 
/know." This so tickled Long Jack that 
he overbore Tom Piatt, and the two went 
out together. 

Underrunning a trawl means pulling it in 
on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, 
rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back 
to the sea again — something like pinning 
and unpinning linen on a wash-line. It is 
a lengthy business and rather dangerous ; 
but when they heard : " And naow to thee, 
O Capting," booming out of the fog, the 
crew of the "We're Here" took heart. 
The dory swirled alongside well loaded ; 
Tom Piatt yelling for Manuel to act as relief- 

"The luck's cut square in two pieces," 
said Long Jack, forking in the fish, while 
Harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with 
which the plunging dory was saved from 
destruction. " One half was jest punkins. 
Tom Piatt wanted to haul her an* ha' done 
wid ut ; but I said, 'I'll back cookie that 
has the second sight,' an' the other half 
come up sagging full o' big 'uns. Hurry, 
Man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. There's 
luck afloat to-night." 

The fish bit at the newly baited hooks from 
which their brethren had just been taken, 
and Tom Piatt and Long Jack moved meth- 
odically up and down the length of the trawl, 
the boat's nose under the wet line of hooks, 
stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called 
pumpkins, slatting off^ the fresh-caught cod 
against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading 
Manuel's dory till dusk. 

" I'll take no risks," said Disko then, *' not 
with him floatin' around so near. Abishai 
won't sink fer a week. Heave in the dories, 
an' we'll dress down after supper." 

That was a mighty dressing-down, at- 
tended by three or four blowing grampuses. 
It lasted till nine o'clock, and Disko was 
thrice heard to chuckle as Harvey pitched 
the split fish into the hold. 

" Say, you^re haulin' ahead dretful fast," 

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said Dan, when they ground the knives Wop ! She sat down in the moon-path 

after the men had turned in. " There's on the water, courtesying with a flour- 

somethin* of a sea to-night, an* I hain't ish of pride, impressive enough had not 

heard you make no remarks on it." the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its 

** Too busy," Harvey replied, testing a box. 

blade's edge. " Come to think of it, she is Harvey laughed aloud. " Why, it's just 

a high-kicker." as if she was alive," he said. 

The little schooner was gambolling all " She's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry 

around her anchor among the silver-tipped as a herrin'," said Dan enthusiastically, as 

waves. Backing 
with a start of 
affected surprise 
at the sight of 
the strained ca- 
ble, she pounced 
on it like a kit- 
ten, while the 
spray of her 
descent burst 
through the 
hawse- holes 
with the report 
of a gun. Shak- 
ing her head, 
she would say : 
" Well, rm sor- 
ry I can't stay 
any longer with 
you. Tm going 
North," and si- 
dled off, halting 
suddenly with a 
dramatic rattle 
of her rigging. 
** As I was just 
going to ob- 
serve,* ' she 
would begin, as 
gravely as a 
drunken man 
addressing a 
lamp-post. The 
rest of the sen- 
tence (she acted 
her words in 
dumb -show, of 
course) was lost 
in a nt of the 
fidgets, when 


he was slun^ 
across the deck. 
" Fends 'em off 
an' fends 'em off, 
an* * Don't ye 
come anigh me,' 
she sez. Look 
at her — jest look 
at her ! Sakes ! 
You should see 
one o* them 
toothpicks hist- 
in' up her anchor 
on her spike 
outer fifteen- 
fathom water." 

*^ What's a 
Dan ? " 

" Them new 
haddockers an' 
herrin' boats. 
Fine's a yacht 
forward, with 
yacht sterns to 
*em, an' spike 
bowsprits, an' a 
haouse that ud 
take our hold. 
I've heard that 
Burgess him.self 
he made the 
models for three 
or four of *em. 
Dad's sot agin 
'em on account 
o' their pitchin' 
an' joltin', but 
there's heaps o* 
money in 'em. 

she behaved exactly like a puppy chewing Dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways 
a string, a clumsy woman in a side -saddle, progressive — he don't go with the march 
a hen with her head cut off, or a cow o' the times. They're chock full o' labor- 
stung by a hornet, as the whim of the sea savin' jigs an' such all. Ever seed the 
took her. * Elector ' o' Gloucester ? She's a daisy, ef 

" See her sayin' her piece. She's Patrick she is a toothpick." 
Henry naow," said Dan. " What do they cost, Dan ?" 

She swung sideways on a roller, and ges- " Hills o* dollars. Fifteen thousand, 

ticulated with her jib-boom from port to p'haps ; more, mebbc. There's gold leaf 

starboard. an* everything you kin think of." Then to 

" But — ez — fer — me, give me liberty — er himself, half under his breath, " Guess I'd 

give me — death." call her * Hattie S.,' too." 

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''CAPTAINS courageous:* 


That was the first of many talks with 
Dan, who told him why he would transfer 
his dory's name to the imaginary Burgess- 
modelled haddocker. Harvey heard a good 
deal about the real Hattie at Gloucester ; 
saw a lock of her hair — which Dan, finding 
fair words of no avail, had ** hooked *' as she 
sat in front of him at school that winter — and 
a photograph. Hattie was about fourteen 
years old, with an awful contempt for boys, 
and had been trampling on Dan's heart 
through the winter. All this was revealed 
under oath of solemn secrecy on moonlit 
decks, in the dead dark, or in choking fog ; 
the whining wheel behind them, the climb- 
ing deck before, and without, the unresting, 
clamorous sea. Once, of course, as the boys 
came to know each other, there was a fight, 
which raged from bow to stern, till Penn 
came up and separated them, but promised 
not to tell Disko, who thought fighting on 
watch rather worse than sleeping. Harvey 
was no match for Dan physically, but it says 
a great deal for his new training that he 
took his defeat and did not try to get even 
with his conqueror by underhand methods. 

That was after he had been cured of 
a string of boils between his elbows and 
wrists, where the wet jersey and oilskins cut 
into the flesh. The salt water stung them 
unpleasantly, but Dan treated them when 
they were ripe with Disko's razor, and as- 
sured Harvey that now he was a ** blooded 
Banker." The affliction of gurry-sores was 
the mark of the caste that claimed him. 

Being a boy and very busy, he did not 
bother his head with too much thinking. 
But one day, as he stood on the foc'sle lad- 
der, guying the cook, who had accused him 
and Dan of hooking fried pies, it occurred to 
him that this was a vast improvement on 
taking snubbings from strangers in the 
smoking-room of a hired liner. 

He was a recognized part of the scheme 
of things on the "We're Here"; had his 
place at the table and among the bunks ; 
and could hold his own in the long talks on 
stormy da)rs, when the others were always 
ready to listen to what they called his 
" fairy tales " of his life ashore. He knew 
where Disko kept the old green-crusted 
quadrant, that they called the ** hog-yoke" — 
under the bed-bag in his bunk. When he 
took the sun, and with the help of a " Robert 
B. Thomas " almanac, found the latitude, 
Harvey would jump down into the cabin 
and scratch the reckoning and date with a 
nail on the rust of the stove-pipe. Now, 

the chief engineer of the liner could have 
done no more. The said ** hog-yoke," an 
Eldridge chart, the farming almanac, 
Blunt's ''Coast Pilot," and Bowditch's 
" Navigator," were all the weapons Disko 
needed to guide him, except the deep-sea 
lead that was his spare eye. Harvey nearly 
slew Penn with it when Tom Piatt taught 
him first how to ''fly the blue pigeon"; 
and, though his strength was not equal to 
continuous sounding in any sort of a sea, 
for calm weather on shoal water Disko 
used him freely. As Dan said : " 'Tarn't 
soundin's dad wants. It's samples. Grease 
her up good, Harve." Harvey would tallow 
the cup at the end, and carefully bring 
the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might 
be, to Disko, who fingered and smelt it and 
then gave judgment. As has been said, 
when Disko thought of cod he thought as a 
cod ; and by some mysterious mixture of 
instinct and experience, moved the ** We're 
Here " from berth to berth, alwa)rs with the 
fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on 
the unseen board. 

But his board was the Grand Bank — a tri- 
angle of two hundred and fifty miles on each 
side— a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked 
with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried 
with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the 
reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of 
the fishing-fleet. 

For days they worked in fog — Harvey at 
the bell — till grown familiar with the thick 
airs, he went out with Tom Piatt, his heart 
rather in his mouth. But the fog would not 
lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can 
be helplessly afraid for six hours at a time. 
Harvey devoted himself to his lines and the 
gaff or gob-stick as Tom Piatt called for 
them ; and they rowed back to the schooner 
guided by the bell and Tom's instinct ; 
Manuel's conch sounding thin and faint be- 
side them. But it was an unearthly experi- 
ence, and, for the first time in a month, 
Harvey dreamed of the shifting, smoking 
floor of water round the dory, the lines 
that strayed away into nothing, and the air 
above that melted on the sea below ten feet 
from his straining e}'es. A few days later 
he was out with Manuel on what should have 
been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole 
length of the roding ran out and still the 
anchor found nothing, and Harvey grew 
mortally afraid, for that his last touch with 
earth was lost. " Whale-hole," said Manuel, 
hauling in. " That is good joke on Disko. 
Come ! " and he rowed to the schooner to 
find Tom Piatt and the others jeering at 
the skipper because, for once, he had led 
them to the Bt^^f ed^S^y (St>bg*^ ^halc 




''hi! s.w! arrktiz vol's! attrnoe/! nous sommss venant pour tabac' 'ah, tabac, tabac!* ' 

Deep, the blank hole of the Grand Bank. 
They made another berth through the fog, 
and that time the hair of Harvey's head 
stood up when he went out in Manuel's 
dory. A whiteness moved in the whiteness 
of the fog with a breath like the breath of 
the grave, and there was a roaring, a plung- 
ing, and spouting. It was his first intro- 
duction to fhe dread summer berg of the 
Bank, and he cowered in the bottom of the 
boat while Manuel laughed. There were 
days, though, clear and soft and warm, when 
it seemed a sin to do anything but loaf over 
the hand-lines and spank the drifting ** sun- 
scalds " with an oar ; and there were days 
of light airs, when Harvey was taught how 
to steer the schooner from one berth to 

It thrilled through him when he first felt 
the keel answer to his hand on the spokes and 
slide over the long hollows as the foresail 
scythed back and forth against the blue sky. 
That was magnificent, in spite of Disko say- 

ing that it would break a snake's back to fol- 
low the wake. But, as usual, pride ran before 
a fall. They were sailing on the wind with 
the stay-sail — an old one, luckily— set, and 
Harvey jammed her right into it to show Dan 
how completely he had mastered the art. 
The fore-sail went over with a bang, and the 
fore-gaff stabbed and ripped through the 
stay-sail, which was, of course, prevented 
from going over by the main-stay. They 
lowered the wreck in awful silence, and 
Harvey spent his leisure hours for the next 
few days under Tom Piatt's lee, learning to 
use a needle and palm. Dan hooted with 
joy, for, as he said, he had made the very 
same blunder himself in his early days. 

Boylike, Harvey imitated all the men by 
turns, till he had combined Disko's peculiar 
stoop at the wheel, Long Jack's swinging 
overhand when the lines were hauled, 
Manuel's round-shouldered but effective 
stroke in a dory, and Tom Piatt's generous 
" Ohio " stride along the deck. 

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" *Tis beautiful to see how he takes to ut," 
said Long Jack, when Harvey was looking 
out by the windlass one thick noon. " I'll 
lay my wage an' share 'tis more'n half play- 
actin* to him an* he consates himself he's a 
bowld mariner. Watch his little bit av a 
back now ! " 

" That's the way we all begin," said Tom 
Piatt. ** The boys they make believe all the 
time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein* 
men, an' so till they die — pretendin' an* pre- 
tendin'. /done it on the old * Ohio,* I know. 
Stood my first watch — harbor-watch — feelin' 
finer *n Farragut. Dan's full o* the same 
kind o* notions. See 'em now, actin* to be 
genewine moss-backs — every hair a rope- 
yarn an* blood Stockholm tar." He spoke 
down the cabin stairs. " Guess you're mis- 
took in your judgments fer once, Disko. 
What in Rome made ye tell us all here the 
kid was crazy ? " 

" He wuz," Disko replied. ** Crazy ez a 
loon when he come aboard ; but I'll say he's 
sobered up consid'ble sense. I cured him." 

** He yarns good," said Tom Piatt. 
** T'other night he told us abaout a kid of his 
own size steerin* a cunnin' little rig an' four 
ponies up an' down Toledo, Ohio, I think 
'twas, an' givin' suppers to a crowd o' sim'- 
lar kids. Cur'us kind o' fairy-tale, but blame 
interestin'. He knows scores of 'em." 

"Guess he strikes 'em outen his own 
head," Disko called from the cabin, where 
he was busy with the log-book. " Stands 
to reason that sort is all made up. It don't 
take in no one but Dan, an' he laughs at it. 
I've heard him, behind my back." 

" Y'ever hear what Sim'on Peter Ca'houn 
said when they whacked up a match 'twix' 
his sister Hitty an* Lorin' Jerauld, an' the 
boys put up that joke on him daown to 
George's ? " drawled Uncle Salters, who was 
dripping peaceably under the lee of the 
starboard dory-nest. 

Tom Piatt puffed at his pipe in scornful 
silence : he was a Cape Cod man, and had 
not known that tale more than twenty 
years. Uncle Salters went on with a rasp- 
ing chuckle. 

" Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he said, an' he 
was jest right, abaout Lorin', * Ha'af on 
the taoun,* he said, * an' t'other ha'af blame 
fool ; an' they told me she's married a 'ich 
man.' Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he hadn't no 
roof to his mouth, an* talked that way.** 

" He didn't talk any Pennsylvania Dutch," 
Tom Piatt replied. " You'd better leave a 
Cape man to tell that tale. The Ca'houns 
was gypsies frum way back." 

" Wal, I don't profess to be any elocu- 
tionist," Salters said. " I'm comin' to the 

moral o' things. That's jest abaout what 
aour Harve be! Ha'af on the town, an' 
t'other ha'af blame fool ; an' there's some 
'11 believe he's a rich man. Yah ! " 

" Did ye ever think how sweet 'twould be 
to sail wid a full crew o' Salterses ? " said 
Long Jack. " Ha'af in the furrer an* other 
ha'af in the muck-heap, as Ca'houn did not 
say, an' makes out he's a fisherman I " 

A little laugh went round at Salters's 

Disko held his tongue, and wrought over 
the log-book that he kept in a hatchet-faced, 
square hand : this was the kind of thing that 
ran on, page after soiled page : 

"yi//y 17. This day thick fog and few 
fish. Made berth to northward. So ends 
this day. 

^^July 18. This day comes in with thick 
fog. Caught a few fish, 

^^July 19. This day comes in with light 
breeze from N. E, and fine weather. Made 
a berth to eastward. Caught plenty fish, 

^^July 20. Thisy the Sabbathy comes in 
with fog and light winds. So ends this day. 
Total fish caught this weeky 3,478." 

They never worked on Sundays, but 
shaved, and washed themselves if it were 
fine, and Pennsylvania sang hymns. Once 
or twice he suggested that, if it was not an 
impertinence, he thought he could preach a 
little. Uncle Salters nearly jumped down his 
throat at the mere notion, reminded him that 
he was not a preacher and mustn't think of 
such things. " We'd hev him rememberin* 
Johnstown next," Salters explained, "an* 
what would happen then ? " So they com- 
promised on his reading aloud from a book 
called " Josephus." It was an old leather- 
bound volume, smelling of a hundred trips, 
very solid and very like the Bible, but en- 
livened with accounts of battles and sieges ; 
and they read it nearly from cover to cover. 
Otherwise Penn was a silent little body. 
He would not utter a word for three days 
on end sometimes, though he played check- 
ers, listened to the songs, and laughed at 
the stories. When they tried to stir him up, 
he would answer ; " I don't wish to seem 
unneighborly, but it is because I have noth- 
ing to say. My head feels quite empty. I've 
almost forgotten my name." He would 
turn to Uncle Salters with an expectant 

**Why, Pennsylvania /'rij//,** Salters would 
shout. ** You'll fergit me next." 

** No — never," Penn would say, shutting 
his lips firmly, ** Pennsylvania Pratt, of 
course," he would repeat over and over. 
Sometimes it was Uncle Salters who forgot, 
and told him he was Haskins or Rich or 

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McVitty ; but Penn was equally content- 
till next time. 

He was always very tender with Harvey, 
whom he pitied both as a lost child and as 
a lunatic ; and when Salters saw Penn liked 
the boy, he relaxed, too. Salters was not an 
amiable person (he esteemed it his business 
to keep the boys in order) ; and the first 
time Harvey, in fear and trembling, on a 
still day, managed to shin up to the main- 
truck (Dan was behind him ready to help), 
he esteemed it his duty to hang Salters's big 
sea-boots up there — a sight of shame and 
derision to the nearest schooner. With 
Disko, Harvey took no liberties ; not even 
when the old man dropped direct orders, 
and treated him, like the rest of the crew, 
to ** don't you want to do so and so ? " and 
" guess you'd better," and so forth. There 
was something about the clean-shaven lips 
and the puckered corners of the eyes that 
sobered young blood. 

Disko showed him the meaning of the 
thumbed and pricked chart, which, he said, 
laid over any government publication what- 
soever ; led him, pencil in hand, from berth 
to ^berth over the whole string of banks — 
Le Have, Western, Banquereau, St. Pierre, 
Green, and Grand — talking " cod " mean- 
time. Taught him, too, the principle on 
which the " hog-yoke" was worked. 

In this Harvey excelled Dan, for he had 
inherited a head for figures, and the notion 
of stealing information from a glimpse of 
the sullen Bank sun appealed to all his keen 
wits. In other sea-matters, his age handi- 
capped him. As Disko said, he should 
have begun when he was ten. Dan could 
bait up trawl or lay his hand on any rope 
in the dark ; and at a pinch, when Uncle 
Salters had a gurry-sore on his palm, could 
dress-down by sense of touch. He could 
steer in anything short of half a gale by 
the feel of the wind on his face, humoring 
the " We're Here *' just when she needed it. 
These things he did as automatically as he 
skipped about the rigging, or made his dory 
a part of his own will and body. But he 
could not communicate his knowledge to 

Still there was a good deal of general 
information flying about the schooner on 
stormy days, when they lay up in the fo- 
c'sle or sat on the cabin lockers, where 
spare eye-bolts, leads, and rings rolled and 
rattled in the pauses of the talk. Disko 
spoke of whaling voyages in the fifties ; 
of great she-whales slain beside their young ; 
of death agonies on the black, tossing seas, 
and blood that spurted forty feet in the air ; 
of boats smashed to splinters ; of patent 

rockets that went off wrong-end-first and 
bombarded the trembling crews ; of cutting 
in and boiling down, and the terrible **nip " 
of '71, when twelve hundred men were made 
homeless on the ice in three days — won- 
derful tales, all true. But more wonderful 
still were his stories of the cod, and how 
they argued and reasoned on their private 
businesses deep down below the keel. Long 
Jack's tastes ran more to the supernatural. 
He held them silent with ghastly stories of 
the " Yo-hoes " on Monomoy Beach, that 
mock and terrify lonely clam-diggers; of 
sand-walkers and dune-haunters who were 
never properly buried ; of hidden treasure 
on Fire Island guarded by the spirits of 
Kidd's men ; of ships that sailed in the fog 
slap over Truro township ; of that harbor 
in Maine where no one but a stranger will 
lie at anchor twice in a certain place because 
of a dead crew who row alongside at mid- 
night with the anchor in the bow of their 
old-fashioned boat, whistling — not calling, 
but whistling — for the soul of the man who 
broke their rest. 

Harvey had a notion that the east coast of 
his native land, from Mount Desert south, 
was populated chiefly by people who took 
their horses there in the summer and enter- 
tained in country-houses with hardwood 
floors and Vantine portieres. He laughed 
at the ghost tales — not as much as he would 
have done a month before — but ended by 
sitting still and shuddering. 

Tom Piatt dealt with his interminable 
trip round the Horn on the old ** Ohio " in 
the flogging days ; with a navy more extinct 
than the dodo — the navy that passed away 
in the great war. He told them how red- 
hot shot are dropped into a cannon, a 
wad of wet clay between them and the 
cartridge ; how they sizzle and reek when 
they strike wood, and how the little ship's 
boys of the " Miss Jim Buck ** hove water 
over them and shouted to the fort to 
try again. And he told tales of blockade — 
long weeks of swaying at anchor — varied 
only by the departure and return of steam- 
ers who had used up their coal (there was 
no change for the sailing-ships) ; of gales 
and cold — cold that kept two hundred men, 
night and day, pounding and chopping at 
the ice on cable, blocks, and rigging, when 
the galley -was as red-hot as the fort's 
shot, and men drank cocoa by the bucket. 
Tom Piatt had no use for steam. His 
service closed when that thing was com- 
paratively new. He admitted that it was a 
specious invention in time of peace, but 
looked hopefully for the day when sails 
should come back again on ten-thousand- 

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''CAPTAINS courageous:* 

ton frigates with hundred-and-ninety-foot 

Manuel's talk was slow and gentle — all 
about pretty gicls in Madeira washing clothes 
in the dry beds of streams, by moonlight, 
under waving bananas ; legends of saints, 
and tales of queer dances or fights away in 
the cold Newfoundland baiting- ports. Sal- 
ters was mainly agricultural, for, though 
he read " Josephus " and expounded it, his 
mission in life was to prove the value of 
green manures, and specially of clover, 
against every form of phosphate whatso- 
ever. He grew libellous about phosphates ; 
he dragged greasy " Orange Judd " books 
from his bunk and intoned them, wagging 
his finger at Harvey, to whom it was all 
Greek. Little Penn was so genuinely 
pained when Harvey made fun of Salters's 
lectures that the boy gave it up and suffered 
in polite silence. 

The cook naturally did not join in these 
conversations. As a rule, he only spoke 
when it was absolutely necessary ; but at 
times a queer gift of speech descended on 
him, and he held forth, half in Gaelic, half 
in broken English, an hour at a time. He 
was specially communicative with the boys, 
and he never withdrew his prophecy that 
one day Harvey would be Dan's master and 
that he would see it. He told them of 
mail-carrying in the winter up Cape Breton 
way, of the dog-train that goes to Coudray, 
and of the steamer " Arctic," that breaks . 
the ice between the mainland and Prince 
Edward Island. Then he told them stories 
that his mother had told him, of life far 
down to the southward, where water never 
froze ; and he said that when he died 
his soul would go to lie down on a warm 
white beach of sand with palm-trees waving 
above. That seemed to the boys a very 
odd idea for a man who had never seen a 
palm in his life. Then, too, regularly at 
each meal, he would ask Harvey, and Har- 
vey alone, whether the cooking was to his 
taste; and this always made the "second 
half " laugh. But they had a great respect 
for the cook's judgment, and in their hearts 
considered Harvey something of a mascot 
by consequence. 

But while Harvey was taking in knowl- 
edge of new things at each pore and hard 
health with every gulp of the good air, the 
** We're Here " went her ways and did her 
business on the Bank, and the silvery gray 
kenchesof well-pressed fish mounted higher 
and higher in the hold. No one day's work 
was out of the common, but the average 
days were many and close together. 

Naturally, a man of Disko's reputation 

was closely watched — "scrowged upon," 
Dan called it — by his neighbors, but he had 
a very pretty knack of giving them the slip 
through the curdling, glidy fog-banks. 
Disko avoided company for two reasons. 
He wished to make his own experiments, in 
the first place ; and in the second, he ob- 
jected to the mixed and curious gathering 
of a fleet of all nations. The bulk of them 
were mainly Gloucester boats, with a scatter- 
ing from Provincetown, Harwich, Chatham, 
and some of the Maine ports, but the crews 
drew from goodness knows where. Risk 
breeds recklessness, and when greed is 
added, there are fine chances for every kind 
of accident in the crowded fleet, which, like 
a mob of sheep, is huddled round some un- 
recognized leader. " Let the two Jeraulds 
lead *em," said Disko. *' We're baound to 
lay among 'em fer a spell on the Eastern 
Shoals; though ef luck holds, we won't hev 
to lay long. Where we are naow, Harve, 
ain't considered noways good ground." 

" Ain't it ? " said Harvey, who was draw- 
ing water (he had learned just how to wig- 
gle the bucket), after an unusually long 
dressing-down. " Shouldn't mind striking 
some poor ground for a change, then." 

"All the ground I want to see — don't 
want to strike her — is Eastern Point," said 
Dan. " Say, dad, it looks 's if we wouldn't 
hev to lay more'n two weeks on the Shoals. 
You'll meet all the comp'ny you want then, 
Harve. That's the time we begin to work. 
No reg'lar meals fer no one then. 'Mug-up 
when ye're hungry, an' sleep when ye can't 
keep awake. Good job you wasn't picked 
up a month later than you was or we'd 
never ha' had you dressed in shape fer the 
Old Virgin." 

Harvey understood from the Eldridge 
chart that the Old Virgin and a nest of 
curiously named shoals were the turning- 
point of the cruise, and that with good luck 
they would wet the balance of their salt 
there. But seeing the size of the Virgin 
(it was one tiny dot), he wondered how 
even Disko with the hog-yoke and the lead 
could find her. He learned later that Disko 
was entirely equal to that and any other 
business, and could even help others. A 
big four-by-five blackboard hung in the 
cabin, and Harvey never understood the 
need of it till, after some blinding thick 
days, they heard the un melodious tooting 
of a foot-power fog-horn — a machine whose 
note is as that of a consumptive elephant. 

They were making a short berth ; towing 
the anchor under their foot to save trouble. 
" Square-rigger bellowin' fer his latitude," 
jaid Long Jack. The dripping red head- 

Digitized by 




sails of a bark glided out of the fog, and the 
"We're Here" rang her bell thrice, using 
sea shorthand. 

The larger boat backed her topsail with 
clamor and shoutings. 

** Frenchman," said Uncle Salters, scorn- 
fully. " Miquelon boat from St. Malo." 
The farmer had a weatherly sea-eye. ** Tm 
most outer 'baccy, too, Disko." 

"Same here," said Tom Piatt. "Hi! 
Backez vous — backez vous / Standez away ez^ 
you butt-ended mucho-bono! Where you 
from— St. Malo, eh ? " 

" Ah, ha ! Mucho bono ! Out / out/ Clos 
Poulet—St, Malo ! St. Pierre et Miquelon;' 
cried the other crowd, waving woollen caps 
and laughing. Then all together, *' Bord J 
Bord! " 

" Bring up the board, Danny. Beats 
me how them Frenchmen fetch anywheres, 
exceptin* America's fairish broadly. Forty- 
six forty-nine's good enough fer them ; an* 
I guess it's abaout right, too." 

Dan chalked the figures on the board, 
and they hung it in the main-rigging to a 
chorus of Mercis from the bark. 

" Seems kinder unneighborly to let *em 
swedge off like this," Salters suggested, feel- 
ing in his pockets. 

" Hev ye learned French then sense last 
trip ?" said Disko. ** I don't want no more 
stone-ballast hove at us 'long o' your callin' 
Miquelon boats *footy cochins,' same's you 
did off Le Have." 

" Harmon Rush he said that was the way to 
rise 'em. Plain United States is good enough 
fer me. We're all dretf ul short on terbakker. 
Young feller, don't you speak French ?" 

" Oh, yes," said Harvey valiantly; and he 
bawled : " Hi ! Say! Arretez vous! At- 
tendez * Nous sommes venant pour tabac** 

" Ah, tabaCj tabac ! " they cried, and 
laughed again. 

" That hit 'em. Let's heave a dory over, 
anyway," said Tom Piatt. " I don't exactly 
hold no certificates on French, but I know 
another lingo that goes, I guess. Come on, 
Harve, an' interpret." 

The raffle and confusion when he and 
Harvey were hauled up the bark's black 
side was indescribable. Her cabin was all 
stuck round with glaring colored prints of 
the Virgin — the Virgin of Newfoundland, 
they called her. Harvey found his French 
of no recognized brand, and his conversation 
was limited to nods and grins. But Tom 
Piatt waved his arms and got along swim- 
mingly. The captain gave him a drink of 
unspeakable gin, and the opera-comique 
crew, with their hairy throats, red caps, 
and long knives, greeted him as a brother. 
Then the trade began. They had tobacco, 
plenty of it — American, that had never paid 
duty to France. They wanted chocolate 
and crackers. Harvey rowed back to ar- 
range with the cook and Disko, who owned 
the stores, and on his return the cocoa-tins 
and cracker-bags were counted out by the 
Frenchman's wheel. It looked like a pirat- 
ical division of loot ; but Tom Piatt came 
out of it roped with black pigtail and stuffed 
with cakes of chewing and smoking tobacco. 
Then these jovial mariners swung off into 
the mist, and the last Harvey heard was a 
gay chorus : 

" Par derri^re chez ma tante, 
II y a un bois joli, 
Et le rossignol y chante 
Et le jour et la nuit . . 
Que donneriez vous, belle, 
Qui Tam^nerait ici ? 
Je donnerai Quebec, 
Sorel et Saint Denis." 

"How was it my French didn't go and 
your sign talk did ? " Harvey demanded 
when the barter had been distributed among 
the " We're Heres." 

" Sign talk ! " Piatt guffawed. " Well, 
yes, 'twas sign talk, but a heap older 'n your 
French, Harve. Them French boats are 
chock full o' Freemasons, an' that's why." 

"Are you a Freemason then ?" 

"Look's that way, don't it?" said the 
man-o'-war's man, stuffing his pipe ; and 
Harvey had another mystery of the deep 
sea to brood upon. 

{.To be continued ^ 

Digitized by 



By Lida Rose McCabe. 

T nightfall in May, 1887, an 
officer of the law halted at a 
palatial country seat on the 
Pacific Slope. A knock at 
the door was answered by a 
tall man of military bearing. 
Traces of trouble were graven 
on his parchment-like face. His hair and 
moustache were snow-white. High cheek 
bones, and a receding forehead, em- 
phasized by bushy eye-brows from which 
peered restless steel-gray eyes, completed 
a striking personality. 

** I have papers from the United States 
Court which I wish to serve on William 
Kissane," said the officer. 

The other turned deathly pale, and 
answered: ** Drive round to that clump of 
eucalyptus and I will send him to you." 

The officer did as requested, and under 
the eucalyptus trees was soon rejoined by 
the same man of military bearing, who 
said: ** I am William Kissane." 

The officer then served a summons to 
appear in court and answer to a charge of 
guilt for a crime committed thirty years 
before. ''All right, all right," said the 
other hurriedly; ** I acknowledge service. 
Please excuse my not asking you into the 
house. We are all broken down." And 
feebly he retraced his steps across the lawn. 

No romance surpasses in dramatic inter- 
est the adventures of this hero of the 
** Martha Washington" case. To recall 
that famous trial is to revivify a phase of 
American civilization now almost obliter- 
ated. It is nearly half a century since 
the singular crime which the trial revealed 
was perpetrated, and most of the persons 
identified with either the crime or the trial 
have passed away. 

A steamer called " Martha Washing- 
ton " left the Cincinnati docks late in the 
night of January 7, 1852. She was heavily 
freighted with a cargo consigned to New 
Orleans and the markets of Texas and 
California. In her cabin were thirty pas- 
sengers. When seven days out, on the 
coldest night known to river men, she 
burned to the water's edge, off Island 
Sixty-five, in the Mississippi River. De- 
spite the loss of sixteen lives, together 

with the cargo, the catastrophe excited no 
more comment at the time than many like 

Towards the close of the same year, 
however, there appeared before P. B. 
Wilcox, United States Commissioner at 
Columbus, Ohio, one Sidney C. Burton, 
and charged half a score of men, several 
of them prominent in the business and 
social circles of Cincinnati, with loading 
the ** Martha Washington " with simu- 
lated freight and then causing her to be 
set on fire, for the purpose of defrauding 
the insurance companies whose policies 
they held on the steamer and her cargo. 
At Cleveland, Ohio, where Burton carried 
on business, and in the mercantile world at 
large, he was favorably known as a pros- 
perous dealer in wool and sheepskins. 
On the strength of his charges and evi- 
dence furnished by him, twelve arrests 
were made, and a preliminary hearing held 
before the Commissioner. Foremost 
among the accused was Captain Cum- 
mings, the owner of the " Martha Wash- 
ington." He was a typical Mississippi 
steamboat commander of the old time, 
daring, handsome, and popular. His 
home was at Grand Cove, Louisiana. 
During the Mexican War, in company with 
one Lyman Cole, a man named Holland, 
and four brothers named Chapin, to whose 
sister he was married, the captain had 
plied the waters of the Rio Grande, traffick- 
ing with the army. Not the least of the 
ventures of the partners was a gambling 
den on the Rio Grande. The close of the 
war found them all in Cincinnati, where 
the Chapins, forming a partnership with a 
young man from the East, embarked in the 
manufacture of boots and shoes, under the 
firm name of Filley and Chapin. 

They employed some 200 men in their 
factory, and carried on for a time the 
largest boot and shoe business in that 
city. Soon the Chapins formed a friend- 
ship with their business neighbors. Smith 
and Kissane, leading candle-makers and 
pork merchants. Kissane, young, shrewd, 
and clever, had been employed in the great 
pork house of Pugh and Johnson as book- 
keeper, and in recognition of his business 
ability was soon given an interest in the 

Digitized by 




firm, with whom he remained until 1849, 
when their pork house was destroyed by 
fire, under suspicious circumstances. Then 
Kissane formed a partnership with Smith. 

In his new venture Kissane had the 
management of all the outside transactions 
of the firm. The business of his life had 
necessitated almost constant association 
with river men. There 
was little of their traf- ^ 

fie with which he was 
not familiar. In this 
way he learned that 
great profits might be 
made by shipping 
large consignments 
of miscellaneous mer- 
chandise to Texas and 
California. On the 
Pacific coast at that 
period — shortly after 
the discovery of gold 
— Hungarian boots, 
which were out of 
style in the Cincinnati 
market, sold for forty- 
eight dollars a pair. 
Other merchandise 
brought proportionate 

In time Kissane be- 
came acquainted with 
Captain Cummings, 
who, since the Mexi- 
can War, had been 
lounging about Filley 
and Chapin's store and the Cincinnati 
docks, without apparent occupation. In 
•some manner he even became the captain's 
creditor for $2,000. In December, 185 1, 
Cummings bought the ** Martha Washing- 
ton,** a well-known steamboat that had 
seen much service. Kissane showed much 
interest in the purchase. In his insinuating 
way, which never failed to win confidence, 
he communicated to the Chapins his idea of 
the profit of shipping goods to Texas and 
California. The firm of Filley and Chapin 
had at this time failed, assigning to one of 
its creditors, Lyman Cole. The Chapins, 
themselves men of limited business sa- 
gacity,, foresaw in Kissane's suggestions a 
profitable way of disposing of their stock, 
while Lyman Cole, the assignee, a daring 
adventurer and a man of brains and 
resource, detected in them even a further 
and deeper meaning. 

Before the ** Martha Washington** set 
out on her first voyage under the com- 
mand of Captain Cummings, she took on 
apparently an immense cargo — rolls of 


leather ; sheepskins ; boxes of boots, 
shoes, and hats; candles, pork, whiskey, 
brandy, brooms, and barrels of oil. The 
shippers then took out insurance amount- 
ing in all to $300,000, while Captain Cum- 
mings insured the steamer for $4,500, 
taking the policy in the name of his 
pilot, Lewis Choate, in order to avoid 
trouble with old credi- 

The unusual severi- 
ty of the winter had 
greatly interfered with 
river traffic. The 
•* Martha Washing- 
ton '* was the first 
steamer to go down 
the river after the 
breaking of the ice. 
Contrary to the design 
of the conspirators, 
thirty persons sought 
passage on the ill- 
fated steamer, and 
sixteen of them per- 
ished. To Holland, 
the boatswain, the 
conspirators intrusted 
the burning of the 
boat. How well he did 
his hellish work, how 
skilfully every step 
was'covered, was fully 
revealed at the trial of 
the conspirators. 
In all probability 
the crime would never have been de- 
tected but for the dogged perseverance 
of Sidney Burton. He was a heavy credi- 
tor of Filley and Chapin. Shortly be- 
fore the sailing of the ** Martha Washing- 
ton '* he went to Cincinnati, and there 
learned for the first time that the firm 
had failed, and that Lyman Cole had 
possession of the stock. The preceding 
fall he had sold the firm 162 dozen sheep- 
skins, and at the same time had stored in 
the firm*s warehouse 182 dozen more which 
belonged to him. When he demanded the 
money for the skins he had sold and the 
return of these he had stored, the firm 
refused to pay him what was owing him or 
to return the skins he had left in store. 
Burton returned home smarting under the 
ill-treatment. Some time afterwards he 
met in New York City one of the Chapins, 
who told him he was there trying to get 
$10,000 insurance, due, as he claimed, 
on goods lost on the ** Martha Washing- 
ton." He said the insurance companies 
had treated his firm badly and were giving 


Digitized by 




it much trouble. He even offered to pay 
Burton his claim against the firm — $3,000 
— if he would help him recover the insur- 
ance. He refused, however, to let him 
have the policy. 

Burton's suspicions were aroused. He 
went to the office of the insurance com- 
pany, where he was shown the application. 
The policies, he dis- 
covered, had been 
taken out on the very 
sheepskins which he 
had stored with Filley 
and Chapin, and 
which he knew were 
in the factory at the 
time. Further devel- 
opments convinced 
him that the whole 
cargo shipped on the 
lost steamer was 
simulated. He com- 
municated his misgiv- 
ings to the insurance 
companies, who had 
already paid $60,000 
of the sum. claimed; 
and aided by the com- 
panies and his private 
fortune of $50,000, 
he set out to run 
down the conspira- 



The final trial took 
place at Columbus, 
Ohio, October, 1853, 
before Judge John 

McLean. It continued a month, and de- 
veloped into an immense popular sensa- 
tion. The array of legal talent engaged 
was brilliant. The defendants were repre- 
sented by Judge T. Walker and John Keb- 
ler of Cincinnati ; Judge N. H. Swayne, 
later Associate Justice of the United 
States Supreme Court ; Samuel Gallo- 
way, a close friend and adviser of Abra- 
ham Lincoln in the darkest days of the 
war; Ex-Governor Morehead of Ken- 
tucky; George E. Pugh, a distinguished 
member of Congress; George H. Pendle- 
ton, subsequently Minister to Germany; 
T. J. Gallagher; O. Brown; R. H. Stone; 
General Durbin Ward, long a leading ora- 
tor and counsellor of the Ohio Democracy; 
and the elder Thomas Ewing, first Secre- 
tary of the Interior. The government 
was represented by United States Attorney 
Morton of Cleveland, Ohio, and Henry 
Stanbery, afterwards Attorney-General in 
President Johnson's Cabinet, from which 
he resigned to defend Johnson in the 


famous impeachment trial. Four hundred 
witnesses were summoned from towns along 
the Rio Grande, Mississippi, and Ohio riv- 
ers, while curious spectators came in crowds 
from far and near, travelling often with 
much discomfort. It was still the day of 
flatboats, saddle-bags, and stage-coaches. 
Railroads had barely begun to weave their 
serpentine network 
across the country. 


Enter the west door 
of the quaint old 
courtroom. Against 
the east wall rises 
the judge's bench, a 
high, wooden struc- 
ture not unlike the 
pulpit of a mediaeval 
village church. With 
all the solemnity of 
\ old-time court dignity 
sits Judge McLean 
— a large, imposing 
gentleman of the old 
school, his thin, long 
silver hair lending a 
patriarchal halo to a 
fine head. In obedi- 
ence to the impulse 
of age and the tradi- 
tions of the Ohio 
bench, and despite 
the forensic brilliancy 
of the attorneys and 
the harrowing testimony of witnesses, he 
indulges, at intervals, in nature's sweet . 
restorer, balmy sleep. In front of the 
judge's bench sits Ewing, towering like a 
giant among his fellows, Swayne, Walker, 
and Pugh, all solid, remarkable men. 
Conspicuous always is the short thick body 
and Napoleonic head of Judge Walker. 
Quick, shrewd, brilliant, he is a lawyer of 
exceptional power and a good appetite for 
brandy. Three times a day he empties a 

Every eye, every ear is strained when 
without is heard the rumbling of the old 
omnibus which pulls up daily at the court 
to deposit the prisoners. Their hands and 
feet are heavily ironed. A cheer of ap- 
proval or rumble of dissatisfaction from 
the crowd at the door rends the air as they 
disappear within the court, followed by 
lawyers, jurors, and prominent witnesses, 
all of whom live as one family at the 
neighboring hotel. Attending the prison- 
ers are their wives, mothers, sisters, or 

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sweethearts. Handsome, dashing women, 
becomingly attired, they never fail to win 
sympathetic admiration. 

The bum of conversation ceases. The 
defendants take their seats. From the 
annals of piratical daring might have 
stepped Lyman Cole, a large, commanding 
man, with hair as black as a raven's wing, 
dark eyes, long mous- 
tache, and heavy 
beard. While the 
most damaging evi- 
dence is given, he 
coolly adjusts his 
gold-rimmed glasses 
and calmly surveys 
the witness. In com- 
plete contrast to Cole 
is Kissane, — tall, 
slender, graceful, 
with wavy blond hair, 
sunny blue eyes, 
pleasing manner, and 
voice of irresistible 
persuasiveness. He 
smiles often on his 
pretty sister and 
trusting mother, the 
latter a beautiful old 
Irish lady, who fol- 
lows his interests with 
all a mother's watch- 
ful love. Farther 
back are seen the 
rugged face of Cap- 
tain Cummings and 
the younger, but less 

agreeable, face of Holland, the boatswain, 
to whom was intrusted the burning of the 
steamer. On the witness-stand is the 
pilot, Lewis Choate. ** I was at the wheel 
when the * Martha Washington ' burned," 
says he. ** Captain Cummings was with 
me in the pilot-house. I remarked that I 
smelled fire. The captain looked about, 
and said there was no fire. He went down- 
stairs, however, and immediately the flames 
broke out. 

** I stood at the wheel until a line was 
made fast to a tree. There was no person 
alive in the cabin when the boat struck 
the shore. I could hear the glass rattling 
like hail in the burning cabin, where the 
flames roared like a tornado. I jumped 
ashore from the pilot-house — a hard spring 
it was; I struck partly in the water and 
partly on shore. All the passengers who 
ever got ashore did so at the instant the 
steamer struck the bank. Yes," he adds 
in a tragic voice, ** if I had believed that 
Captain Cummings set the boat on fire. 


I would have taken his life that night. 
If you," addressing Mr. Stanbery, who 
stands erect and alert, the very Bayard of 
the bar, ** had seen the misery, the suffer- 
ing, that night, on board the * Martha 
Washington,' you would not blame me. I 
am sure I would have killed the incendi- 
ary on the spot. It was the coldest night 
I ever saw in that 
country. No one 
could quench the 
flames. As well de- 
scribe a hurricane as 
that fire, so fierce, so 
swift was the de- 
struction it wrought. 
In less than a minute 
after the engineer 
shouted back to me 
that there was no 
fire,the flames flashed 
ten or twelve feet 
above the hurricane 
deck. The cabin of 
the boat had been 
painted over, God 
only knows how often 
— perhaps twenty 
times. It was not 
the coal-tar paint on 
the chimneys I 
smelled; it was a 
pine and turpentine 

The thread 
dropped by the pilot 
is now picked up by 
Captain Cummings, who revivifies that 
fatal night by telling how he strove to 
save two children by grasping their long 
hair and dragging ihcin through the 
flames, until the smoke drove him back. 
He lost his hold, and the children, fall- 
ing through the flames, disappeared in 
the dark, icy bosom of the Mississippi. 
The tears stream down his weatherbeaten 
face as he tells his story, while judge, 
counsel, jury, and the whole crowd of 
visitors are scarcely less moved. 

Many complicated points arose. It 
seemed scarcely possible that a steamer 
should float with so large a cargo as it 
was claimed that the " Martha Washing- 
ion " had on board. The ablest mathe- 
matician of the country testified that no 
steamer could possibly float with such a 
cargo. In direct contradiction to this 
testimony, old river men swore that it was 
impossible to overload a steamer. The 
prosecution introduced testimony tending 
to show that the boxes represented as con- 

Digitized by 




taining boots and shoes were filled with 
scraps of old leather, sand, and sawdust, 
and that the reputed barrels of oil and 
brandy were nothing more than so much 

The prosecution designed to shatter the 
defence by presenting at the decisive 
moment the testimony of the father of 
Chapin's partner Filley. 
Before the conspiracy 
was fully detected, Filley 
himself had died. He 
was a man of delicate 
constitution, and the 
crime so weighed on his 
conscience as to hasten 
his death. He made a 
deathbed confession of 
the whole plot to his 
father, in the presence of 
witnesses. This gave the 
testimony of the father 
the highest interest, and 
the prosecution eagerly 
awaited his arrival. But 
at Buffalo, while on his 
way to the trial, Filley 
the father was seized by 
masked men, gagged, and 
spirited to Canada, where 
he was concealed in a 
cellar until after a ver- 
dict had been rendered. 

In the beginning of the 
trial, newspaper reporters 
were excluded by the 
court, and for some time 
spirited war waged be- 
tween the judge and the press. With char- 
acteristic persistency the reporters finally 
gained admittance. In the vanguard was 
S. S. Cox, for many years a leading mem- 
ber of Congress from New York, then on 
the staff of the ** Ohio Statesman," where 
he won his famous soubriquet of ** Sunset." 
At this trial served the first stenographer 
ever seen in a Western court. 

The jury was chosen with difficulty. 
During their five weeks* service the mem- 
bers of it were assailed on every side by 
the zealous feminine sympathizers of the 
accused. By every art possible to youth, 
beauty, and wit, and the reckless abandon 
of lives largely spent in the companionship 
of adventurers, were they approached. 
** If you do not go into that jury-room 
and vote * not guilty,* in an hour you will 
be a dead man," said the wife of Captain 
Cummings, confronting an aged juror on 
the staircase. Sprung from an old and 
respected Massachusetts family, she was 

a singularly beautiful, brilliant, dashing 
woman. As Olive Chapin she had gone in 
early girlhood to the West, and become 
enamoured of the picturesque river captain. 
Cummings did not see fit to marry her, and 
went off to Mexico and opened his gam- 
bling-house on the Rio Grande. One day 
as he sat dealing faro there, his affianced 
presented herself. Dis- 
guised in man's attire 
and armed with a brace 
of pistols, she had made 
her way without detec- 
tion to the Rio Grande. 
She was a skilled shot, 
and could hit a dollar 
across a room. Level- 
ling a pistol at the re- 
creant lover's head, she 
said in a short, sharp 
voice, ** Captain Cum- 
mings, marry ne, or take 
this in your head." The 
astounded captain re- 
plied, "Why, Ollie, my 
dear, is that you?" 
The marriage ceremony 
was performed that day. 
Tears were the weap- 
ons that Lyman Cole's 
equally handsome wife 
employed, while smiles 
sufficed Kissane's pretty 
sister and fond mother. 
The jury were a week 
in coming to a verdict. 
Finally, on Monday after- 
noon, November 14,1853, 
they pronounced the defendants "not 
guilty." The verdict was received, on the 
part of the accused and their friends, 
with tears, smiles, laughter, sobs of relief, 
and cries of joy. Kissane, pale and hag- 
gard, fell into his mother's arms. But from 
the public came curses and grumbling, for 
there were few outsiders who, having fol- 
lowed the testimony, did not believe the 
prisoners guilty. With wine and song the 
acquitted lavishly celebrated their deliver- 
ance. The trial cost the government 
$50,000, while it left the defendants one 
and all penniless. 

To recuperate their fortunes and to reek 
vengeance on every one who had testified 
against them, was now the ambition of the 
conspirators. Few of their opponents es- 
caped a tragic end. The safe of Henry 
Stanbery was blown open and all the 
papers of the case removed. Nine wit- 
nesses met violent deaths. One was shot 
dead while seated on his horse, talking to 




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his wife at the door of his house, and the 
assassin was never discovered. 

The conspirators were especially relent- 
less in their pursuit of Sidney Burton. 
Once his house was blown up, and once as 
he was travelling in a railway train an ex- 
plosion occurred and shattered the seat he 
had occupied, but by chance had left only 
a moment before. Eleven times chemical 
analysis revealed poison in his food. 
Counterfeit money was placed in his house. 
One day in New York he met the wife of 
Captain Cummings on Fulton Street. She 
requested an interview and wished him to 
accompany her to a designated place. He 
was suspicious, and noticing several men 
in communication with her, he attempted 
to get away. The men approached threat- 
eningly. Burton stepped into a doorway 
and drew a revolver. The assailants were 
arrested, and, when searched, were found 
armed with pistols andbowie knives; even 
Mrs. Cummings was armed. 

Despite disappointment, broken health, 
and depleted fortune. Burton continued 
his efforts against the conspirators. He 
secured the indictment of Kissane, Cum- 
mings, and Cole at Helena, Arkansas, on 
a charge of arson and murder. Several 
of the lost passengers of the ** Martha 
Washington ** had been residents of Ar- 
kansas. The prisoners were admitted to 
bail, and when the trial was called, neither 
Kissane nor Cole responded. Captain 
Cummings was again acquitted. 

The remarkable skill and devotion of 
Burton in the affair attracted the notice of 
Franklin Pierce, then President of the 
United States. Through the Secretary of 
the Treasury, President Pierce appointed 
him a special agent to ferret out abuses in 
the Treasury. Burton refused to accept the 
appointment until it was agreed that he 
should retain a portion of his time to con- 
tinue his prosecution of the ** Martha 
Washington" people. When the Presi- 
dent's intention became known, the Kis- 
sane party employed lobbyists to prevent 
the passage through Congress of the ap- 
propriation for the service which Burton 
was to conduct. The appropriation failed 
by two votes. Then Burton's health gave 
way. For months he was unable to lie 
down, and he finally died sitting in his 

Kissane, the head of the conspiracy, on 
his acquittal was carried to Lebanon, Ohio, 
to answer to the charge of forgery. He 
had been under indictment on this charge 
when arrested for setting the ** Martha 
Washington ** on fire. The forgery he had 

committed on his early benefactors and 
employers, Johnson and Pugh. He was 
convicted, but while waiting sentence es- 
caped. Disguised in a garb made of bed- 
ticking and tied about him with a rope, he 
was discovered near Cleveland, serving as 
an ox-driver. He was captured and taken 
back to jail, but again escaped. 


In July, 1854, about seven months after 
the ** Martha Washington '* trial, Kissane 
went to New York, and in company with 
one Andrew Finlay engaged in buying and 
selling uncurrent money. Some of their 
dealings were with John Thompson and 
Very and Gwynne, brokers, and in the 
course of them they came into possession 
of checks of Thompson's and of Very and 
Gwynne's. Having ascertained who made 
the blanks on which these checks were 
written, Kissane visited the maker, and, 
under pretence of getting a check-book for 
himself, requested to see samples. He 
gave an assumed name. While looking 
over the samples, he purloined several of 
the blank checks made for Thompson and 
Very and Gwynne. 

Kissane and Finlay now retired from 
New York for a little while, and Kissane, 
learning that his old associate Lyman Cole 
had in some way got hold of $2,000, 
induced Cole to join him and Finlay in 
their enterprises. Cole accompanied him 
when he returned to New York. Kissane 
and Finlay established themselves at a 
hotel, where Finlay registered as ** Robert 
Hamilton," and Kissane as "William 
Johnson." Cole took lodging in a private 
house. They passed most of their time 
in Finlay's room at th'e hotel. There 
they spent a large portion of several days 
in practising the writing of signatures, and 
in preparing several letters of introduction. 
One of these letters purported to be from 
Joseph C. Hughes of Kentucky to Mr. Van 
Brunt of the firm of Van Brunt and 
Watrous, New York pork brokers; another 
from White, Cunningham & Co. of Cin- 
cinnati to Robert H. Berdell of Robert H. 
Berdell & Co. of New York. They in- 
troduced "James Bishop." 

On the 25th of August, 1854, Finlay 
called at Mr. Van Brunt's packing-house, 
and under the impersonation of "James 
Bishop" presented the letter from Joseph 
C. Hughes. Van Brunt was pleased to 
meet a friend of " old Joe Hughes." He 
invited Mr. " Bishop " to call on him 
again the next day. "Bishop" did so. 

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He represented himself as a large dealer 
in hogs, and in the course of conversation 
disclosed that he had considerable money 
with him, and questioned whether it was 
safe to be carrying so large a sum about 
in his pocket. Mr. Van Brunt suggested 
to his partner Watrous that he take 
Mr. '* Bishop" to the Chemical Bank and 
let him deposit his money. The sugges- 
tion was immediately acted upon, and on 
Mr. Watrous's introduction, Mr. ** James 
Bishop ** was permitted to open an account 
at the Chemical Bank with an initial deposit 
of $2,000 in bills (the $2,000 brought into 
the enterprise by Cole, as subsequently 

The next day ** Bishop** started down 
town to present his letter to Mr. Berdell. 
On the way he stopped at the Chemical 
Bank and drew out $1,950 of the $2,000 he 
had deposited the day before. His recep- 
tion by Mr. Berdell was not satisfactory. 
A ** feeler '* he threw out towards opening 
a bank account was met by a proposition 
on the part of Mr. Berdell that he leave 
his burden of money with Mr. BerdelTs 
firm. At this Finlay (alias ** Bishop**) 
became alarmed. He hastened to Kis- 
sane, who decided that their last move- 
ment must be made at once. That after- 
noon, near three o'clock, ** Bishop *' called 
again at the bank. He pretended to be a 
little the worse of **old Kentucky rye.** 
He invited the cashier to inspect a long 
bill of hogs he had purchased, at the same 
time requesting him to place to his credit 
a certified check for $12,000, drawn upon 
the American Exchange Bank by John 
Thompson, and another for $6,018.58, 
drawn on the Continental Bank by Very 
and Gwynne. He stated that he would 
have to settle for the hogs that day. But 
he had been ** around with the boys,'* he 
felt '* a little shaky,** would the cashier be 
kind enough to fill out a check for him for 
$14,870, and he would sign it ? Of course 
the cashier could not decline to oblige a 
gentleman so well endorsed. With the 
check once in hand, "Bishop** lost no 
time in getting to the paying-teller*s desk. 
As he presented the check he remarked, 
** Mr. Teller, your city has knocked me 

•*How so?** 

** Well, you see I am used to travelling 
on soft ground, and your hard pavements 
are too much for me.** 

It was near the closing hour; all was 
bustle and hurry; no need to question the 
check of a patron well introduced, written 
in the cashier*s own hand. The teller 

swiftly counted out $870 in one-hundred, 
fifty, and twenty dollar bills, and the $14,- 
000 in $500 bills. ** Bishop" asked to 
have smaller denominations, but in his 
haste the teller refused, and thereby, as 
subsequently appeared, he probably saved 
the bank the loss of a considerable part of 
the amount of the check. While Finlay, 
or ** Bishop,*' was playing his part thus 
triumphantly within the bank, Lyman Cole 
stood outside, on the opposite side of 
Broadway, and kept watch. Later in the 
day. Cole, Finlay, and Kissane met in 
Thirty-second Street, and divided the 
spoil. Kissane, it is supposed, took $6,500 
as his share, and Finlay $5,300, while Cole 
got the balance, together with the $1,950 
of his $2,000, with which the account was 

The forgeries were soon detected, and 
measures taken to secure the forgers. An 
old acquaintance of theirs and sufferer 
at their hands, learning what "Bishop** 
had said to the teller about the hard pave- 
ments of New York, thereby identified him 
with Finlay. Finlay was found concealed 
in a house in Baltimore. On his person, 
hidden under the lining of his vest, was 
found $4,000 in $500 notes of the Chemical 

Kissane was arrested in Cincinnati. At 
Hornellsville, New York, while the train 
was moving at a rapid rate, he escaped 
the vigilance of the guards and leaped 
through the water-closet window. The 
train was stopped, but search failed to 
find him. Several days later he appeared 
at Buffalo at the house of John Lynch, for- 
merly bar-keeper on the ** Martha Wash- 
ington.** Lynch took him to the house of 
a man named Sparrow, a small farmer liv- 
ing near Buffalo. Kissane sent Lynch to 
Cincinnati with a letter to his brother 
Reuben Kissane. The brother sent back 
by Lynch a bottle of magnesia, from 
which, on opening it at Lynch's house, Kis- 
sane took $6,500 in $500 Chemical Bank 
notes. He carried these notes with him to 
Sparrow's farm. There for three months 
he assisted in field work. Evening leisure 
at the farm was devoted to altering bank 
notes by the cutting and pasting process. 
Sparrow was detected passing these notes 
on the storekeepers. Several were cashed 
before their fraudulency was discovered. 
He was arrested. He protested innocence, 
and swore that the bills had been given him 
on his farm by a man named Lynch, the 
name by which Kissane was known to the 
farmer. A raid was made on the farm and 
Kissane captured, together with a bundle 

Digitized by 




of papers he had placed in the charge of 
Sparrow's wife. In it was found the 
$6,500 of Chemical Bank notes. Locked 
fast to an officer with handcuffs, the key 
of which was in the pocket of the bank 
teller, Kissane was brought safely to New 
York. Meanwhile Cole also had been 

Kissane's trial opened March 14, 1855, 
before Recorder James M. Smith, the 
prosecution being conducted by A. Oakey 
Hall, then District Attorney, and James 
R. Whiting. It was the sensation of the 
day. Finlay turned State's evidence. In 
less than ten minutes after retiring the jury 
returned a verdict of guilty. 

When brought up for sentence, Kissane 
made a plea for mercy which revealed 
talent of a high order. He told of his 
early home life, his struggle to business 
and social eminence, and his fall among 
evil associates. He humbly accepted the 
court's decree, and avowed a resolution to 
lead a better life. The judge was so 
affected by this appeal, that he mitigated 
the sentence, to his regret in later years, 
from the highest to the lowest penalty — 
two years and six months' imprisonment in 
Sing Sing. *' The whole world may for- 
give me," said Kissane, '* but I cannot 
forgive myself. I had hoped to reach 
some distant country where those who 
had known me could know me no more, 
where I could have settled down among 
strangers and once more been a man 
among men. But Providence has decreed 
otherwise. Were I permitted to depart 
this day, and whenever it shall please the 
powers that be to permit me to depart, 
such shall be my course — I trust a wiser 
and a better man." 

Cole was tried twice; both times the 
jury disagreed, and finally he was dis- 


December 8, 1855, under promise to 
turn State's evidence against an organized 
band of insurance swindlers, said to be the 
outgrowth of the " Martha Washington " 
conspiracy, after nine months' imprison- 
ment, Kissane was pardoned. Governor 
Myron H. Clark had been overwhelmed 
with petitions in the prisoner's behalf. 
These petitions are still in the archives of 
the Governor's office, and make a large 
volume. One of them is from Horace 
Greeley and Thurlow Weed. 

Liberty regained, Kissane lost no time 
in seeking a strange land, where, if he did 

not become a "man among men," he 
failed not to commit deeds of prowess that 
are not without a charm even in this pro- 
saic day. 

Into the Walker Nicaragua expedition, 
made up for the most part of "men of 
strong character, tired of the humdrum 
of common life, and ready for a career 
which might bring them the sweets of ad- 
venture or the rewards of fame," Kissane 
now threw himself with all the abandon of 
his daring nature. He arrived at Nicara- 
gua February i, 1856. Under an assumed 
name he was soon appointed and com- 
missioned assistant commanding general, 
with the rank of major, and ordered to 
take charge of the commissariat of the 
army. He showed such ability that Walker 
soon promoted him. For eight or nine 
months he had the entire finances of the 
country in his hands, and but for his care- 
ful management, the filibustering scheme, 
it is conceded, would have met an earlier 

When General Walker marched to 
Rivas, he left Granada in charge of Kis- 
sane. The latter made sudden sallies on 
the neighboring haciendas, and capturing 
the wives and daughters of i^rominent 
Nicaraguans, held them as hostages to be 
exchanged for money or provisions. He 
is reputed to have made a fortune in the 
sale of confiscated haciendas and vouch- 
ers. Under his direction cathedrals and 
convents and private dwellings were pil- 
laged of gold, silver, and jewels. The 
plunder, which filled six large cedar chests, 
was melted, packed in small bulk, and 
shipped to New Orleans. Robed in 
priestly vestments, and carrying the holy 
eucharist, Kissane led a triumphant pro- 
cession through the streets of Granada. 
His audacity and bravery won him devoted 
followers. Few, if any, of his companions 
in arms suspected his early history. 
Nevertheless the tropics did not shield him 
wholly from memory of the past. Recog- 
nizing in one of the youthful followers of 
the army the son of a man who had testified 
against him in the " Martha Washington " 
case, Kissane had the young man arrested 
on some trumped-up charge, and shot down 
in cold blood. 

At the collapse of the expedition, Kissane 
caused to be published in the papers ac- 
counts of the heroic death of himself 
under his new name. Meanwhile he es- 
caped from the country to Panama on 
board the United States sloop of war St. 
Mary's, Captain Davis. He is next heard 
of as a participant in the Chinese rebel- 

Digitized by 




lion. His shrewdness soon secured him 
tlie favor of the Emperor, who raised 
him to the rank of general of the army. 
The close of the rebellion found him pur- 
suing pleasure in the capitals of Europe, 
accompanied by a Japanese body-servant 
captured by his troops at Shanghai. 
Finally he drifted to California, whither 
his mother and brothers had preceded 
him and were living, also under assumed 

On the Fraser River, British Columbia, 
three thousand miles from railroad or 
telegraphic communication, the soldier of 
fortune now delved into the bowels of the 
earth. He had the Midas touch. With 
bags of gold dust he soon sought Sacra- 
mento, where he invested in real estate, 
embarked in business, and was quickly 
recognized as a shrewd, spirited, and 
popular citizen. 

Then came the Gold Hill excitement. 
Kissane again wooed fortune in the mines, 
and with his usual luck. He retired with 
a fortune. Then shunning large cities, 
where the past might confront him, he 
purchased a fine country seat in Sonoma 
County, six miles from the little town of 
Petaluma. This was in 1863. Thence- 
forth it was his object to make this seat 
the most beautiful in all that region. 

But while Kissane was building up a new 
life in the land of sunshine and flowers, play- 
ing with lordly grace the rdU of a wealthy 
country gentleman, a second Nemesis had 
picked up the thread dropped by Sidney 
Burton. Among the Cincinnatians who 
met financial ruin at the hands of Kissane 
were members of the family of General 
Francis Darr. With a fixity of purpose as 
tenacious, as all-absorbing, as that which 
possessed Burton, General Darr followed 
Kissane's migrations for thirty years. A 
graduate of West Point, General Darr 
served gallantly in the war on the staffs of 
Generals Rosecrans, Buell, and Foster, 
and was in command of New York City 
after the draft riots. He never credited 
the report of Kissane's death in Nicara- 
gua, and throughout the Rebellion he 
hoped to meet him. Some ten years ago 

he went to San Francisco as civil engineer 
for a railroad company. At a meeting of 
the board of directors he recognized in one 
of the directors the object of his thirty 
years* search. After the meeting, he en- 
countered the director in the street and 
accosted him: " Hello, Bill Kissane! How 
are you?'* The director haughtily re- 
sented such familiarity in a subordinate, but 
ever after carefully avoided Darr. Sub- 
sequently General Darr became interested 
in a wine house for which Kissane's vine- 
yards yielded their choicest vintage. At 
a board meeting, Darr recognized in the 
firm's counsel a brother of Kissane. It 
was not long before General Darr was 
forced to relinquish his interest in the 

Having in these various encounters 
clearly established Kissane's identity. Gen- 
eral Darr notified the Chemical Bank of 
New York, and the bank gave him a power 
of attorney to collect the balance of prin- 
cipal and interest still due on the old for- 
gery claim. Through reputable lawyers the 
account was quietly enclosed to Kissane, 
who, taking the cue, sent an attorney, a 
man who knew his past, to New York, to 
satisfy the account and quietly clear his 
record. But the attorney somehow failed 
in his mission, the matter got into the 
courts, and the story of Kissane's career 
in all its romantic details was recited to the 
world through the press. Thus Kissane's 
thirty years' struggle to bury the past came 
to nought. Yet, never, perhaps, was the 
power of wealth and personal influence 
more strikingly exemplified than in the 
promptitude with which managers of rail- 
roads, telegraphs, and newspapers, secret 
fraternities, and legal authorities com- 
bined to shield the man. A California 
court decided that disguises and changes 
of name did not stop the running of the 
statute of limitations, and denied the 
Chemical Bank its claim. Thus Kissane 
was discharged of the duty of making res- 
titution, and dismissed to resume his luxu- 
rious life in the bosom of his family, whose 
confidence and love had remained un- 

Digitized by 




By Captain Musgrovk Davis. 

^HEN my appointment as 
second lieutenant in the 
199th New York Volun- 
teers reached me it was 
April, and we were in 
camp at a place known as 
Catlett's Station, not far 
from Washington. The 
next morning I bade the 
old 15th good-by, and 
started in high spirits for 
the Capital to take up my 
commission. At Man- 
assas, on the way, we 
were cut off by rebel cav- 
alry for thirty-six hours, with, I remember, 
nothing to eat but molasses, sweet-cakes, 
and sardines: a ration which effectually 
destroyed my liking for sweets. 

Reaching Alexandria, finally, in the 
night, I was promptly clapped into the 
guard-house for being without the counter- 
sign, and languished there for quite half 
an hour before remembering that, as an 
officer, I was entitled to receive it. As 
soon as this fact dawned on me, I made 
haste to communicate with the officer of the 
guard, who, on sight of my commission, 
at once gave me the word, and off I went 
to the hotel. 

In the morning I proceeded to Washing- 
ton, where I allowed not a spear of grass 
to start under my feet until I had ordered 
my complete lieutenant's uniform, includ- 
ing shoulder-straps that made up in size 
what I lacked in rank. Thus accoutred I 
felt that I owned Washington. At one 
time I would issue from my hotel in the 
full splendor of sword, sash, belt, and 
gauntlets; at another I would sally forth 
in fatigue jacket and white gloves. In 
either array I knew myself for a paragon 
of martial beauty, and few store windows 
did I pass without stopping to feast on 
my reflection in the glass, under pretext of 
examining the goods displayed for sale. 

General Wadsworth was Provost-Mar- 
shal-General, and accordingly to him I 
applied for the location of my regiment. I 
found it was Colonel Harrison's Regiment, 
of Benton's Brigade, Conch's Division, 

Sumner's Corps, McClellan's Army of the 
Peninsula. Provided with this direction 
and a pass on a government steamer, I 
embarked at Alexandria, and so down the 

About two o'clock of a hot afternoon 
we arrived at City Landing, where, on all 
sides, little was to be seen but huge piles 
of quartermaster's stores, hundreds of 
army wagons, and in the background cor- 
duroy roads diverging into the woods. 

The army was at that time encamped 
before Yorktown. Putting my valise into 
a wagon that belonged to Benton's Brig- 
ade, and strapping on sword, haversack, 
and canteen, I set out on foot, in com- 
pany with a number of other officers, for 
the front. When we had covered three or 
four miles, guide-boards began to appear, 
and soon, as my companions separated for 
their different divisions and brigades, I 
was proceeding all alone. Coming pres- 
ently upon a sentry, I asked the way to 
Benton's Brigade, and arriving in due time 
at the place indicated, I inquired of an- 
other sentry for the 199th New York. 

** No such regiment in the brigade," 
was the reply. 

** What regiments are there in it ? " 

**The 4th Minnesota, 19th Massachu- 
setts, 50th Ohio, and 3d New York Mili- 

" You are sure this is Benton's Brig- 
ade ?" I persisted. 

** Yes, and Couch's Division; but there 
is no 199th New York in this corps, I 

Here was a fine state of affairs. In the 
midst of an army of strangers and not 
able to even hear of my regiment! I 
could ask at brigade headquarters, the 
man suggested. I did so, but the assist- 
ant adjutant-general knew of no such 
regiment. "General Wadsworth must 
have mistaken," he added; " for I have a 
list of all the regiments in McClellan's 
Army, and there is no such New York 
number." He said, further, that he was 
sorry for me; but I was sorry for my- 
self, for that matter. The question was, 
What to do ? 


Digitized by 




As I turned away, I chanced to over- 
hear the clerk say something about the 
**3d Militia/* and immediately the officer 
called me back to wait while he looked at 
some new instructions. Then it came out 
that orders had that day been received 
from Washington giving the title of 
'* 199th New York Volunteers'* to the old 
3d Militia. This cleared the matter uj), 
my camp was pointed out, and 1 started 
off again, with a suggestion from the adju- 
tant that, as all militia regiments disliked 
very much to have the 
numbers of their or- 
ganization changed, I 
take the figures off my 
cap, especially since 
the 199th were a 
rather ugly lot from 
the Bowery, and might 
otherwise make me 
trouble. I at once 
acted on the advice. 
But remembering that 
** Lieutenant Mus- 
grove Davis, 199th 
N. Y. Volunteers," 
was painted in large 
letters on the end of 
my valise, I wondered 
how they would take 

Up to this time I 
had had no doubts as 
to the importance of 
my rank, believing 
that to see my straps 
would be to respect 
me. I was soon to 
realize, however, that 
possibly such was not 
the case. 

I arrived at my reg- 
iment, and, passing 
the guar d-h o u s e, 
made directly for the 

commanding officer's tent, which is always 
known by its position. On the way 
thither I happened upon a feature of my 
new environment which was, to say the 
least, a little surprising. It consisted in a 
ring of officers and men shouting and act- 
ing in a way to convince me that a *' mill " 
was going on in the middle. Men and 
officers mingling to cheer a fight, and that 
within the regimental lines! '*What sort 
of a place," wondered I, "have I got 

It was now about four o'clock, and still 
very warm. The flaps of the colonel's tent 
were up, and as I drew near I could see 

inside the figure of a man lying on a camp 
bed in his shirt-sleeves, with a newspaper 
before him. I scratched on the canvas by 
way of knocking, and a gruff voice said: 
" What d'ye want ? " 
I stepped just inside, took off my cap, 
and stood for some seconds staring at the 
immovable newspaper before venturing to 
ask: " Is this Colonel Harrison?" 

Down came the paper, and up rose the 
man to a sitting posture, revealing a red, 
bloated, brutal face, with blood-shot eyes 
and a decidedly ill- 
pleased expression. 
With an oath he re- 

"No! He's in jail!" 
This seemed a most 
unlikely statement, 
— but was afterwards 
found to be perfectly 
correct. The colonel 
had been arrested for 
appropriating and 
selling regimental ra- 
tions and forage. 

" May I ask your 
name, sir?" I made 
bold to inquire. 

" Oh, yes [with an- 
other oath], you may 
ask, fer all I care! " 

" What I wish to 
ascertain is who might 
be in command ? " 

" I can't tell you 
who might be in com- 
mand, but I know 
who is. I am." 

"Then, sir, I 
should like to know 
your name and rank," 
I continued. 

" My name and 

rank is none of your 

business, that I know 

of," was the answer, and with that the 

officer coolly resumed his reading. 

By this time I was pretty thoroughly 
frightened, and wished myself anywhere 
else and my commission in the moon. 
Meanwhile a lot of rough-looking brutes 
had gathered around, attracted by the 
conversation; and, altogether, for a 
smooth-faced stripling the situation pos- 
sessed few attractions. However, I man- 
aged to say that I had oflScial orders to the 
commanding officer of the regiment, and 
therefore must insist on learning his name 
and rank. 

"Well, I am Lieutenant - Colonel 


Digitized by 




Thomas, commanding. Where are your 
orders?" laying down the paper and 
thrusting out his hand, in which I placed 
my orders as second lieutenant of Com- 
pany B. 

** Just what I thought! *' he continued. 
'* You're another of those useless young 
fools that that ass of a Governor has been 
sending down here. You a second lieu- 
tenant ? Why, you little runt, you ain't 
fit fer a gun-swab! I don't want you! 
Take your orders back to the Governor 
and tell him that I can fill my own offices, 
and that he had better get a new set of 
brains pumped into his fool head. Tell 
him that I don't keep no nursery. I hain't 
got no bottles to bring up children on. 
Get out of this; I hain't got no use fer 

During this astonishing outburst I had 
stood transfixed. At its conclusion, how- 
ever, a reaction set in. I seemed to see 
the whole situation in a flash. Colonel 
Thomas probably imagined that I was the 
son of some rich man or influential poli- 
tician, who had procured my appointment 
through favoritism, and that I had seen no 
service — knew as little of soldiering, in 
other words, as he did of preaching. If 
he could only frighten me out of camp he 
had but to report me "absent without 
leave," to ensure my instant dismissal; for 
the hundred or more of his men who were 
standing about might be relied on to swear 
black was white if I ever succeeded in 
having the matter brought to trial. That 


was his " game." The idea was not flat- 
tering to the lieutenant-colonel and his 
command, but further acquaintance with 
them proved it correct, for if ever there 
was a set of blackguards outside of " Billy 
Wilson's Zouaves," this regiment con- 
tained them. The extent to which they 
would steal, and lie, and fight, and fight, 
and lie, and steal was almost beyond be- 
lief. I ought to add, though, that they 
would stand up against the enemy as stub- 
bornly as any regiment I ever saw in ac- 

I have said that I saw Colonel Thomas's 
"game." I perceived, also, that to back 
down would be to invite disgrace, perhaps 
violence. Clearly, it was " sink or swim," 
" fish or cut bait." The knowledge that I 
was entirely right and he entirely wrong — 
that he had been guilty of "conduct un- 
becoming an officer and a gentleman," and 
was himself liable to court-martial and 
dismissal, nerved me. The consciousness 
that not only my honor but my family's 
was at stake fired me. The recollection 
of the insults and abuse that I had just 
listened to sent the hot blood bounding 
through my veins as if it would burst 
them. I felt that I would rather die than 
submit, and that I would rather fight than 
do either. It seemed as if I weighed a 
ton. I started a step forward, and my 
tongue was loosed. Epithets and exple- 
tives rose to my lips like water to a pump, 
and I poured them out as freely. I wound 
up by assuring him that, as he didn't seem 
to know to whom he was talking, it should 
be my early and great pleasure to let him 
know, through my father's friend, General 
Sumner, and in a way which he wouldn't 
soon forget; advising him to pack his little 
"kit" meanwhile, as he wouldn't be in 
command of the regiment at midnight. 

This threat was a piece of sheer, consum- 
mate " cheek " on my part, for, as a mat- 
ter of fact. General Sumner did not know 
that such a man as my father existed. 
But something had to be done, and I was 
not disappointed in the effect of my little 

I had finished and was half way through 
the ruffianly crowd before Thomas recov- 
ered himself sufficiently to call out: 
" Come back here, boy! " 

I turned and asked him what he wanted. 

"Come here, come here! It won't do 
you no good to go to General Sumner. 
I -and all my men would swear your story 
was a lie." 

I judged this remark to be a " feeler "; 
so, standing by my colors, I replied: " You 

Digitized by 




did he wish to stultify himself; so he hesi- 

** I refuse duty, captain, unless you 
comply. That will bring the matter to a 
point, and then we shall see who wants a 
court-martial. If it comes to that, one of 
us will be dismissed, and it won't be I." 

This ** settled" him. Stepping to the 
rear of the company, he gave the order: 
** Mr. Allen, take the rear of the second 
platoon.** Allen accordingly skulked 
thither, while I, inwardly exulting, took 
the place of first lieutenant. 

The blow was a stunning one to the 
captain, and not without effect upon the 
men. Moreover, we moved out so late to 
parade that the captain came in for a re- 
proof from the adjutant, though little did 
that officer know the cause of the delay. 
In due time parade was dismissed, and I 
walked solitary and alone to my tent, 
amid the jeers and taunts of officers ^nd 
men. Meanwhile the quartermaster's wag- 
ons had arrived at brigade headquarters, 
bringing my valise, which I carried to the 
tent; and. spreading a blanket over the 
boughs and stretching myself thereon, 
I drew a little needed strength and comfort 
from a certain flask which the new arrival 

It was growing dusk, and the din of 
supper-getting filled the air as the men 
gathered around their fires. As for me, I 
had no means of preparing a meal, and no 
one offered me a word or a morsel. I did 
feel desolate and alone. " Keep a stiff 
upper lip, Musgrove; you haven*t time to 
get blue,** said I to myself; and out I 
sallied in search of the sutler*s tent. 

I had to go into the next camp before I 
found such an institution, for the 199th 
had, by its peculiar attentions, so impover- 
ished its own sutler that he had finally 
departed, and nobody seemed desirous of 
taking his place. 

I made my purchases, consisting of her- 
ring, crackers, coffee, sugar, and a tin 
cup, and, regaining my tent, prepared a 
lonely but tolerable supper. The meal 
despatched, I lay wearily down upon my 
blanket and gave myself up to gloomy 
thoughts. As darkness came on I stepped 
tentatively outside my quarters, in order to 
get the fresh air and to obtain a better 
idea of my surroundings. I was almost 
instantly seized, and, in the fear, perhaps, 
that I had not been made to feel suffi- 
ciently at home, certain unconventional 
amenities were offered me — even forced 
upon me. My rank was not allowed to 
interfere with the convivial hospitality; in 

short, I was incontinently tossed in a 
blanket by the privates of my own com- 
pany. I went skyward until the men were 
tired, nor did a single officer appear to 
interrupt the harmony of the occasion. 
When I was near swooning they let me go, 
and I returned giddy and faint to my tent; 
simply remarking, ** You are having your 
fun now; my turn may come later on.'* 

Presently tattoo sounded, and I had just 
about concluded that I would try to sleep, 
when there came a scratch on my tent. I 
said, '*Come in.*' Immediately the flaps 
parted, and a head was thrust in with the 
inquiry: ** Is this Lieutenant Davis ? " 

I answered in the affirmative. 

*' Officer of the guard to-morrow," was 
the reply. 

There it was again ! Another violation 
of the " Regulations," and another act of 

*' Are you the adjutant ? " I asked. 

**I am.*' 

*' Whose order is this ? " 

** The colonel's, sir." 

A thousand angry thoughts flashed 
through my mind, but, resolved that my 
persecutors should not have the least pre- 
text on which to accuse me of shirking 
duty, I said: "Very well, sir," and the 
adjutant departed. 

Now guard-mounting is about as diffi- 
cult and particular a duty as an officer has 
to perform. Positions are reduced to 
paces, and paces almost to inches, and 
salutes and orders must come at exactly 
certain times; so that a person not well 
posted in the manual is almost certain to 
blunder. All this the colonel had no 
doubt thought of, and he was probably 
chuckling at that very moment in antici- 
pation of my failure and consequent dis- 
grace on the morrow; for if I did fail he 
would be sure to have me tried for incom- 

** No, you won't," thought I, and mak- 
ing another trip to the sutler's, I soon re- 
turned with half a dozen candles and a box 
of matches. Out came next the " Regu- 
lations ** and a copy of the tactics, and 
to work I went. I broke the matches 
into men, platoons, and officers, and 
put them repeatedly through the entire 
manoeuvre, until when daylight came it 
found me innocent of a wink of 'sleep, 
but with the whole order of guard- 
mounting and guard duty at my finger*s 
ends. This acquisition was made easier 
by the fact that, on the Christmas during 
my connection with the 15th, the colonel 
had for that day turned over the regiment 

Digitized by 




to officers elected from among the privates 
and ** non-coms/' and I had been chosen 
officer of the guard. 

I got my breakfast (what little I ate) as 
I had got my supper, and nervously awaited 
the guard-mounting call due at half-past 
eight. When the time came I was belted, 
gloved, and on the ground, where also the 
entire regiment, from the colonel down, 
were gathered ** to see the little upstart 
bilge," as they expressed it. 

Desperation had made me perfectly calm 
to all outward appearances, and I went 
through the various evolutions, and 
marched my men off to the guard-house 
without a blunder. There further formali- 
ties were to be gone through between the 
old and the new guard, and thither, ac- 
cordingly, the crowd now pressed. 

I marched my new guard past the old, 
and dressed them up on a line with the 
latter. As I did so I heard a murmur go 
round, followed by laughter and jeers; 
and immediately the crowd began to dis- 
perse with expressions of satisfaction 
which seemed to say, ** We've got him 
now." This threw me into a cold perspi- 
ration. I could not see the mistake, and 
I dared not hesitate. With my heart in 
my boots I aligned the men, and went for- 
ward to meet and salute the old officer of 
the guard and receive from him the stand- 
ing orders. These he repeated to me as 
he had received them, and ended by taking 
from his belt and handing over three or 
four pairs of handcuffs. Feigning aston- 
ishment, I asked what the things were for, 
and was told that I would find out fast 
enough before the day was over. With that 
the old guard marched past, received its 
proper salute, and departed. 

"Here," thought I, "is a chance to 
score a point. These men have evidently 
been treated more like beasts than human 
beings, and if I can awaken a spark of 
manhood in them, if they have any pride 
left, I can now turn it to my account." 
So, with the bracelets still in hand, I 
stepped to the front of the guard and ad- 
dressed them as follows: 

" Men, for a year I have been, like your- 
selves, a private. I have carried a gun 
and knapsack; I have gone through with 
my duties in camp and on the march; but 
never did I need one of these things upon 
my wrists They are for felons, not for 
honest soldiers ; and I see no one here who 
looks as if he deserved anything of the 
kind." (A compliment which involved a 
severe strain of the truth.) "You can, 
and I am sure you will, discbarge your 

duty without them, and I shall take great 
pleasure in doing what I can to lighten 
that duty. I make no threat as to what 
will happen if you fail, for I am sure you 
will not. We are all here, not from choice, 
but to serve our country, and we have 
equal rights and interests. It is, of course, 
necessary for every organization to have 
its officers. The government, feeling that 
I deserve a commission, has given me 
one, and I shall do all in my power to 
honor it. The mere fact of my having 
shoulder-straps is not proof that I am bet- 
ter than you, but, in this case, evidence of 
longer service; and I trust you will not 
follow the example of some of your supe- 
riors and condemn me before trial, but 
rather wait and judge for yourselves. If 
ever I ask you to go where I will not lead, 
then censure me. I am sure that when 
this tour of duty is over we shall be better 

" It has been the custom, where I have 
served, to allow each relief to rest in 
their tents for the two hours just pre- 
vious to standing guard, in order that they 
may be fresh for duty; the other relief 
not on duty remaining at the guard-house 
to turn out for general officers. I shall 
follow that course here until I see good 
reason to change it. It is needless for me 
to ask that the instant the call is sounded 
you come promptly to the guard-house, as 
that will be necessary not only to a good 
understanding, but to the continuance of 
the privilege. Sergeant, tell off the men 
and send out the first relief." 

The guard looked at one another, but 
whether they meant to say that I did not 
know the men I had to deal with, or 
whether I had found and touched a sus- 
ceptible chord, I could not tell. I threw 
the handcuffs into the furthest corner of 
the guard-house, and turned to the inspec- 
tion of the guard-book. The first relief 
went out; the old relief came in and were 
marched away under command of their 
sergeant; the second relief went to their 
tents, and I was left to myself with the 

During the next two hours I managed to 
say a pleasant word to each of the men 
left at the guard-house, and to visit all 
those upon post, changing their beats for 
the better when I could. This done, I 
waited most anxiously for eleven o'clock. 
If then the men promptly responded to the 
call, I should be master of the situation. 
If they did not— 

At five minutes to eleven I ordered the 
call to be sounded, and then turned away. 

Digitized by 




I cannot begin to describe the agony of 
that interval. It seemed an hour. Every 
few seconds I would consult my watch, 
half believing that it must have stopped. 
What if they should not come ? Were not 
officers and men against me ? Would not 
the colonel himself wink at disobedience? 
Possibly he had even given the men secret 
instructions to disregard me. Should I 
order a corporal's guard to arrest all de- 
linquents, and if the guard refused, or the 
men resisted, should I shoot them ? I had 
a right to do this, but it would be a ter- 
rible measure. My own life would not be 
worth a penny in that event, and would be 
measured by seconds. 

At length the five minutes passed. With- 
out turning I ordered the sergeant to ** fall 
in the guard." The order was given. I 
heard the stir of men and the handling 
of muskets, and knew that some, at least, 
were present. In a moment the sergeant 
began to call the roll, while I listened 

'* Number One," **Two," "Three," 
"Four," "Five," "Six," "Seven," 
" Eight " (to each came the answer 
" Here! " and my breast began to heave), 
"Nine," "Ten," "Eleven," "Twelve," 
— all there! 

My heart leaped to my throat, and 
tears filled my eyes. I turned, but 
everything swam before me. I attempted 
to speak, but my chin trembled and my 
tongue refused its office. I felt that I 
was fast losing control of myself; so, 
whirling upon my heel, I walked a few 
paces away. A moment sufficed to subdue 
my feelings, and returning I spoke a few 
earnest words of gratitude to the men and 
sent them about their duty. Nor was I 
the only one affected, for I saw a big cor- 
poral draw his sleeve across his face, and 
thus betray the presence of a heart. 

I allowed the next relief to go to their 
tents, and again visited the sentries. When 
I returned to the guard-house at noon the 
big corporal came awkwardly toward me, 
and, touching his cap, said: " Lootinant, 
can I make ye a cup o* coffee, sur ? " 

Again I was ready to break down, and 
it was seconds before 1 could answer: 
" Thank you. Corporal, not only for the 
coffee, which I shall take with pleasure, 
but also for the first kind word I have had 
in this regiment." 

That opened the ball. One man wanted 
to fetch the water, and another, putting a 
bit of pork on a stick, roasted it over the 
coals for me. In fact, it was evident that 
I had won the day. My spirits rose for 

the first time to something near a healthy 
level, and I began to see daylight. I 
talked familiarly but dignifiedly with the 
men, and the rest of the twenty-four hours 
passed without so much as a shadow of 
annoyance. Never were soldiers better 
behaved or more prompt. Not a word, 
not an act, that was not both cheerful and 
respectful. So, when we were relieved 
the next morning, I marched my guard to 
the parade-ground, and there spoke briefly 
my heartfelt satisfaction and gratitude, 
assuring them that it should not be my 
fault if we were not soon the best of 
friends; then dismissed them and turned 
away. I had gone but a pace or two when 
the big corporal sang out: 

" Three cheers fer the new lootinant! " 

And cheer they did, with such a will as 
to bring the whole camp, officers and men, 
out of their tents. I raised my cap in 
acknowledgment, and walked on to my 
tent, feeling as proud as a lord, and saying 
to myself, " Tve got the men on my side, 
and the officers may go to — the hospital 
for all I care." 

Tired, nervous, and trembling, I unfas- 
tened my belt, loosened my clothes, and, 
without thought of food, sank upon my 
blankets. Forty-eight hours had I been 
without sleep, the greater portion of the 
time under intense excitement, my nerves 
strained to the utmost. Now the reaction 
came, and losing all self-control, prone, 
with arms outstretched, with the tears 
streaming down my burning cheeks, and 
with a heart almost bursting, I wailed: 
" Mother! Mother! hast thou forgotten 
thy only son ? If there is a God, if there 
is a heaven, if it is given to those who 
have passed beyond to guard and guide 
their loved ones, come to me! Come to 
me, my mother! I am sore tired. Hold 
up my hands in this my hour of need;" 
and there did come to my heart a warm, 
soothing pressure. Arms — whether of rec- 
ollection and imagination I care not — but 
arms encircled me; I seemed to hear a 
voice of bygone years saying, " Sleep, my 
poor boy, sleep! The morrow will bring 
you courage." My eyes closed. My 
head sank slowly back upon the breast of 
breasts. I felt the beat of the heart of 
hearts. I saw the little cot of my child- 
hood and her sitting beside it. I smiled, 
and — and — that is all I recall. 

How long I may have slept I do not 
know, but some time in the afternoon I 
was roused by a scratch at my tent. 
Wondering what new form of persecution 
might be at hand, I said, " Come in." To 

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my surprise it was the captain who parted 
the flaps, and in a seemingly friendly tone 
asked me how I felt. I answered that I 
felt quite well, and again bade him come 
in. Mumbling something about not 
wanting to disturb me, he finally did step 
inside. As I turned my valise on end to 
make him a comfortable seat, I noticed that 
the name and number had been completely 
cut out. He observed it the same in- 
stant, and our eyes met. For a moment 
nothing was said. Then, doubling up his 
fist, he broke silence with: 

"If I knew the scoundrel who done 
that I'd tie him up by the thumbs" — a 
favorite mode of pun- 
ishment in the regi- 
ment, as I afterwards 

The incident was a 
godsend to the man, 
for it afforded a cloak 
to his embarrassment, 
and opened the way 
for what it was soon 
evident he had come 
to say. 

" P'act is, Lootin- 
ant," said he, " Tm a 
rough man, but I 
mean to be square, 
and I come to tell ye 
that I made a great 
fool of myself day be- 
fore yesterday, and I 
ax your pardon. I 
was mad when ye 
come here, fer 1 had 
calculated on your 
place fer the first ser- 
geant, and allowed ye 
was the son of some 
rich man who had got 
ye in by influence. I didn't suppose that ye 
had been in the army or knowed anything 
about soldiering; but I see yesterday at 
guard-mounting that ye wasn't no slouch, 
and that ye knowed more'n we did. D'ye 
remember when somebody laughed ? " 

" I do, Captain. Tell me, what was the 
mistake I made ? " 

" That's the joke of it. You didn't 
make no mistake; it was us! We always 
dressed the new guard two paces in the 
rear of the old guard, and when you 
dressed 'em on a line, I says to myself, 
* He's done all the rest right, and maybe 
he's right in this.' So I went and looked 
at the tactics, and I'll be dashed if you 
wasn't right. Then says I to the other 
officers, * I guess we better study our 

"Regulations" instead of laughing at 
this 'ere young feller, for he's got us where 
the hair is short.' I watched ye all day, 
and I sce'd ye knowed yer biz; and when 
the men come back this morning and said 
ye had been in the army longer'n we had, 
I wuz ashamed of myself, and I couldn't 
wait no longer till I come to ax ye to take 
my hand, and tell ye that I was proud to 
have such a lootinant." 

He extended a long, bony hand, and 
the tears filled my eyes as I grasped it 
with both mine. 

" Excuse me, Captain," I said, "but lam 
so unstrung that I cannot control myself." 
" Don't say a word, 
Lootinant, for if ye 
ain't made of iron to 
stand what ye have, 
I'll swallow my blan- 
ket. The game was 
to make it too hot fer 
ye; but if any one 
troubles ye now, 
they've got me to 
deal with. I don't 
think ye'll have no 
more trouble, though. 
And I'm doggone 
sorry about that va- 
lise, but the men hate 
the volunteer number 
— they want to keep 
the old * 3d Militia,' 
and that's the reason 
they cut the number 
out. Don't think too 
much of that; but if 
I knowed the black- 
guard who done it, 
I'd buck and gag him, 
I would." 

We talked long and 
freely after that, the captain and I ; he tell- 
ing of his service and I of mine. Finally, 
at my request, Sergeant Allen, " the man 
whose nose I had broken," was sent for. 
When he presented himself I told him that 
although my commission interfered with his 
advancement, I did not see how I could 
do otherwise than hold it; that I was very 
sorry, but felt sure that in like circum- 
stances he would do as I had done; and 
concluded by promising him my best efforts 
to make his position pleasant and secure 
for him a speedy commission. He left in 
excellent humor, and there was no more 
friction between us. In a short time, 
through my recommendation and others, 
he was deservedly promoted. 

From that day all went smoothly in the 


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regiment, and, with the exception of a few 
officers who were ashamed to admit that 
they had been in the wrong, the greatest 
cordiality existed among us. The men 
had not been paid off for months, and I 
won the hearts of my own company by 
providing them with tobacco. 

I could govern them all pretty well, 
either drunk or sober, excepting my first 
and staunchest friend, the tall corporal — 
who, by the way, when he got drunk, which 
I am sorry to say was often the case, would 
always reiterate his favorite threat of kill- 
ing me. He was the only man in the army 
whom I ever had to order into irons; but, 
in every instance, after sobering up, he 
would thank me for having punished him, 
and abuse himself for having offended. 

My reconciliation with the colonel was a 
matter of more time. He tried repeatedly 
to engage me in friendly conversation, but 
beyond official matters I would not go. 
He even showed me preferment in duty, 
but I was so thoroughly disgusted with 
him, so indignant at the way in which he 
had treated me, that I always avoided 
him. He often came into tents where I 
was, simply, as I believed, to make friends 
with me, and as often I made some excuse 
to go out. Through the captain and other 
officers he tried to win me over with com- 
pliments, but my wrongs had burned so 
into my heart that he made no headway. 

On the evening of the battle of West 
Point, a lieutenant of the regiment was 
mortally wounded, and later the colonel 
and I met beside his cot in the hospital, 
while I was taking down the young fellow's 
last messages and requests. At such a 
time I could not but speak civilly to the 
man. He departed shortly, but I stayed 
with the dying lieutenant until the end. 

As I came out of the hospital tent I per- 
ceived the colonel standing under a tree. 
I touched my cap and would have hurried 
past, but he stopped me with: " Davis, I 
want to speak to you." 

*' What are your orders, colonel?" I 

** No, no, I have no orders; I want to 
talk to you." 

** I wish to hold nothing but official 
communication with you, sir," I replied, 
and started on. 

** For God's sake, stop, Davis, and hear 
me," pleaded the colonel, this time with a 
plaintive earnestness that arrested me at 
once. So, turning and looking him full 
in the face, I said: 

"Colonel Thomas, more than a month 
ago I received from you the most brutal, 
insulting, cowardly treatment it has ever 
been my misfortune to experience or even 
hear of. You have never been man enough 
to apologize for it, and, until you do, I 
shall decline to have anything but official 
intercourse with you; and when I tell you 
that I loathe and despise you, you will 
probably wish, as I do, that we may have 
as little to do with each other as possible. 
So long as I am unfortunate enough to 
have you as a commanding officer I shall 
obey your orders; nothing more. You 
have done your worst, and I defy you. 
Do we understand each other now, sir ? " 

"Davis," persisted the man, " I know 
I did you a great wrong. I wanted to 
apologize long ago, but you never give me 
a chance. I can't talk as some men can, 
but my heart is in the right place, and you 
haven't got a better friend in the army. I 
want your friendship; I want to apologize 
a hundred times over. Tell me what to 
say, and I'll say anything." And he held 
out his hands imploringly. 

The pain depicted on the poor fellow's 
countenance touched me, and what he 
said carried with it the conviction of sin- 
cerity. He was a brave man, I knew, for 
I had seen him that day where cowards 
would not have ventured. Besides, we 
had met upon sacred ground at the death- 
bed of our friend. And had we not faced 
destruction together that very afternoon, 
and were we not likely to do so again on 
the morrow ? All this came over me at 
once, and softened me completely. 

" Colonel Thomas," I said, " my hand. 
You are a brave man, and as such you 
cannot intend to be unjust. I accept 
your apology, though I regret that it was 
not offered long ago. Say not another 

We walked back to camp arm in arm, 
and great indeed was the astonishment of 
the regiment at sight of us. 

From that day the colonel and I were 
fast friends. He recommended me to the 
vacant first lieutenancy, and offered to 
make me adjutant. His concern when I 
was wounded at Seven Oaks was such 
that he went himself to General McClellan's 
headquarters to hurry my leave of absence. 
Afterward, upon my return to the regi- 
ment, I found that he had meanwhile 
recommended me to General Benton for 
staff duty, which 1 accepted and remained 
in until I left the army. 

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From a photofirraph by Elliott and Fry, London. 


By Henry Muir. 

first visual acquaintance with 
an Atlantic cable began at 
Woolwich, London, England, 
in the central street of the 
Siemens factory, or electrical 
village, as it might be called, 
since it is made up of several 
buildings, has a dock of its own, runs 
its own little hotel for officers and guests, 
and has a population of over two thou- 
sand. In this street, before the entrance 
to one of the workshops, were piled 
great coils of copper wire. This wire, 
I was informed, was to be the "con- 
ductor *' in a new cable which was then in 
process of construction, copper, in marine 
lines as in land lines, having been found 
to carry the electric current better than 
any other available material. But it must 
be ^^^^ copper ; for only in proportion to 
its purity is it favorable to the passage of 
the current. Each hank of this copper 
wire, which lies ready to trip up the feet 
of the unwary in the factory street, is 
carefully tested for resistance before it is 
set aside to go into the cable; that is, a 
sample of it is compared with a standard 
which has been selected. A bit which 
shows less than ninety-eight per cent, of 
the standard is thrown out. But this 
happens rarely. 

Even if it shows the required conductiv- 
ity, however, it must not be supposed that 
it is ready to go at once under seas. In 

the first place, a single wire is too easily 
broken. To make it stronger it is spun 
into rope. Each hank of accepted wire is 
first wound on a spool. Twelve of these 
are then taken (the copper conductor may 
have more or less than twelve strands, but 
twelve was the number used in the cable 
I am describing), and mounted on a spin- 
ning machine. The threading of this ma- 
chine is peculiar. One spool is placed in 
the centre, and the strand carried horizon- 
tally to a guide, and then on straight to 
an iron "nose," through which it passes. 
The eleven remaining spools are placed 
in iron frames, and mounted in a circle 
around the central spool. The result is a 
wheel of spools, one forming the hub, and 
the other eleven the tire. The wires from 
the eleven exterior spools are carried 
through eyes on to the guide, through 
which the central strand passes, and then 
to the ' ' nose, ' ' where they meet the central 
wire. The machine is now threaded. 
When started, the central strand is fed 
horizontally into the "nose"; but as the 
wheel of outer spools rotates, the spools 
themselves keep always a horizontal posi- 
tion, just as do the baskets in the Ferris 
wheel. The result is that the eleven wires, 
in entering the "nose," are twisted by 
the revolution of the wheel around the 
central one, and that, as the whole passes 
from the "nose," we have a rope of 
copper wire. It is the conductor. If by 

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chance one strand of it is broken, the use- 
fulness of the whole is not injured. In- 
deed, ten of them may be broken in one 
place, and all of them at different places, 
and the conductivity still not be de- 

When the ** thread is out " there should 
be about one nautical mile of copper rope, 
which, if nothing has happened to the 
wire in its passage through the machine, 
will be found, when tested, to be an ad- 
mirable conductor. Admirable as it is, 
however, it would be utterly useless under 
water, for while electricity will travel so 
fast in copper, it will not stay there if it 
can help itself. " Electricity a good work- 
man!" I heard an irritated London tele- 
graph manager exclaim. ** Why, it takes 
a battery of seventy cells to work the land 
line between Land's End and this town, 
just because the current is always watching 
for a chance to waltz down the pole and 
go home again." And in water, matters 
are worse. 

To keep the electricity in the copper 
rope, then, the cable-maker insulates it ; that 
is, he packs roimd it a substance which 
offers a great resistance to the passage 
of the current. The substance chosen is 

gutta-percha. As the specific resistance 
of gutta-percha has been estimated to be 
60,000,000,000,000,000,000 times that of 
copper, it certainly looks as if it were equal 
to the task assigned it; and, as a matter of 
fact, it does very well. 

The gutta-percha used at Woolwich 
comes direct to the factory from Singa- 
pore, and in as virgin a state as Malay and 
Chinese adulteration ever allow it to depart 
in. It arrives in big lumps which often 
have grotesque shapes — rude animals, droll 
human figures, things never seen *'on sea 
or land." The lumps are sliced into small 
pieces, softened by hot water and steam, 
and torn to pieces in a "develling" ma- 
chine to get rid of the sago-flour, saw- 
dust, clay, and stones put in by enter- 
prising Orientals. When cleansed, it is 
passed into a series of troughs, where it is 
steamed, crushed, pummelled, and twisted 
into a reddish-brown substance of an ex- 
traordinary rebellious look, quite capable, 
one would think, of resisting any amount 
of electricity. More rolling and beating 
reduce this mass to a pliable condition, 
and when it comes from the final rollers 
it is in sheets of varying thicknesses, 
which are soft and supple, and adapted to 
all sorts of uses. It is the thicker sheets 
which are used to insulate the copper rope. 
They are packed around it so firmly and 
smoothly that not an air-bubble can re- 
main between conductor and insulator. 

When the insulated strand, or the 
*'core" of the cable, as it is henceforth 
called, passes from this operation, it must 
go to the testing-room, to determine if the 
insulation is really perfect, or if a little 
electricity still can escape from the cop- 
per. It would be useless to make this test 
in the air, since even without an insulator 
the current does not pass readily into air. 
It must be tested under water, in the me- 
dium in which it is to be employed. Shal- 
low tanks filled with water receive each 

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section; and after a section has lain 
twenty-four hours in the water in order to 
come to the same temperature as the 
water, the test is applied. If the effect 
which ought to be produced on his gal- 
vanometer by passing into the core a cer- 
tain quantity of electricity, does not re- 
sult, the electrician knows that there is a 
flaw, and that the insulation is imperfect 
— that is, that the electricity is escaping. 

There is nothing that can be measured 
with more accuracy than electricity. The 
laws which govern its flow in a body 
are perfectly understood. The electrician 
knows how much he pours in. He can 
draw it out, measure it, treat it, in short, 
as if it were water in a pipe. A leak in 
an electric wire is dealt with almost as a 
leak in a water-pipe is, and can be located 
quite as exactly. When once located it 
is easily repaired. 

Each section of core is, as said above, 
about one nautical mile in length. As the 
cable line in question was to cover 2,201 
nautical miles, it would comprise 2,201 sec- 
tions. The sections, as fast as they had 
passed the testing-room, were stored in 
tanks under water until the time came to 
joint them. 

Jointing is one of the most difficult and 
delicate operations in cable-making. It 
must be so done that every one of the 
twelve copper wires in the conductor is 
perfectly joined and also perfectly insu- 
lated. The least imperfection at the joint 
may cause a future expense of tens of 
thousands of dollars, and untold incon- 
venience to business and loss of credit to 
the makers. 

To see a joint made I climbed, on one 
of my visits to Woolwich, up into a swal- 
low-nest of a cabin, fastened in some mys- 
terious way to the side of a wall of the 
** core " tank-room. In the centre of the 
little room sat an imposing individual, 
whose characteristics seemed to be rotun- 
dity, profuse sweating, and absolute clean- 
liness. An assistant shared the narrow 
space with him; a few simple iron tools 
and several big gas-jets served as his 

By the time I had succeeded in perch- 
ing on the edge of this aerial workshop in 
such a way as not to fall into the gas-jet 
burning at my elbow, or into the cable- 
tank gaping below, two lithe, shiny, black 
cable-cores were passed up to the assist- 
ant. With them came a tag bearing the 


From a photograph by Elliott & Fry, London. 

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number of the joint to be made, for 
every joint in all this two thousand miles 
of cable is numbered and recorded, and 
its history, from the day it is made up here 
in the jointer's nest until it falls into the 
sea, can be traced. First the assistant cut 
off a few inches from the two ends; pared 
down the gutta-percha in such a way as to 
leave two or three inches of copper con- 
ductor uncovered; bevelled each end with 
^i file, laid them together, soldered them, 
and then wrapped the joint tightly for the 
distance of half an inch with fine copper 
wire. This wrap- 
ping insures a con- 
nection in case the 
soldering should 
some time break. 

The other man 
so far had done 
nothing. It was 
explained that in 
the work of joint- 
ing the copper he 
was not allowed to 
share lest it should 
** spoil his hands." 
His duty was to 
joint the gutta- 
percha, an opera- 
tion in which much 
depends on deli- 
cacy of touch. 
When the copper 
joint was done, the 
core was passed on 
to him, and he 
proceeded to pare 
down the gutta- 
percha until he had 
perhaps a foot in 
all to work on; he 
then heated the 
gum on each side 
with a spirit-lamp, 

and with his fingers worked it down until 
the copper was all evenly covered. His 
next step was to build up the insulator. 
One after another, strips of gutta-percha, 
which had been heated at the end, were ap- 
plied, wound around the core, and careful- 
ly worked and moulded the length of the 
wound. Should a bit of dust, an air-bub- 
ble, a speck of moisture, be left in the in- 
sulator, it would give trouble later. Hence 
this heating and kneading and caution 
against dirt. Experience has shown, too, 
that no machine will pack the gutta-percha 
at this critical point so perfectly as the 
human fingers. They alone can /<?^/ when 
the work is progressing properly and is 

finished satisfactorily; hence the care to 
keep them always sensitive, to prevent 
their becoming callous by rougher work. 

The joints of each day are tested at 
night by the electrician, first for their size 
with a gauge, and then for the insulation. 
This latter test is simple and interesting. 
One end of the length of core is applied 
to a battery, and the other insulated in 
the air. The joint is then laid in a dish 
of water, placed on an insulated table, and 
a copper wire is run from the water to a 
galvanometer. The current being turned 
on, any electricity 
escaping from the 
joint must pass into 
the water, be taken 
up by the copper 
wire, and marked 
by the galvan- 
ometer needle. If 
none escapes, or 
not more than the 
amount allowed — 
for no absolute in- 
sulation is possible 
— t he joint is 
marked ** passed." 
The '*core" is 
now finished. But 
as it now stands it 
is in no wise fitted 
to meet the shocks 
that await it at the 
bottom of the sea. 
It must be protect- 
ed against the chaf- 
ing of sands and 
rocks and the pos- 
sible wrenches of 
anchors. This pro- 
tection lies in a 
sheath of steel 
wires, separated 
from the soft gutta- 
percha of the core by a packing of jute. 
The jute is spun about the core exactly as 
the eleven copper wires of the conductor 
are spun about a central wire; and about 
all, finally, is spun the steel sheathing in 
the same fashion. 

As one goes about among the spinning 
machines, he notices that the sections 
of steel sheathing vary much in thickness. 
Here is one woven of twenty-four wires, 
one of thirteen, and one of twelve. And 
the wires also vary; so that the section of 
fewest wires is the largest in diameter. 
Here is a section made, not of single 
wires at all, but of strands of three wires. 
In fact, one sees seven different varieties. 


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The occasion for such diversity is this: 
In the middle of the Atlantic a cable is 
dropped to a depth of two or three statute 
miles, and as it is payed out to such a 
depth it must have a great burden to sus- 
tain in its own weight. To make the 
weight as little as possible, consistent with 
needful quality and strength, becomes 
therefore important. The deeper a cable 
is laid the less its liability to disturbance, 
and the deep-water sections therefore may 
be made much lighter than the shallow- 
water sections. As the cable draws nearer 
the shore, where the dangers grow greater, 
a heavier and heavier sheathing is adopted, 
until, in what is known as the ** shore 
end," comes the heaviest of all. 

As the finished cable comes from the 
sheathing machine it is given three or 
four coatings of tar. From these tar 
baths it is run out of the strange weaving- 
room over pulleys into the tank-house, 
wherein it is stored under water until the 
time comes to take it to sea. It is an in- 
teresting operation. As the cable comes 
over the pulleys into the tank, the men at 
the bottom guide it evenly round and 
round in great coils from the rim to the 
cone which fills the centre. It is not so 
simple a matter, and every coil must be 
watched to keep it from kinking or from 
overlapping the last. While one man runs 
round and round, guiding the cable into 
place, others at equal intervals hold the 
coils in position. Of the lengths of cable 
thus stowed away, the ends are always left 
accessible ; so that connections can be made 
with the testing apparatus, for the testing 
still continues at frequent intervals even 
on the finished cable. 

As soon as a fair portion of a flake is 
laid, a curious operation begins — giving 
the cable its whitewash bath. This is done 
to keep the freshly tarred coils from stick- 
ing. At the end of each day's work the 
water is turned on, and the cable is left to 
soak in its element. Indeed, it is never 
left long enough without water to become 

When enough cable has been finished 
and stored in the tanks, it is conveyed 
aboard the cable-ship ** Faraday," to be 
carried to sea and laid. The '* Faraday " 
lies moored in the Thames, and the cable 
is paid rapidly into her hold from the top 
of the tank-house, passing, in its way, over 
scaffolding rigged up on a couple of barges 
to support it, and leaving on pulleys and 
ways, as it passes, great streaks and 
blotches of whitewash. 

There are three iron tanks on the ** Fara- 

day " built into the frame of the ship, 
and holding altogether 1,700 miles of 
deep-sea cable. The two larger of these 
tanks are each forty-five feet in diameter 
and thirty feet deep. The cable is coiled 
into them just as it is in the tank-house 
ashore, but with much more bustle. The 
tanks are larger; the workmen are more 
numerous. There is always a circle of 
spectators hanging silently over the rim, 
half-hypnotized by the huge swaying, 
writhing cable, by the steady running of 
the men, by the crooning songs into which 
they break when all goes smoothly. It is 
hard to get away from the tanks, though 
it is a mistake to stay there too long. 
There are too many other things to see. 

First of all, there is the testing-room, 
for now, as always, the end of each length 
of cable is within the reach of the elec- 
trician, and receives its daily test. The 
testing-room lies nearly amidships, for- 
ward of the engines, where it feels as 
little as possible the vibration of the twin 
screws and the pitch in heavy seas. It 
is supplied with all the appliances for 
electrical testing: batteries by the score 
fitted against the walls, condensers, test- 
ing-boxes, telegraphic apparatus for sig- 
nalling to and from the shore when the 
cable is paying out, and, on a large table 
in the centre, the most essential of instru- 
ments, the marine galvanometer. 

In laying a cable it is of the first im- 
portance to have the cable always under 
control. Control is secured first by pass- 
ing the cable under and over a series of 
grooved iron wheels, running aft down the 
centre of the ship's deck. The hold thus 
obtained is considerable, but it is the 
greater if the cable comes slightly bent 
from the tank. From the series of wheels 
the cable runs over a pulley, and passes 
three times around a drum some eight feet 
in diameter. Connected with this drum 
is a brake which is used to restrain the 
cable from paying out too fast. A cable 
pays out too fast when it goes to the bot- 
tom slack instead of taut; and, in spite of 
the fact that the ship is always steaming 
ahead, and the further fact that the water 
in its resistance supplies something of a 
check, yet as the cable weighs some two 
and a half tons to the mile, its own weight 
would pull it over much too rapidly, were 
it not stopped by the brake. 

Aft of the brake there is an instrument 
called a dynamometer, which shows exactly 
the strain to which a cable paying out is 
subjected. This strain is signalled to the 
man at the brake by an arm which rises 

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and falls, and he, knowing just what strain 
is allowed, manipulates his brake accord- 

From the drum the cable runs to the 
stern-baulks — a projection carried out from 
the stern to keep the cable clear of the 
propeller — and drops into the sea. 

When the " Faraday " moors off the 
starting point, the end of the cable passed 
over the stern-baulks is carried ashore, 
run into a testing-house, and communica- 
tion with the ship is at once established. 
As soon as the end is safe ashore, and it 
has been proved that there has been no 
disturbance of conductivity in landing, 
the paying out begins in earnest. 

'J'he scene on board a cable-ship is novel 
in the extreme during the regular work. 
The ship exists for the cable, and during 
the paying out it is the cable's staff which 
gives the orders for the manoeuvres. The 
signals are placed at the bow and stern, 
in order that the orders to the engine-room 
can be given according to the demands of 
the picking-up and paying-out gear. 

The cable crew is really threefold: that 
in the tank, presided over by a cable fore- 
man, which sees that the cable goes out of 
the tank to the machinery all right; that 

at the stern, presided over by the cable 
engineer, which sees that the cable passes 
properly into the sea; and that in the test- 
ing-room, which is responsible for the 
electrical condition of the cable. 

The captain is supposed merely to put 
the ship where the navigating officer 
wants her; that is, to follow the cable's 
path at the speed necessary for the work. 
This path, in the case of an Atlantic cable, 
is well known. The hills and valleys of 
the Atlantic bottom between Ireland and 
Newfoundland are as clearly marked on 
the chart as the hills and valleys on a 
map of England. 

In spite of the whitewash, the coils some- 
times stick together, and two or three come 
up together, fouling in the most baffling 
way. The eye of the cable foreman is 
always on his charge, however, and at 
the first indication of kink or foul he can 
signal to the engine-room to stop. It 
is in the testing-room that the watch is 
probably closest. The ** spot-chaser," as 
the electrician is called in cable-ship ar^^/, 
perched on a stool, keeps his eye fixed on 
the spot of light by which the motions of 
the magnetic needle are marked on the 
scale, and if for an instant it quivers and 


l.UtJKING 10\VAKl» IHfc SihKN. 

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hesitates, or if, surest sign of all, it sud- 
denly gasps and disappears, he knows that 
there is something wrong, and instantly 
signals to stop the paying out. Then a 
search begins for the fault or break. Some- 
times this means the hauling in of long 
lengths of cable already paid out, though 
usually the flaw is in a part still in the 
ship or only just passed over. The chances 
of an accident to the cable after it is well 
clear of the ship are, of course, small. 

Science and experience, however, have 
now reduced the chances of accident to the 
minimum. In the early days of cable- 
laying, when the whole business was more 
or less of an adventure, even so skilful a 
cable engineer as Fleeming Jenkin might 
well say *' that life, when working with 
cables, was tame without difficulties. ' ' But 
the modern engineer encounters his most 
serious obstacles in the draughting-room, 
the testing-room, and the factory; and the 
laying is in the main a gratifying demon- 
stration of complete accord between re- 
sults and calculations, and so an occasion 
less of trial than of triumph. 

When the ** Faraday '* has laid the shore 
end and some lengths of an Atlantic cable 
on the European side, she drops the end. 
There is no rrsk whatever in this. The end 
is properly insulated, to begin with; and 
then the cable is bent firmly around a mush- 
room anchor, which has been fastened to 
one end of a chain. The other end of the 
chain is attached to one of the huge iron 
buoys which decorate the "Faraday's" 
deck, and with a rattle and clamor from 
men and iron, the whole goes sliding into 
the sea. As the waves catch the great 
iron bladder and toss it merrily up and 
down, the crews give a hearty cheer and a 
gay "till we meet again." And away 
steams the " Faraday " for Nova Scotia. 

The same operation which we have been 
tracing from the European shore is re- 
peated from the shore end on the Ameri- 
can side. When the " Faraday ** has laid 
some seven "hundred miles of cable and 
her tanks are empty, she steams back to 
Woolwich to take on a new store. 

This time she takes aboard the deep- 
water cable — a different variety from the 
cable she has just laid. In a month she is 
again en route, bound for the end left 
buoyed on the European side some six 
weeks before. A landsman has difficulty 
in realizing that a sea-captain can find his 
way directly to a particular spot in an 
apparently shoreless sea. Latitude and 
longitude seem to him to lose their mean- 
ing when there are neither hills nor valleys 

to ^Ti them to. But not so to the captain; 
he will turn his ship's head to the buoy 
without veering. And if the buoy is gone, 
which may happen from accident or malice? 
Well, the cable itself is below, out of the 
reach of storm and meddling; and the first 
thing to do is to pick it up. 

To pick up a cabFe two miles or more 
under water does not seem simple. In- 
deed, so impossible did it seem thirty years 
ago that many people contended that lay- 
ing deep-sea cables was nothing more than 
gambling, since the probability was that 
they would be lost in the operation and 
it would be impossible to recover them. 
And, indeed, there was trouble enough re- 
covering lost cables in the earlier days. 
But thirty years' experience and study 
have overcome all difficulties, and it is 
now possible to pick up a cable even 
when lost as deep as three miles. The 
picking up is managed in the following 
way: Over the cutwater off the bow there 
runs a narrow projection, similar to the 
stern-baulks, and called the bow-sheave. 
On the bow is a large guide-wheel, and 
farther aft a big machine called the pick- 
ing-up gear. It is similar to the paying- 
out gear at the other end of the deck, 
though heavier, having, like it, a drum, a 
brake, and an indicator. 

Suppose that the end of the cable which 
the "Faraday" wants is lying a mile 
down. A manilla rope, strengthened with 
steel, something over a mile in length, is 
attached at one end to the drum of the 
picking-up gear. To the other end is 
fastened a grapnel. This instrument is 
simply a huge fishing-hook of six barbs, 
which vary from short and stubby to long 
and thin, as the bottom on which the 
grapnel is to be used is rocky or sandy. 
When all is ready the grapnel is thrown 
overboard, and the ship wheeled around 
at right angles to the course of the cable. 
By steaming slowly ahead, the ship drags 
the grapnel across the path of the cable. 
If nothing is hooked, the ship turns and 
recrosses. She thus plays back and forth 
over the path of the cable until something 
finally is hooked. 

The moment that the grapnel catches 
there is a strain on the rope, which is at 
once shown on the indicator. If the grapnel 
continues -to hold as the ship pulls continu- 
ously at it, the ship is stopped, the pick- 
ing-up gear put in motion, and an attempt 
made to wind in the rope. If it is the 
cable which is hooked, the rope will con- 
tinue to rise, and the strain on the dy- 
namometer will increase as more and morq 

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of the cable rises. When this happens 
the cable engineer is certain he has the 
end sought, for no other object could be 
hooked which would produce this result. 
If the grapnel is caught in a rock, which 
happens frequently, the rope will not pull 
in, and the barb caught will either be 
pulled loose or will be broken off. The 
essential points in picking up are that the 
ship be easy to direct — the ''Faraday*' 
will turn in her own length — that the rope 
and grapnel be strong enough to support 
immense strains, and the gearing so heavy 
that the tug of the cable and the jerks that 
must come upon it in winding in a great 
weight in an unstable element like the At- 
lantic, will not loosen the grip. The loose 
end recovered, the next step is to make a 
joint with the cable on board. With the 
core this is done exactly as we saw it 
done in the factory. In the jute packing 
and the steel-wire sheathing the joints are 
made at different points over a distance of 
several feet so as to distribute the weakness. 

As soon as the joint is made the ship is 
of course again in communication with the 
shore. She now begins reeling out the 
deep-sea cable. The work is done in 
about ten days, and the ship has reached 
the loose end left from the first paying 
out on the American side. It is a short 
cask to pick up the end, connect it with 
the end on board, and test the work. 
This done, the cable is done; Europe and 
America exchange congratulations, and 
the ship is free to go back to Woolwich. 

The cable is finished, but it is not cer- 

tain that the " Faraday *' has seen the last 
of it. Cables have their adversities even 
on the bottom of the Atlantic. Icebergs 
passing over sometimes cut them in two. 
Volcanic eruptions sometimes injure them. 
A few years ago three Atlantic cables 
went down at the same time and in about 
the same spot. No other explanation has 
been found but volcanic disturbance. Near 
shore the risks multiply. One of the com- 
monest is the anchors of fishing smacks, a 
whole fleet sometimes riding on a cable at 
once. The rocks and breakers near the 
coast are also dangerous. 

An Atlantic cable has, fortunately, few 
animal enemies, though in the English 
Channel, the Irish Sea, and the North Sea 
the teredo^ the special cable pest of the 
Mediterranean, does some mischief. This 
"miserable little mollusk," as the cable 
men call it, first made itself a reputation 
by eating up wooden ship hulks, until 
builders took to plating them with iron, 
and by burrowing into the dikes in Holland 
until the whole country was threatened 
with inundation. When the cable came, 
it took to it at once. It wriggles its way 
in between the steel wires of the most 
tightly wrapped core, and eats away jute 
and gutta-percha until there is nothing but 
a wire skeleton left. Happily, however, as 
already indicated, our own particular cable 
has little to fear from the teredo ; and the 
best wish we can give it, as it lies at the 
bottom of the Atlantic, is that it may never 
have a history, and that the time may be 
long before the " Faraday '* sees it again. 

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Born^ Bostim^ Mass. , January ly^ iyo6, Died^ Philadelphia^ Penn, , April 77, lygo. 

THE series of historical portraits begun 
in this number of McClure's Mag- 
azine with the portraits of Franklin will 
include only authentic original portraits 
from life, of persons in American history 
whose lives and works have given them 
an established fame. The aim will be to 
present such portraits as shall give best 
an idea of the living man at different 
periods of his life; and photographs direct 
from the original pictures will alone be 
used for reproduction, with a few notable 
exceptions, in the case of eminently char- 
acteristic and typical portraits where the 
originals are lost. In such instances the 
most reliable contemporary engravings 
from the originals will be reproduced. In 
the case of busts use will be made solely 
of those modelled from life. 

The periods of Franklin's portraits, like 
those of many other men, have gotten into 
supreme confusion by failure to keep in 
mind a record of his habitation. Franklin 
first walked the streets of Philadelphia, 
with his memorable roll, in October, 1723. 
The next year he went to England, where 
he was detained for nearly two years be- 
fore he could accumulate sufficient money 
to carry him back to the land of his birth; 
arriving in the city of his adoption just 
three years after he had first entered it. 
Here he remained thirty-one years — until 
he was sent to England in 1757. He visited 
Edinburgh in 1759, Holland in 1761, and 
returned to Philadelphia November i, 
1762. Two years later he was sent back 
to England, and made his first visit to 
France in 1767 and his second in 1769. 
He remained in England, *' watching af- 
fairs,** until after the commencement of 

hostilities, returning to Philadelphia in 
May, 1775. It was at this period that he 
abandoned his cumbersome bag wig for 
his thin gray hair. Toward the close of 
1776 he went to France, where he re- 
mained until the fall of 1785, when he made 
his final voyage across the ocean, in the 
company of Houdon, the statuary. 

Portraits of Franklin are here repoduced 
by Matthew Pratt, circa 1756; Mason 
Chamberlin, between 1760 and 1762; David 
Martin, 1767; Patience Wright, between 
1772 and 1775 ; Cochin, Nini, and Greuze in 
1777; Duplessis in 1778 and 1783; Houdon 
and Filleul, in 1778; Carmontelle, circa 
1780; Ceracchi, circa 1784; Renaud, circa 
1785, and Charles Willson Peale, 1787. 
Thus two Philadelphia artists open and 
close the pictorial cycle of thirty-one years, 
furnishing the earliest and latest portraits. 

These fifteen portraits, with the addi- 
tion of that by Wilson, are the only sat- 
isfactorily authenticated ones that are 
known;, and while this series will not as- 
sume to settle finally controverted ques- 
tions, yet as the result of long and careful 
investigation with the sole object of as- 
certaining which are authentic and orig- 
inal, it is felt that the conclusions may 
be relied upon. It must be borne in mind 
that portraits painted of the same subject 
by different artists at nearly the same time 
must necessarily, if each is like the sitter, 
be somewhat like each other; but when 
we find closely similar portraits by well- 
known and unknown names, we are forced 
to the deduction that the unknown names 
are assumptions by mere copyists. Like- 
wise pictures are frequently assigned to 
noted names when the work itself, either 

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technically or from impossibility of time 
and place, belies the assignment. 

With Franklin these conditions fit exactly 
the case of Benjamin West. There is no 
authenticated portrait of the great philoso- 
pher known painted by the Pennsylvanian 
President of the Royal Academy. Yet 
Franklin and West were familiar friends 
and correspondents. That West did paint 
Franklin seems assured from the postscript 
to a letter from Thomas Pownall to Frank- 
lin, February 28, 1783: '*I am this day 
made happy by having received and hung 
up an excellent portrait of you, my old 
friend, copied from that which West did for 
you." Edward Duffield, one of Franklin's 
executors, had a portrait that was ** sup- 
posed to have been done by West," but 
clearly could not have been unless he cop- 
ied it. It now belongs to one of Franklin's 
descendants, Dr. Thomas Hewson Bache, 
of Philadelphia, and from its rigidity and 
hardness would seem without doubt to be 
a not very faithful copy of the portrait 
painted by Benjamin Wilson, which is now 
known only through McArdell's mezzo- 
tinto. published in 1761, and not repro- 
duced here, because so similar to the Pratt 
portrait of about the same era. 

Wilson's picture is doubtless the one 
Franklin refers to in writing to his wife 
from London, June, 1758: ** I fancy I see 
more likeness in her [their daughter's] 
picture than I did at first. Yours is at the 
painter's, who is to copy and do me of 
the same size." This match portrait of 
Franklin was carried off from his house, in 
Philadelphia, when the British occupied 
the city, and Major Andr6, who lived in 
Franklin's house, has the odium of the 
pillage. Relative to this circumstance, 
Franklin writes from Philadelphia, October 
23, 1788, to Madame Lavoisier, an accom- 
plished amateur, the wife of the great 
chemist, and afterwards of the American, 
Count Rumford: ** I have a long time 
been disabled from writing to my dear 
friend by a severe fit of the gout, or I 
should sooner have returned my thanks 
for her very kind present of the portrait 
which she has done me the honor to make 
of me. It is allowed .by those who have 
seen it to have great merit as a picture in 
every respect; but what particularly en- 
dears it to me is the hand that drew it. 
Our English enemies, when they were in 
possession of this city and my house, 
made a prisoner of my portrait and carried 
it off with them, leaving that of its com- 
panion, my wife, by itself, a kind of widow. 
You have replaced the husband, and the 

lady seems to smile, as well pleased." If 
this portrait was from life, as it would 
appear to have been from the comment 
upon it in Franklin's letter, it was of 
course painted several years before the 
acknowledgment. However this may be, 
it, as well as the stolen one it replaced, is 
not known to be in existence. 

The Louvre possesses a miniature of 
Franklin by Jaques Thouron or Thourond, 
which, if painted from life, as is claimed, 
embodies to such a degree the artist's ideal- 
ization as to be valueless as a portrait. 

One George Rutter, a sign and orna- 
mental painter of more than ordinary abil- 
ity in his line, painted a portrait of Frank- 
lin as a sign for Brook's tavern, near 
Douglassville, Pennsylvania, which would 
seem to have been from life, by the entry 
in John Penn's diary, April 7, 1788: ** Left 
the tavern at half past seven o'clock, after 
admiring a strong likeness of Dr. Frank- 
lin, drawn by one Rutter, a limner I em- 
ploy in Philadelphia." It is not unlikely 
it was from this sign a portrait owned by 
the Library Company of Philadelphia, 
founded by Franklin, was copied. 

In conclusion, three not unfamiliar por- 
traits require noting to be condemned. 

It seems the height of absurdity to look 
upon the so-called " Sumner portrait of 
Franklin at twenty," belonging to Har- 
vard University, as an authentic portrait. 
Where did Franklin, who was grubbing for 
funds to carry him home at the time this 
picture is supposed to have been painted, 
get the money for the " purple and fine 
linen " in which he is arrayed, let alone to 
pay the artist for his work ? Aside from 
Franklin's circumstances being against its 
authenticity, his Autobiography is silent 
upon so important a subject as this por- 
trait, and its history is purely mythical. 

Another picture that has no better 
claim to be considered a likeness of Ben- 
jamin Franklin, hangs in the Metropolitan 
Museum of Art, and was painted by 
Stephen Elmer, an English still-life painter. 
There is nothing to show that it was given 
the name of Franklin until 1824, when a 
plate engraved by Ryder and published in 
1782, as ** The Politician," was relettered 
and issued with the name of Franklin. 

The last picture to be mentioned in this 
expurgatorial list is of the first Importance 
as a work of art. It was painted by 
Thomas Gainsborough, and is in the col- 
lection of the Marquis of Lansdowne; but 
it is clearly not Benjamin Franklin. It is, 
in my opinion, the portrait of Governor 
William Franklin. 

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From the original picture in the possession of the writer. 
Canvas, 24 by 29 inches. Matthew Pratt was born in Phila- 
delphia, September 23, 1734, and died there January 9, 1805. 
His father was an intimate friend of Franklin, which afforded 
the artist the opportunity to give us this portrait. It is the 
earliest authentic portrait of Franklin, and was painted be- 
fore his second visit to England, and by an American who 
had received no training out of his native land. It remained 
in the possession of the artist and his descendants from the 
time it was painted until now, and is extremely well done, 
full of mobility and animation. 


From the original portrait, in the possession of Mr. Victor 
Van der Weyer, London, England. Mason Chamberlin was 
one of the original members of the Royal Academy, and died 
in London January 26, 1787. He painted Franklin for Colonel 
Philip Ludwell of Virginia, who went to England in 1760 
and died there. Franklin ordered a replica painted for his 
son. Governor William Franklin, and Edward Fisher made 
a fine mezzotinto of it about 1763. Ten years later it was 

engraved in Paris, for an edition of Franklin's Philosophical earliest portrait of franklin, painted by matthew 
Papers, concerning which he wrote to his wife September i, pratt, about 1756. 

1773 : "To the French edition they have prefixed a print of ' 

your old husband, which, though a copy of that by Chamberlain, has got so French a countenance that you would take 
him for one of that lively nation." The present owner inherited the picture from his grandfather, Joshua Bates of 
Boston, who presented a copy by G. D. Leslie to Harvard University. 


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After a copyright photofj^raph by C. S. Bradford of West 
Chester, Pennsylvania, made expressly for McClure's Maga- 
zine from the orig^inal wax in his r>ossession ; now made public 
for the first time. Patience Lovell was born in Bordentown, 
New Jersey, of Quaker parentage, in 1725, and died in London 
March 23, 1786. When twenty-three she married Joseph Wright, 
who left her a widow with three children in 1769. She early 
showed her aptitude for modelling, using dough, putty, or any 
material that came in her way, and being left by her husband 
unprovided for, she made herself known by her small ptortraits 
in wax. In 1772 she sought a wider field for her abilities by 
removing to London, where for many years she was the rage, not 
only for her plastic work, but for her extraordinary conversational 
powers, which drew to her all the political and social leaders of 
the day. By this means she was kept fully advised as to the mo- 
mentous events transpiring relative to the colonies, and being on 
terms of familiar intercourse with Doctor Franklin, she communi- 
cated her information regularly to him, as shown by her numerous 
letters in his manuscript correspondence. She visited Franklin in 
France in 1781, and writes him from London, July 30, 1782 : " I am 
very happy to hear by Mr. Whitefoord and others that my son is 
painting your portrait." The identity of this portrait, if not the 
portrait itself, is lost. Mrs. Wright had a piercing eye, which 
seems to have penetrated to the very soul of her sitters and en- 
abled her to read their inner selves and fix their characters in 
their features. Thus the wax profile here first published is the 
strongest characterization of Franklin to be found in any of his 
early portraits, and its discovery and reproduction mark an 
important epoch. This truly great *' find " was given by Franklin to Mary Hewson, the daughter of Mrs. Stevenson 
of Craven Street, where Franklin made his home in London. From Mrs. Hewson it descended to her great-grandson, 
the present owner. 



From the original portrait in the pos- 
session of Mr. Henry Williams Biddle, 
Philadelphia. Canvas, 50 by 60 inches. 
David Martin was bom at Anstruther. 
Fife, in i736,and died in Edinburgh in 1798. 
He was a pupil of Allan Ramsay, went 
with him to Rome, and on his return set- 
tled in London and became a member of 
the Incorporated Society of Artists. He 
was a mezzotinto engraver as well as por- 
trait painter, but never attained ver>' high 
rank in cither branch of art. This pict- 
ure, familiarly known as the "Thumb 
portrait," was painted to the order of 
Robert Alexander of Edinburgh, to com- 
memorate Franklin's service to him by 
the advice given after the perusal of 
certain papers. A niece of Alexander 
having married Franklin's grand-nephew. 
Jonathan Williams, the portrait was given 
to them, " to descend to the eldest male 
heir in perpetuity as the joint rcprescnu- 
tive of both parlies." Franklin has him- 
self given the guinea stamp to the picture 
as a correct likeness. He had Martin 
paint him a replica, which he retained 
during his life, and by his will be(]ucathed 
to the State of Pennsylvania. It is now 
in the possession of Mr. Thomas McKean 
of Philadelphia. Edward Savage made 
a large mezzotinto plate of this portrait, 
and not Martin himself, as lias frequently 
been staled. 


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From the terra cotta in the Metropolitan Museum of 
Art, New York. Size, 5 by 5 inches. Jean Martin Kenaud 
was bom in Sarreffue- 
mines, Bas Rhin, and 
was livinj; ini8i7. He 
was a modeller in wax 
and clay, a sculptor in 
marble, and an en- 
graver of medals. He 
exhibited at the Salon 
de la Correspondance, 
in 1787, and subsequent- 
ly at the Salons and 
elsewhere. This me- 
dallion was unknown 
until recently found in 
Paris and is of consid- 
erable interest ; not the 
least being its superla- 
tive inscription. It was 
quite the fashion in 
Paris to affix simply the 
word viR to portraits 
of Franklin, in honor 
of his elevated genius. 
Rut Renaud had to em- 
phasize his admiration 
by a contraction of v 1 r 
sPECTABiLis. From the 
contour of the features, 
the date of Renaud's 
first public exhibition, 
and the fact that in 
May, 1785, Franklin 
sent his medallion to his 
friend George What- 
Icy, in London, I assign 
this terra cotta to the 
last year of Franklin's 
sojourn in France. 


From the terra cotta in the cabinet of the Pennsylvania 
Historical Society, Philadelphia. Size, 4^ by 4J inches. Jean 

Baptist Nini was an 
Italian modeller who 
was engaged at Chau- 
mont, on the Loire, to 
manufacture fictile pro- 
ducts from the native 
clay. He made medal- 
lions of many promi- 
nent persons, including 
Franklin with the fa- 
mous fur cap, to which 
Franklin refers in writ- 
ing to his daughter, 
June, 1779: "The clay 
medallion of me you 
say you gave to Mr. 
Hopkinson was the 
first of the kind made 
in France. A variety 
of others of different 
sizes have been mad^ 
since, some to be set in 
the lids of snuff boxes, 
and some so small as 
to be worn in rings, 
and the number sold 
are incredible. These, 
with the pictures, busts, 
and prints, of which 
copies upon copies are 
spread everywhere, 
have made your 
father's face as well 
known as that of the 
moon." Nini is said to 
have modelled another 
medallion of Franklin, 
without the cap, in 1779. 


From the plaster cast in the Boston Athenaeum. Jean Antoine Houdon was born at Versailles, March 20, 1741, and 
died at Paris, in ihc Palace of the Institute. July 16, 1828. The creator of the great statue of Voltaire, in the Odeon, Paris, 
needs no comment. His bust of Franklin was exhibited in the Salon of 177^, and again in 17^1, which would leave the 
inference that he had made two different busts of Franklin, and would tend to sustain the tradition that he mo<lelled one 
in Philadelphia, in 1785. .As great a sculptor as Houdon was, his bust of Franklin lacks the fine character of the one by 
Ceracchi. The cast reproduced was presented by Houdon to Thomas Jefferson. 

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From a coniemporary engraving by Augustin dc Saint 
Aubin, in the collection of Mr. C. S. Bement, Philadelphia. 
Charles Nicholas Cochin, the younger, was born in Paris> 
February 22, 1715, and died there, in the Louvre, April 29, 
1790. Eminent as a designer, he was admitted a member of 
the Academy of Painting and Sculpture in 1751, and the 
following year became Keeper of the King's Cabinet of 
Drawings and was ennobled. His original drawing of the 
celebrated ** fur-cap portrait " of Franklin has not sur- 
vived ; but the print reproduced was engraved for and 
published by him, which is a guaranty of its correctness. 
It is dated 1777, and on January i2ih, a few weeks after 
Franklin's arrival in Paris, he writes to Mrs. Hewson ; 
" Figure to yourself an old man with gray hair, appearing 
under a martin fur cap, among the powdered heads of Paris. 
It is this odd figure that salutes you with handfuls of bless- 
ings on you and your little ones." Three days later the 
French police enter this description on their record : " Dr. 
Franklin lately arrived in this country. This Quaker wears- 
the full costume of his sect. He has an agreeable physiog- 
nomy, spectacles always on his eyes, but little hair; a fur 
cap is always on his head. He wears no powder ; tidy \n. 
his dress ; very white linen. His only defence is a walk- 


From the original portrait in 
the possession of Mrs. Thomas Lin- 
dall Winthrop, Doston, Massachu- 
setts. Size, 12 by 25 inches. John 
Raptistc Greuze was born at Tour- 
nus in Burgundy, August 21, 1725, 
and died in Paris, at the Louvre, 
March 21, 1805. His career and 
justly high position as a painter 
arc so well known that repetition 
would be idle. This picture be- 
longed to Prince Dcmidoflf, and was 
purchased by the present owner at 
the famous San Donato sale in 
March, 1870. It is the only portrait 
of Franklin attributed to Greuze 
that shows the unmistakable quali- 
ties of his art. Its early history is 
gleaned from "M^moircs secrets 
pour servir ji I'histoire de la Ke- 
publique de lettres en France." 
Under date of June 30, 1777, wc 
find : " M. Greuze, an excellent 
painter of character heads, has se- 
cured that of Franklin, of which 
the rough draft has been shown. 
It exhibits much resemblance as 
well as character." July 25th, it is 
staled that " M. Greuze has finished 
a portrait of Franklin, which is to 
be engraved :" and September 3olh 
we read, " .M. Greuze, who has 
not for a longtime shown anything 
at the Salon, has opened an exhibi- 
tion at home to which the public 
are admitted. The portrait of 
Franklin is especially noticeable. 
It would be difficult to find a head 
with a more characteristic expression, 
and hatred of tyranny." 



We there see kinr'lir'^'-'^ 

ilv allied to high spirit ; an equal love of humanity 

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From ihe picture in the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Philadelphia, owned by Dr. Cliflford F. Snyder, Berlin, 
Germany. Canvas, 24 by 28 inches. Joseph Siffrein, Sifrede, or Silfrede Duplessis was born in Carpentras, Vaucluse, 
September 22, 1725, and died at Versailles, where he was conservator of the Museum, April i, 1802. He attained a high 
rank as a portrait painter and was received into the Academy of Painting and Sculpture in 1774. His original portrait of 
Franklin was painted in 1778, for M. Donatien le Ray de Chaumont, whose "petite Maison," at Passy, Franklin occupied 
during his residence in France. It was exhibited in the Salon of 1779, and was sold in 1791 upon the bankruptcy of M. de 
Chaumont. It is one of the most familiar types of Franklin*s portraits, from having been frequently engraved, and is 
known as the " fur-collar portrait.'* The picture reproduced has all the intrinsic evidence of originality. Replicas are in 
the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, and the Green Tree Insurance Company of Philadelphia. Many copies of 
this portrait attributed to Duplessis are by other bands. A miniature belonging to a descendant of Franklin, if original, 
shows no characteristics distinct from this portrait. 

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In the Lenox Library, New York ; owned by the Hon. John Biff clow. Sixc, 33 by 2C inches. This exceedinf^ly fine 
and interesting portrait of Franklin was generally unknown until its acquisition by Mr. Bigelow in 1867, when American 
Minister to France. It was presented by Franklin to his friend and neighbor at Passy, M. Louis de Veillard, to whom he 
als*) presented the manuscript of his notable Autobiography. No replica of this picture is known, although it seems to 
have served a legion of copyists whose pictures have come down as the works of Duplessis, Greuze, West, and others. 

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^ iT S w P J, f« 

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From a contemporary engraving by 
Louis Jacques Cathelin, in the collection 
of Mr. C. S. Bcment, Phila- 
delphia. Madame Filleul's 
name is to be found in print 
only on the plate reproduced, 
which was exhibited at the 
Salon in 1779. For a long 
time it was suspected to be a 
nom deg^isty until among the 
Franklin manuscripts, in the 
American Philosophical So- 
ciety, two brief conventional 
notes were found from her, 
but without date, and not re- 
ferring to the picture. It is 
known as "the open shirt 
portrait." It is a distinct type 
of Franklin's physiognomy, 
and has frequently been en- 
graved. Search in France, as 
well as in this country, has 
failed to discover the original, 
which may have fallen a vic- 
tim to the ravages of the 
French revolution. 


From a contemporary engrav- 
ing by Fran9ois Denis Nde, in the 
collection of Mr. C. S. Bement, 
Philadelphia. Louis Carrogis, 
called Carmontelle, was born in 
Paris, August 25, 1717, and died 
there December 26, 1806. He was 
artist and author, his " Proverbes 
Dramatiques** having gone 
through several editions. He drew 
a considerable number of portraits 
of eminent persons of his day, 
which were mostly in profile and 
highly characteristic. Like that 
of Cochin, the drawing of Frank- 
lin by Carmontelle has not come 
down to us; but the engraved 
portrait is full of charming quali- 
ties, and its simple dignity could 
not well be surpassed in the original. The print reproduced is the only one 
that has come under our notice with the engraver's name. 


FRANKLIN. J787. C. W. PEAl.E. 

From the original porirait 
in the possession of Mrs. 
Joseph Harrison, Philadel- 
phia. Canvas, 19 by 23 inches. 
Charles VVillson Peale was 
born in Chestcrtown, Mary- 
land, April 16, 1741, and died 
in Philadelphia February 22, 
i8:;7. He began life as a sad- 
dler, pursued portrait paint- 
ing without regular instruc- 
tion until 1768, when he went 
to England and resided for 
two years in the household of 
Benjamin West. He painted 

most of the celebrated char- "^"^ latest life porirait ok franklin. 1787. c. w. peale. 

acters of the Revolutionary epoch, and has given us the latest portrait of Franklin from life. It was done during the 
sittings of the convention to frame the constitution of the United States. This portrait seems to express the individuality 
of the man as shown in his life more satisfactorily than any other of Franklin's portraits. Peale engraved it, contem- 
poraneously, extremely well in mezzotinto. Some copies of the engraving reached France, where it was transformed into 
a thoroughly Frenchified physiognomy, and as such has become known as "the Vanloo portrait." 

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By W. p. Trent. 

THERE are, I conceive, two chief rea- 
sons why the name of Franklin is so 
constantly on our lips and his memory so 
impressed upon our hearts — why, in other 
words, he really lives for us instead of being 
a mere fossil in the strata of history. One 
IS that as an embodiment of practical learn- 
ing, shrewd mother wit, honesty, and patri- 
otism he is a typical and in many respects 
unapproachable product of true American- 
ism. The other is that he is the most com- 
plete representative of his century that any 
nation can point to. With regard to the 
typical character of his Americanism few 
cavils will be raised, but with regard to the 
claim that he best represents the eighteenth 
century there will probably be not a little 
dissension. Washington, Dr. Johnson, Fred- 
erick the Great, and Voltaire might each 
and all be put in competition with the sage 
who snatched the lightning from heaven 
and the sceptre from tyrants, and would 
have many supporters. But in none of these 
does the age of prose and reason seem to 
find such adequate and complete expression 
as in Franklin. Washington is beyond his 
own or any century ; Dr. Johnson does not 
sufficiently represent the age on its rational 
side ; Frederick is too extreme a combina- 
tion of daring and sublime seriousness of 
purpose and petty affectation ; while Vol- 
taire is at once too intense and not radical 
enough, and is, after all, too entirely a man 
of letters. Franklin, on the other hand, 
thoroughly represents his age in its practi- 
cality, in its devotion to science, in its in- 
tellectual curiosity, in its humanitarianism, 
in its lack of spirituality, in its calm self- 
content — in short, in its exaltation of prose 
and reason over poetry and faith. To con- 
vince ourselves, however, of the truth of 

this proposition, we must briefly review the 
main events of his well-known but always 
interesting career. 

Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, 
January 17, 1706. His family had been an 
humble one in England, a fact of which its 
most famous representative was always too 
great to be ashamed. His father, Josiah, 
after being blessed with one wife and seven 
children, took another wife in the person of 
a daughter of Peter Folger, one of New 
England's preposterous poets, and had by 
her ten other children, of whom the young- 
est son was appropriately christened Benja- 
min. What this late comer inherited from 
his progenitors is hard to determine, but 
perhaps the almost complete absence of po- 
etical elements in his composition may be 
traced to the visitation upon his head of 
the metrical sins of his maternal grand- 
father. Be this as it may, he naturally got 
little schooling from a tallow-chandler who 
had sixteen other children to provide for ; 
so that the rather ludicrous project of edu- 
cating him for the ministry had / to be 
dropped, and he was set to making candles. 
On his threatening to run away from this 
drudgery he was apprenticed to his brother 
James as a printer, no one foreseeing that 
the handy youth who spent much of his 
time over Defoe and Bunyan and Locke 
was destined to become the most illustrious 
representative of his craft since Caxton. 
But he not only read authors as far apart as 
Bunyan and Shaftesbury ; he wrote Addi- 
sonian essays and contributed them anony- 
mously to his brother's newspaper. That 
periodical getting into political troubles, and 
an elder brother being always a difficult 
master to serve, the young atithor, already 
suspected of being a deistical philosopher, 

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sold his books and ran away. He first tried 
his fortunes in New York, but failing there, 
made his way to Philadelphia, where he ar- 
rived one Sunday morning in October, 1723, 
in a manner which is inimitably described 
in his " Autobiography." Whittington and 
his cat entering London are no more pict- 
uresque or poetical than Franklin with his 
three rolls, one under either arm and the 
third in his mouth, walking up Market 
Street, and passing before the eyes of the 
young girl destined to become his wife. 

For the next thirty-four years, with the 
exception of a brief interval, Franklin's life 
is practically the history of Philadelphia, in 
fact of Pennsylvania itself. Other gr^at men 
have loved and represented a city, but none 
so completely, it would seem, as Franklin 
loved and represented the sober little town 
which, even as a huge city, he still appears 
to preside over, a tutelary and beneficent 
genius. He speedily obtained employ- 
ment as a printer, and won the favor of Sir 
William Keith, the governor, who encour- 
aged him to go over to London, that he 
might buy the equipment necessary for an 
office. Even the shrewd Franklin could be 
sometimes taken in, for Keith's promised 
letter of credit never came to hand, and the 
would-be proprietor of a shop was glad to 
get employment as a journeyman. His first 
idea was to save money, in the hope of a 
speedy return both to America and to Miss 
Deborah Read, who had overcome her recol- 
lection of his ludicrous appearance with his 
three rolls of bread and had promised to be 
his wife. But the youth who was two years 
later to compose a series of prayers which 
almost tempt one to believe that a spark of 
spirituality did lurk somewhere in his com- 
position, was as yet far from having attained 
a moral equilibrium, and he was false both 
to his betrothed and to his better self. 
That he gained a knowledge of life ^nd that 
he did not play the hypocrite about his 
shortcomings are the only two things to be 
set down to Franklin's credit at a juncture 
in his life that meant everything to him ; for 
that he did not drink and that he did not 
fall lower could only be used fairly as pal- 
liatives to the conduct of a man less ad- 
mirably endowed by nature. He pulled 
himself together, however, seized an oppor- 
tunity to return to America, made what 
amends he could by marrying Miss Read, 
who had herself made a bad match and 
was in an equivocal position, and started 
bravely and unremittingly upon his life's 

Of the early portion of his career, during 
which he was accumulating a modest for- 

tune and developing his character, only a 
few leading facts that will serve as land- 
marks need be given. In 1729, three years 
after his return from England, he became 
editor and proprietor of the ** Pennsylvania 
Gazette/' a position which gave him an im- 
petus as a writer. Three years later he 
showed his commercial shrewdness and 
widened his influence by publishing the 
first almanac in which the immortal Rich- 
ard Saunders made his bow to an extrava- 
gant world and began to preach the blessed- 
ness of thrift and contentment. The creator 
of Poor Richard and Father Abraham was 
already a great man of letters, though 
neither he nor the thousands of humble 
people who took his frugal maxims to heart 
had much or any suspicion of the fact. 
For pointed application of homely wisdom, 
whether his own or others' makes little dif- 
ference, Franklin has had no superior ; but it 
was an evil day for him when he undertook 
to revise the Lord's Prayer. This last un- 
speakable performance was, however, at 
bottom, only an unfortunate illustration of 
that humanitarianism which was to be his 
most salient characteristic. The Lord's 
Prayer must be modified, he contended, to 
suit the needs of latter-day men and women. 
Just so a library must be established for 
the good people of Philadelphia, a debat- 
ing society or "junto" must be organized 
for the choicer spirits, a fire company must 
be started, an academy in which English 
branches should be stressed must be 
founded, schemes of defence must be car- 
ried through in spite of the Quakers, the 
streets must be paved and cleaned and 
lighted — in short, every citizen must be 
made happy and even moral ; for the in- 
ventor of a new street lamp was also the 
conceiver of **the bold and arduous pro- 
ject of arriving at moral perfection "and the 
projector of a "society for extending the 
influence of virtue." Verily here was an 
eighteenth-century Carlyle preaching a gos- 
pel of work and a philosophy of human- 
itarianism which the nineteenth century 
Titan might easily have reviled in a dys- 
peptic mood, but which thousands, nay 
millions, of Americans have taken to heart. 
It is not the highest gospel or the most at- 
tractive philosophy, but the pages of the 
" Autobiography " that set it forth are noth- 
ing short of fascinating ; and the utilitarian 
sage and preacher himself is, if not fasci- 
nating, at least inimitable. 

But the successful business man who de- 
voted his leisure to the improvement of 
himself and his fellow-citizens was not 
likely to be suffered long to remain in a 

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private sphere. In 1736 he became clerk 
of the Provincial Assembly, the next year 
postmaster of Philadelphia, and sixteen 
years later Deputy Postmaster-General for 
the Colonies. In the still higher sphere of 
scientific discovery his fame was also grow- 
ing. He invented the open stove that bears 
his name, in 1742 ; and ten years afterward, 
by his famous experiments with the kite, 
showed the electrical origin of lightning. 
The letters to Peter Collinson and other 
correspondents, in which his discoveries 
were announced with the modesty of the 
true savant, brought him European celeb- 
rity, and, in 1753, the Copley medal. A year 
later he stood forth as the foremost native 
American statesman, since he was sagacious 
enough to seize the Albany Congress on 
Indian Affairs as a fit occasion for present- 
ing the first consistent scheme yet devised 
for a federal union of the colonies. That 
this schen\e was rejected by the govern- 
ments it would have most served, and that 
it would hardly have answered long, cannot 
take away from Franklin the merit of hav- 
ing begun that mighty work of consolida- 
tion which was completed only by the suc- 
cess of Grant at Appomattox. 

But the maker of constitutions could also 
engage in wrangles with the royal govern- 
ors over that perennial subject of colonial 
disputes — taxation ; and he could even be 
pressed into, military service, where he 
shone, it must be confessed, chiefly in the 
quartermaster's department. It is not often 
that a man like Braddock can command the 
services of two such men as Franklin and 
Washington, and it was an augury of what 
they would accomplish in conjunction when 
it appeared clear to all men that the only 
things to be proud of in connection with the 
expedition to the Ohio were the sagacity of 
Franklin and the prowess of Washington. 
But the time was not come for this auspicious 
conjunction; so Washington returned to Vir- 
ginia, while Franklin was sent to England in 
1757 to plead the cause of Pennsylvania 
against the proprietors, who naturally ob- 
jected to the taxation of their own estates. 
This second visit to England lasted five 
years, and was productive both of honor 
to Franklin and good to America. It was 
the first time that the Old World had been 
brought face to face with an American whom 
it was bound to admire and to treat with all 
the respect due to a wise benefactor of man- 
kind. Franklin's character and achieve- 
ments gave a dignity to every colony in the 
eyes of the mother country and of the world 
— a dignity which England, at least, speedily 
undertook to insult. The philosophic states- 

man himself had his patriotism made firmer 
and more consistent by the treatment ac- 
corded his native land, and his character was 
ennobled by his resistance of all attempts to 
make him swerve in his duty to his fellow- 
citizens by offers of place and by the subtle 
flatteries of social homage. Franklin was 
as honest and proud as he was shrewd and 
imperturbable. He accepted with compos- 
ure the honors paid him as a sage, the 
degrees of Oxford and Edinburgh, the ap- 
pointments on scientific commissions, the 
memberships in various learned societies, 
the collection and translation of his works ; 
he formed fast friendships with cultivated 
and representative men like Lord Kames> 
Sir John Pringle, Dr. Priestley, Burke, and 
Bishop Shipley ; but he never forgot that 
he was plain Ben Franklin of Philadelphia^ 
whose primary purpose for being in England 
was to watch over the interests of the Prov* 
ince of Pennsylvania. 

These interests seemed protected by his 
defeat of the proprietors; so he returned 
home in 1762, apparently to renew a life 
of domesticity which he had dutifully yet 
not too keenly regretted. But he was not 
allowed to remain quiet long, for in 1764, on 
Grenville's notice of the Stamp Act, he was 
sent back again, this time for a period of 
ten years, which he and his wife, who could 
not be tempted to cross the ocean, managed 
to pass apart without any appreciable dim- 
inution of affection or great access of 
passion. Franklin could not prevent the 
passage of the Stamp Act, and when it was 
an accomplished fact, he counselled sub- 
mission, his prudence getting somewhat the 
better of his prescience. But the indigna- 
tion of the colonies soon awoke nobler im- 
pulses in him, and in his testimony before 
the House of Commons he represented his 
countrymen in a way that left nothing to 
be desired. Luther before the Diet of 
Worms is a subject for pen or brush but 
little more engaging than this self-con- 
tained philosopher before the Commons of 
Great Britain. The Stamp Act was re- 
pealed, but the headstrong determination 
to humble America remained; so that Frank- 
lin's post was one of increasing difficulty 
and danger. Other colonies made him 
their agent — Massachusetts, New Jersey, 
and Georgia — and his services to the first- 
named led him into the most trying and 
probably least creditable experience of his 
public career, the affair of the ** Hutchin- 
son Letters." 

The details of this celebrated imbroglio 
are sufficiently familiar. High officials in 
Massachusetts had in private letters to the 

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secretary of George Grenville discussed in 
bitter terms the liberal movement in the 
colony, and had recommended coercive 
measures on the part of the home govern- 
ment. These letters, in some unexplained 
way, fell into Franklin's hands ; and he felt 
in duty bound to send them to Boston for 
inspection by the popular leaders. As 
might have been expected, they caused a 
great furore both in Massachusetts and in 
England, and in the latter country a dis- 
pute between two gentlemen as to how they 
had been obtained led to a nearly fatal duel. 
Franklin now intervened, stated that he 
had forwarded the letters, but refused to 
say how he came by them, and faced the 
storm of popular disfavor as calmly as only 
a philosopher could. He was examined be- 
fore the Privy Council, insulted in a scurri- 
lous and .shameless manner by the Solicitor- 
General, Wedderburn, and the Councillors 
themselves, dismissed from his postmaster- 
ship, and deprived of much of the public 
respect that had been previously shown him, 
but not of the self-respect that marked his 
behavior throughout the entire affair. His 
conduct has since been defended and rep- 
robated, and must always, in one particu- 
lar, be hard to characterize. Our final 
verdict must plainly depend on a knowledge 
of how he got the letters ; but this is just 
what he never would reveal. We are there- 
fore left to infer from Franklin's character 
whether he would have taken them in an 
improper way. He himself certainly be- 
lieved that he had done nothing wrong, but 
it remains to be determined whether he was 
an absolutely fair judge of what a gentle- 
man should have done under the circum- 
stances. From a purely political point of 
view he stands abundantly justified ; nine- 
tenths of the English and American states- 
men of the time would have taken the letters 
gladly and asked no inconvenient questions 
as to how they were obtained ; but would 
Burke or Washington have done so ? The 
answer cannot be doubtful. Neither Bprke 
nor Washington would have touched the 
papers without being first convinced that 
the person offering them came by them hon- 
estly, and being provided with proper safe- 
guards for his own personal honor. 

In 1774 the "Boston tea-party" found 
Franklin still desirous of avoiding a war, 
but a year later he gave up his struggles and 
even his desire for peace, and started home, 
where, in the meanwhile, his wife Deborah 
had died. He was, indeed, a much-endur- 
ing,far-travelled, and pnident Ulysses,under 
the especial protection of Athene ; and if he 
found no faithful Penelope awaiting him, he 

at least found faithful constituents, who had 
elected him a member of the approaching 
Continental Congress. He entered upon 
his duties with alacrity, in spite of his age ; 
supported the war vigorously both at home 
and in his letters to friends abroad ; and the 
next year was one of the committee ap- 
pointed to frame the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. He signed this great document 
with a witticism on his lips ; but in all the 
list of signatures there is no more patri- 
otic name than his, and only one greater. 

Legislative work, however, could be well 
done by others, and Franklin was just the 
man to inaugurate our diplomatic service. 
He was accordingly sent to France in the 
autumn of 1776, and remained there until 
1785. His achievements for his country 
are too familiar to be dwelt upon. Vener- 
ated by every man and woman in France, 
he was able to secure arms and loans, to 
effect a treaty of alliance, and to keep 
French interest in America from flagging 
during the prosecution of the war. How 
he managed to wring as much money as he 
did out of an exhausted treasury will 
always be matter for astonishment and 
gratitude ; but he did not ask more than he 
showed himself willing to perform, for he 
loaned his country all the money he could 
raise — nearly ^4,000. Nor was he any 
less mindful of the interests of humanity 
than of those of America, for he granted a 
passport to Captain Cook, and he inserted 
an article against privateering in the treaty 
with Prussia. Toward the last of his stay 
he was more or less disabled by the gout 
and other infirmities, and was somewhat 
complained of for tardiness in matters of 
business ; but his own government did him 
far more injustice with regard to his ac- 
counts than he ever did anyone in his whole 
long career. This career seemed gloriously 
ended when in 1783 he signed the Treaty 
of Paris along with Jay and Adams, but he 
had more yet to do. He had even to stay 
in France a little longer, and he had the 
delicate task of explaining how the treaty 
came to be signed without due consultation 
with Vergennes. This he succeeded in 
doing, though English historians are still 
wondering how the three clever Yankees 
managed to make their infant country come 
out of such a complex diplomatic situation 
with all the honors and most of the profits. 

When Franklin quitted France he was 
treated to an almost royal progress, and, 
what was better, he left behind him friends 
any man might be proud of and a reputa- 
tion that is still undiminished. He found 
in America, however, a gratitude and love 

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that were even better calculated to cheer 
his declining years, and his fellow-citizens 
understood him too well to let him remain 
in idleness. He was elected President of 
Pennsylvania a month after his return, and 
was reelected for two successive terms. In 
1787 he sat in the Constitutional Convention, 
and though he left most of the hard work 
to the younger men, his presence and in- 
fluence made strongly for the cause of 
union. His last service, as befitted a true 
philanthropist, was exerted in the cause of 
human liberty. On February 12, 1790, a 
petition signed by him was presented to 
Congress, praying for the abolition of the 
slave trade and the emancipation of slaves. 
Two months later, after an illness of some 
years' standing, during which he bore his 
sufferings with philosophic fortitude, he 
passed away, the date of his death (April 
17th) being not quite one year after the 
inauguration as President of the only Amer- 
ican citizen who could be considered his 

And now what in conclusion can we say 
of this great man, save to repeat that he is 
the most typical American of us all, and 
the most complete representative of his 
time ? As we gaze into his kindly face, or 
try to visualize him, with his stout, middle- 
sized figure ; his trim, sober clothes ; his fresh 
complexion ; as we recall the anecdotes 
about him, some of them not too savory, 
that show him to have been a man of like 
passions with ourselves ; as we tell over his 
innumerable deeds of kindness and philan- 
thropy ; as we read his easy, familiar letters, 
and the witty trifles that flowed constantly 
from his pen ; as we follow day by day his 
life spread out before us, with no hint of 
concealment, we are brought to believe that 
we know this man as a friend, and have that 
sort of property in him that Americans have 
time out of mind claimed to possess in their 
President. We treat Franklin very much 
as thousands of Americans are preparing to 
treat President McKinley — we grip his hand 
and then proceed to explore his premises. 
There can be no better proof of the fact that 
we regard him as a typical American. We 
are proud of him, but with a different pride 
from that which we have in Washington, 
who is so far above us. We trust his 
democracy in the concrete more than we 
do that of Jefferson, who was as much an 
idealist as Franklin was the reverse. We 
couple him with Lincoln, and like to repeat 
homely anecdotes about them both. We 
relish the wit of " We must all hang to- 
gether, if we would not all hang separately " ; 
we are delighted with the quip, " You are 

now my enemy and I am — yours — B. Frank- 
lin," of the letter to Strahan ; for this is 
true American humor, which we can all 
understand as well as we can Franklin's 
interest in silkworms and rice-culture and 
blankets of a new and pretty pattern, — in 
short, in everything that pertains to man's 
comfort here below. And above all, we feel 
like crying " Bravo " when we find him 
gravely presenting the wife of the Bishop 
of St. Asaph's with a package of dried ap- 
ples from Pennsylvania. For this one act 
we can forgive him his paraphrase of Job 
and can even forget to smile at the idea of 
his being intimate with a bishop. ** In small 
things as well as great," we exclaim, "this 
man was a genuine American ! " 

But he is also the most truly legitimate 
child of his age. There was not in France 
a more typical philosophe than Franklin. 
Chesterfield himself was hardly a more 
complete man of the world, Howard hardly 
a more complete philanthropist. Priestley 
had no keener interest in science, and even 
Goldsmith, though he wrote more charm- 
ingly, did not write more easily. Burke 
was a better political philosopher, and 
Hume and Adam Smith were better econo- 
mists ; but Franklin could have left all three 
behind in the important matter of putting 
their theories into practice. He was a con- 
versationalist worthy to be mentioned along 
with Johnson and Home Tooke, and a 
diplomatist whom Talleyrand would not 
have despised. He had the public spirit of 
a Turgot and the tolerance of a Voltaire. 
In fine, as a wit, a moralist, a scientist, a 
man of letters, a leader in private and pub- 
lic aff^airs, a cool, unsentimental, self-reliant 
son of this work-a-day world, Franklin was 
the epitome and representative of his age. 
There are greater humorists, though few 
who would reduce the size of a prayer-book 
for an aging wife by cutting out " the chris- 
tenings, matrimonies, and everything else 
that she might not have immediate and 
constant occasion f or " ; there are greater 
scientists, but few more universal in their 
range of inquiry ; there are greater men of 
letters, although it should be remembered 
that his style is limpidity itself and that 
his ** Autobiography " is a genuine classic ; 
there are greater statesmen, but few, at least 
in his age, who so fully comprehended the 
importance of the western wilderness ; there 
are finer moralists, yet none more prac- 
tically beneficent ; there are greater men, 
but few or none who have so thoroughly 
succeeded along so many lines of activity ; 
and, when all is said, there is assuredly only 
one Ben Franklin. 

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By Morgan Robertson. 

ACROSS the Atlantic Ocean from the 
Gulf of Guinea to Cape St. Roque 
moves a great body of water — the Main 
Equatorial Current — which can be con- 
sidered the motive power, or mainspring, 
of the whole Atlantic current system, as it 
obtains its motion directly from the ever- 
acting push of the trade-winds. At Cape 
St. Roque this broad current splits into 
two parts, one turning north, the other 
south. The northern part contracts, in- 
creases its speed, and, passing up the 
northern coast of South America as the 
Guiana Current, enters through the Carib- 
bean Sea into the Gulf of Mexico, where 
it circles around to ^he northward; then, 
colored a deep blue from the fine river silt 
of the Mississippi, and heated from its 
long surface exposure under a tropical sun 
to an average temperature of eighty de- 
grees, it emerges into the Florida Channel 
as the Gulf Stream. 

From here it travels northeast, follow- 
ing the trend of the coast line, until, off 
Cape Hatteras, it splits into three divi- 
sions, one of which, the westernmost, 
keeps on to lose its warmth and life in 
Baffin's Bay. Another impinges on the 

Hebrides, and is no more recognizable as 
a current; and the third, the eastern and 
largest part of the divided stream, makes a 
wide sweep to the east and south, enclosing 
the Azores and the dead-water called the 
Sargasso Sea, then, as the African Current, 
runs down the coast until, just below the 
Canary Isles, it merges into the Lesser 
Equatorial Current, which, parallel to 
the parent stream, and separated from it 
by a narrow band of back-water, travels 
west and filters through the West Indies, 
making puzzling combinations with the 
tides, and finally bearing so heavily on the 
young Gulf Stream as to give to it the sharp 
turn to the northward through the Florida 

In the South Atlantic, the portion of 
the Main Equatorial Current split off by 
Cape St. Roque and directed south leaves 
the coast at Cape Frio, and at the latitude 
of the River Plate assumes a due easterly 
direction, and crosses the ocean as the 
Southern Connecting Current. At the 
Cape of Good Hope it meets the cold, 
northeasterly Cape Horn Current, and with 
it passes up the coast of Africa to join the 
Equatorial Current at the starting-point in 

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the Gulf of Guinea, the whole constituting 
a circulatory system of ocean rivers, of 
speed value varying from eighteen to 
ninety miles a day. 

On a bright morning in ^fovember, 1894, 
a curious-looking craft floated into the 
branch current which, skirting Cuba, flows 
westward through the Bahama Channel. 
A man standing on the highest of two 
points enclosing a small bay near Cape 
Maisi, after a critical examination through 
a telescope, disappeared from the rocks, 
and in a few moments a light boat, of 
the model used by whalers, emerged from 
the mouth of the bay, containing this man 
and another. In the boat besides was a 
coil of rope. 

The one who had inspected the craft from 
the rocks was a tall young fellow, dressed 
in flannel shirt and trousers, the latter held 
in place by a cartridge-belt, such as is used 
by the American cowboy. To this was 
hung a heavy revolver. On his head was a 
broad-brimmed cork helmet, much soiled, 
and resembling in shape the Mexican som- 
brero. Beneath this headgear was a mass 
of brown hair, which showed a non-acquain- 
tance with barbers for, perhaps, months, 
and under this hair a sun-tanned face, 
lighted by serious gray eyes. The most 
noticeable feature of this face was the 
extreme arching of the eyebrows — a never- 
failing index of the highest form of moral 
courage. It was a face that would please. 
The face of the other was equally pleasing 
in its way. It was red, round, and jolly, 
with twinkling eyes, the whole borrowing 
a certain dignity from closely-cut white 
hair and moustaches. The man was about 
fifty, dressed and armed like the other. 

** What do you want of pistols, Boston? '* 
he said to the younger man. ** One might 
think this an old-fashioned, piratical cut- 
ting out. " 

**0h, I don't know. Doc. It's best to 
have them. That hulk may be full of 
Spaniards, and the whole thing nothing 
but a trick to draw us out. But she looks 
like a derelict. I don't see how she got 
into this channel, unless she drifted up past 
Cape Maisi from the southward, having 
come in with the Guiana Current. It's all 
rocks and shoals to the eastward." 

The boat, under the impulse of their 
oars, soon passed the fringing reef and 
came in sight of the strange craft, which 
lay about a mile east and half a mile off 
shore. ** You see," resumed the younger 
man, called Boston, ** there's a back-water 
inside Point Mulas, and if she gets into it 
she may come ashore right here." 

*' Where we can loot her. Nice business 
for a respectable practitioner like me to be 
engaged in! Doctor Bryce, of Havana, 
consorting with Fenians from Canada, 
exiled German socialists, Cuban horse 
thieves who would be hung in a week if 
they went to Texas, and a long-legged 
sailor man who calls himself a retired 
naval officer, but who looks like a pirate; 
and all shouting for Cuba Libre, Cuba 
Libre! It's plunder you want." 

'*But none of us ever manufactured 
dynamite," answered Boston, with a grin. 
" How long did they have you in Moro 
Castle, Doc?" 

*' Eight months," snapped the doctor, 
his face clouding. ** Eight months in that 
rat-hole, with the loss of my property and 
practice — all for devotion to science. I 
was on the brink of the most important 
and beneficent discovery in explosives the 
world ever dreamt of. Yes, sir, 'twould 
have made me famous and stopped all 

" The captain told me this morning that 
he'd heard from Marti," said Boston, after 
an interval. *' Good news, he said, but 
that's all I learned. May be it's from 
Gomez. If he'll only take hold again we 
can chase the Spanish off the island now. 
Then we'll put some of your stuff under 
Moro and lift it off the earth." 

In a short time, details of the craft 
ahead, hitherto hidden by distance, began 
to show. There was no sign of life 
aboard; her spars were gone, with the ex- 
ception of the foremast, broken at the 
hounds, and she seemed to be of about a 
thousand tons burden; colored a mixed 
brown and dingy gray, which, as they drew 
near, was shown as the action of iron rust 
on black and lead-colored paint. Here 
and there were outlines of painted ports. 
Under the stump of a shattered bowsprit 
projected from between bluff bows a 
weather-worn figure-head, representing the 
god of the sea. Above on the bows were 
wooden-stocked anchors stowed inboard, 
and aft on the quarters were iron davits 
with blocks intact — but no falls. In a few 
of the dead-eyes in the channels could be 
seen frayed rope-yarns, rotten with age, 
and, with the stump of the foremast, the 
wooden stocks of the anchors, and the 
teak-wood rail, of a bleached gray color. 
On the round stern, as they pulled under 
it, they spelled, in raised letters, flecked 
here and there with discolored gilt, the 
name " Neptune, of London." Unkempt 
and forsaken, she had come in from the 
mysterious sea to tell her story. 

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They climbed the channels, fastened the 
painter, and peered over the rail. There 
was no one in sight, and they sprang down, 
finding themselves on a deck that was soft 
and spongy with time and weather. 

'* She's an old tub," said Boston, scan- 
ning the gray fabric fore and aft; ** one of 
the first iron ships built, I should think. 
They housed the crew under the t'gallant 
forecastle. See the doors forward, there ? 
And she has a full-decked cabin — that's 
old style. Hatches are all battened down, 
but I doubt if this tarpaulin holds water." 
He stepped on the main hatch, brought 
his weight on the ball of one foot, and 
turned around. The canvas crumbled 
to threads, showing the wood beneath. 
*' Let's go below. If there were any 
Spaniards here they'd have shown them- 
selves before this." The cabin doors 
were latched but not locked, and they 
opened them. 

*' Hold on," said the doctor; "this 
cabin may have been closed for years, and 
generated poisonous gases. Open that 
upper door, Boston." 

Boston ran up the shaky poop ladder 
and opened the companion-way above, 
which let a stream of the fresh morning 
air and sunshine into the cabin; then, after 
a moment or two, descended and joined 
the other, who entered from the main deck. 
They were in an ordinary ship's cabin, 
surrounded by staterooms, and with the 
usual swinging lamp and tray; but the 
table, chairs, and floor were covered with 
fine dust. 

'* Where the deuce do you get so much 
dust at sea? " coughed the doctor. 

" Nobody knows, Doc. Let's hunt for 
the manifest and the articles. This must 
have been the skipper's room." They 
entered the largest stateroom, and Boston 
opened an old-fashioned desk. Among 
the discolored documents it contained, he 
took out one and handed it to the doctor. 
*' Articles," he said; " look at it." Soon 
he took out another. ** I've got it. Now 
we'll find what she has in her hold, and if 
it's worth bothering about." 

** Great Scott!" exclaimed the doctor; 
*'this paper is dated 1844, fifty years 
ago." Boston looked over his shoulder. 

"That's so; she signed her crew at Bos- 
ton, too. Where has she been all this 
time? Let's see this one." 

The manifest was short, and stated that 
her cargo was 3,000 barrels of lime, 8,000 
kids of tallow, and 2,500 carboys oif acid, 
1,700 of which were sulphuric, the rest of 
nitric acid. " That cargo won't be much 

good to us. Doc. I'd hoped to find some- 
thing we could use. Let's find the log- 
book, and see what happened to her." 
Boston rummaged what seemed to be the 
first mate's room. " Plenty of duds 
here," he said;* " but they're ready to fall 
to pieces. Here's the log." 

He returned with the book, and, seated 
at the dusty table, they turned the yellow 
leaves. "First departure, Highland 
Light, March loth, 1844," read Boston. 
" We'll look in the remarks column." 

Nothing but the ordinary incidents of a 
voyage were found until they reached the 
date June ist, when entry was made of the 
ship being " caught aback " and dismasted 
off the Cape of Good Hope in a sudden 
gale. Then followed daily " remarks " of 
the southeasterly drift of the ship, the 
extreme cold (which, with the continuance 
of the bad weather, prevented them from 
saving the wreck for jury-masts), and the 
fact that no sails were sighted. 

June 6th told of her being locked in soft, 
slushy ice, and still being pressed south- 
ward by the never-ending gale; June loth 
said that the ice was hard, and on June 15th 
was the terrible entry: " Fire in the hold." 

On June i6th was entered this: " Kept 
hatches battened down and stopped all 
air-holes, but the deck is too hot to stand 
on, and getting hotter. Crew insist on 
lowering the boats and pulling them north- 
ward over the ice to open water in hopes 
of being picked up. Good-by." In the 
position columns of this date the latitude 
was given as 62-44 S. and the longitude as 
30-50 E. There were no more entries. 

" What tragedy does this tell of ? " said 
the doctor. "They left this ship in the 
ice fifty years ago. Who can tell if they 
were saved ? " 

"Who indeed?" said Boston. "The 
mate hadn't much hope. He said * Good- 
by.' But one thing is certain: we are the 
first to board her since. I take it she 
stayed down there in the ice until she 
drifted around the Pole, and thawed out 
where she could catch the Cape Horn Cur- 
rent, which took her up to the Hope. Then 
she came up with the South African Current 
till she got into the Equatorial drift; then 
west, and up with the Guiana Current into 
the Caribbean Sea to the southward of us, 
and this morning the flood tide brought 
her through. It isn't a question of winds; 
they're too variable. It's currents, though 
it may have taken her years to get here. 
But the surprising part of it is that she 
hasn't been boarded. Let's look in the 
hold and see what the fire has done." 

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When they boarded the hulk, the sky, 
with the exception of a filmy haze over- 
hanging the eastern end of the island, 
was clear. Now, as they emerged from 
the cabin, this haze had solidified and was 
coming — one of the black and vicious 
squalls of the West India seas. 

'* No man can tell what wind there is in 
them," remarked Boston, as he viewed it. 
** But it's pretty close to the water, and 
dropping rain. Hold on, there. Doc. 
Stay aboard. We couldn't pull ashore in 
the teeth of it." The doctor had made 
a spasmodic leap to the rail. "If the 
anchor chains were shackled on, we might 
drop one of the hooks and hold her, but 
it's two hours' work for a full crew." 

"But we're likely to be blown away, 
aren't we ? " asked the doctor. 

" Not far. I don't think it'll last long. 
We'll make the boat fast astern and get 
out of the wet." They did so, and entered 
the cabin. Soon the squall, coming with 
a shock like a solid blow, struck the hulk 
broadside to and careened her. From the 
cabin door they watched the nearly hori- 
zontal rain as it swished across the deck, 
and listened to the screaming of the wind, 
which prevented all conversation. Silent- 
ly they waited — one hour — two hours — 
then Boston said: "This is getting seri- 

ous. It's no squall. If it wasn't so late in 
the season I'd call it a hurricane. I'm 
going on deck." 

He climbed the companion-way stairs to 
the poop, and shut the scuttle behind him, 
for the rain was flooding the cabin; then 
looked around. The shore and horizon 
were hidden by a dense wall of gray, which 
seemed not a hundred feet away. From 
to windward this wall was detaching great 
waves or sheets of almost solid water, 
which bombarded the ship in successive 
blows, to be then lost in the gray whirl to 
leeward. Overhead was the same dismal 
hue, marked by hurrying masses of darker 
cloud, and below was a sea of froth, white 
and flat; for no waves could raise their 
heads in that wind. Drenched to the skin, 
he tried the wheel and found it free in its 
movements. In front of it was a substan- 
tial binnacle, and within a compass, which, 
though sluggish, as from a well-worn 
pivot, was practically in good condition. 
" Blowing us about nor' west by west," he 
muttered, as he looked at it, " straight up 
the coast. It's better than the beach in 
this weather, but may land us in Havana." 
He examined the boat. It was full of 
water, and tailing to windward, held by its 
painter. Making sure that this was fast, 
he went down. 

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"Doc," he said, as he squeezed the 
water from his limp cork helmet and flat- 
tened it on the table, ** have you any ob- 
jections to being rescued by some craft 
going into Havana ? '* 

** I have— decided objections." 

** So have I; but this wind is blowing us 
there — sideways. Now, such a blow as 
this, at this time of year, will last three 
days at least, and I've an idea that it'll 
haul gradually to the south toward the 
end of it. Where'll we be then ? Either 
piled up on one of the Bahama cays or 
interviewed by the Spaniards. Nowx I've 
been thinking of a scheme on deck. We 
can't get back to camp for a while — that's 
settled. This iron hull is worth some- 
thing, and if we can take her into an 
American port we can claim salvage. 
Key West is the nearest, but Fernandina 
is the surest. We've got a stump of a 
foremast and a rudder and a compass. If 
we can get some kind of sail up forward 
and bring her 'fore the wind, we can steer 
any course within thirty degrees of the 
wind line." 

"But I can't steer. And how long 
will this voyage take ? What will we 

"Yes, you can steer; good enough. 
And, of course, it depends on food, and 
water, too. We'd better catch some of this 
that's going to waste." 

In what had been the steward's store- 
room they found a harness-cask with bones 
and a dry dust in the bottom. " It's salt 
meat, I suppose," said the doctor, "re- 
duced to its elements." With the handles 
of their pistols they carefully hammered 
down the rusty hoops over the shrunken 
staves, which were well preserved by the 
brine they had once held, and taking it 
out on deck, cleaned it thoroughly under 
the scuppers — or drain holes — of the poop, 
and let it stand under the stream of water 
to swell and sweeten itself. 

" If we find more casks we'll catch some 
more," said Boston; "but that will last 
us two weeks. Now we'll hunt for her 
stores. I've eaten salt horse twenty years 
old, but I can't vouch for what we may 
find here." They examined all the rooms 
adjacent to the cabin, but found nothing. 

" Where's the lazarette in this kind of a 
ship ?" asked Boston. "The cabin runs 
right aft to the stern. It must be below 
us." He found that the carpet was not 
tacked to the floor, and, raising the after 
end, discovered a hatch, or trap-door, 
which he lifted. Below, when their eyes 
were accustomed to the darkness, they saw 

boxes and barrels — all covered with the 
same fine dust which filled the cabin. 

"Don't go down there, yet, Boston," 
said the doctor. " It may be full of car- 
bonic acid gas. She's been afire, you 
know. Wait." He tore a strip from 
some bedding in one of the rooms, and, 
lighting one end by means of a flint and 
steel which he carried, lowered the smoul- 
dering rag until it rested on the pile below. 
It did not go out. 

"Safe enough, Boston," he remarked. 
" But you go down; you're younger." 

Boston smiled and sprang down on the 
pile, from which he passed up a box. 
" Looks like tinned stuff, Doc. Open it, 
and I'll look over here." 

The doctor smashed the box with his 
foot, and found, as the other had thought, 
that it contained cylindrical cans; but the 
labels were faded with age. Opening one 
with his jack-knife, he tasted the contents. 
It was a mixture of meat and a fluid, 
called by sailors "soup and bully," and 
as fresh and sweet as though canned the 
day before. 

"We're all right, Boston," he called 
down the hatch. " Here's as good a dish 
as I've tasted for months. Ready cooked, 

Boston soon appeared. " There's some 
beef or pork barrels over in the wing," he 
said, " and plenty of this canned stuflf. I 
don't know what good the salt meat is. 
The barrels seem tight, but we won't need 
to broach one for a while. There's a bag 
of coffee — gone to dust, and some hard 
bread that isn't fit to eat; but this'll do." 
He picked up the open can. 

" Boston," said the doctor, " if those 
barrels contain meat, we'll find it cooked 
— boiled in its own brine, like this." 

" Isn't it strange," said Boston, as he 
tasted the contents of the can, " that this 
stuff should keep so long ? " 

" Not at all. It was cooked thoroughly 
by the heat, and then frozen. If your 
barrels haven't burst from the expansion 
of the brine under the heat or cold, you'll 
find the meat just as good." 

" But rather salty, if I'm a judge of 
salt horse. Now, where's the sail-locker ? 
We want a sail on that foremast. It must 
be forward."* 

In the forecastle they found sailor's 
chests and clothing in all stages of ruin, 
but none of the spare sails that ships 
carry. In the boatswain's locker, in one 
corner of the forecastle, however, they 
found some iron-strapped blocks in fair- 
ly good condition, which Boston noted. 

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Then they opened the main hatch, and 
discovered a mixed pile of boxes, some 
showing protruding necks of large bottles, 
or carboys, others nothing but the circular 
opening. Here and there in the tangled 
heap were sections of canvas sails — rolled 
and unrolled, but all yellow and worthless. 
They closed the hatch, and returned to 
the cabin. 

** They stowed their spare canvas in the 
'tween-deck on top of the cargo," said 
Boston; ** and the carboys — " 

*' And the carboys burst from the heat 
and ruined the sails," broke in the doctor. 
** But another question is, what became 
of that acid?" 

** If it's not in the 'tween-deck yet, it 
must be in the hold — leaked through the 

" I hope it hasn't reached the iron in the 
hull, Boston, my boy. It takes a long 
time for cold acids to act on iron after the 
first oxidation, but in fifty years mixed 
nitric and sulphuric will do lots of work." 

"No fear, Doc; it had done its work 
when you were in your cradle. What* 11 we 
do for canvas ? We must get this craft be- 
fore the wind. HowMl the carpet do?" 
Boston sprang to the edge, and tried the 
fabric in his fingers. " It'll go," he said; 
"we'll double it. I'll hunt for a palm 
and needle and some twine." These 
articles he found in the mate's room. 
"The twine's no better than yarn," said 
he, " but we'll use four parts." 

Together they doubled the carpet diag- 
onally, and with long stitches joined the 
edges. Then Boston sewed into each cor- 
ner a thimble — an iron ring — and they had 
a triangular sail of about twelve feet hoist. 
" It hasn't been exposed to the action of 
the air like the ropes in the locker for- 
ward," said Boston, as he arose and took 
off the palm; "and perhaps it'll last till 
she pays off. Then we can steer. You 
get the big pulley blocks from the locker, 
Doc, and I'll get the rope from the boat — 
it's lucky I thought to bring it; I expected 
to lift things out of the hold with it." 

At the risk of his life Boston obtained 
the coil from the boat, while the doctor 
brought the blocks. Then, together, they 
rove off a tackle. With the handles of 
their pistols, they knocked bunk-boards 
to pieces and saved the nails; then Boston 
climbed the foremast, as a painter climbs 
a steeple — by nailing successive billets of 
wood above his head for steps. Next he 
hauled up and secured the tackle to the 
forward side of the mast, with which they 
pulled up the upper corner of their sail. 

after lashing the lower corners to the wind- 
lass and fife-rail. 

It stood the pressure, and the hulk paid 
slowly off and gathered headway. Boston 
took the wheel and steadied her at north- 
west by west— dead before the wind, while 
the doctor, at his request, brought the open 
can of soup and lubricated the wheel- 
screw with the only substitute for oil at 
their command; for the screw worked 
hard with the rust of fifty years. 

Their improvised sail, pressed steadily 
on but one side, had held together, but 
now, with the first flap as the gale caught 
it from another direction, appeared a rent ; 
with the next flap the rag went to pieces. 

"Let her go," sang out Boston, glee- 
fully; "we can steer now. Come here. 
Doc, and learn to steer." 

The doctor came; and when he left that 
wheel, three days later, he had learned. 
For the wind had blown a continuous gale 
the whole of this time, which, with the 
ugly sea raised as the ship left the lee of 
the land, necessitated the presence of both 
men at the helm. Only occasionally was 
there a lull during which one of them could 
rush below and return with a can of the 
soup. During one of these lulls, Boston 
had examined the boat, towing half out 
of water, and concluding that a short 
painter was best with a waterlogged boat, 
had reinforced it with a few turns of his 
rope from forward. In the three days they 
had sighted no craft except such as their 
own — helpless, hove-to, or scudding. 

Boston had judged rightly in regard to 
the wind. It had hauled slowly to the 
southward, allowing him to make the 
course he wished — through the Bahama 
and up the Florida Channel with the wind 
over the stern. During the day he could 
guide himself by landmarks, but at night, 
with a darkened binnacle, he could only 
steer blindly on with the wind on his back. 
The storm centre, at first to the south of 
Cuba, had made a wide circle, concentric 
with the curving course of the ship, and 
when the latter had reached the upper end 
of the Florida Channel, had spurted ahead 
and whirled out to sea across her bows. 
It was then that the undiminished gale, 
blowing nearly west, had caused Boston, in 
despair, to throw the wheel down and 
bring the ship into the trough of the sea — 
to drift. The two wet, exhausted, hollow- 
eyed men slept the sleep that none but 
sailors and soldiers know; and when they 
wakened, twelve hours later, stiff and sore, 
it was to look out on a calm, starlit even- 
ing, with an eastern moon ailvering the 

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surface of the long, north-bound rollers, 
and showing in sharp relief a dark hori- 
zon, on which there was no sign of land 
or sail. 

They satisfied their hunger; then Bos- 
ton, with a rusty iron pot from the galley, 
to which he fastened the end of his rope, 
dipped up some of the water from over 
the side. It was warm to the touch, and, 
aware that they were in the Gulf Stream, 
they crawled under the musty bedding in 
the cabin berths and slept through the 
night. In the morning there was no 
promise of the easterly wind that Boston 
hoped would come to blow them to port, 
and they secured their boat — reeving off 
davit tackles, and with the plug out, pull- 
ing it up, one end at a time, while the 
water drained out through the hole in the 

** Now, Boston," said the doctor, '* here 
we are, as you say, on the outer edge of 
the Gulf Stream, drifting out into the 
broad Atlantic at the rate of four miles 
an hour. We've got to make the best of it 
until something comes along; so you hunt 
through that storeroom and see what else 
there is to eat, and I'll examine the cargo. 
I want to know where that acid went." 

They opened all the hatches, and while 
Boston descended to the lazarette, the 
doctor, with his trousers rolled up, climbed 
down the notched steps in a stanchion. 
In a short time he came up with a yellow 
substance in his hand, which he washed 
thoroughly with fresh water in Boston's 
improvised draw-bucket, and placed in the 
sun to dry. Then he returned to the 
'tween-deck. After a while, Boston, rum- 
maging the lazarette, heard him calling 
through the bulkhead, and joined him. 

" Look here, Boston," said the doctor; 
"I've cleared away the muck over this 
hatch. It's caulked, as you sailormen call 
it. Help me get it up." 

They dug the compacted oakum from 
the seams with their knives, and by iron 
rings in each corner, now eaten with rust to 
the thinness of wire, they lifted the hatch. 
Below was a filthy-looking layer of whit- 
ish substance, protruding from which were 
charred, half-burned staves. First they 
repeated the experiment with the smoul- 
dering rag, and finding that it burned, as 
before, they descended. The whitish sub- 
stance was hard enough to bear their 
weight, and they looked around. Over- 
head, hung to the under side of the deck 
and extending the length of the hold, were 
wooden tanks, charred, and in some places 
burned through. 

" She must have been built for a passen- 
ger or troop ship," said Boston. " Those 
tanks would water a regiment." 

"Boston," answered the doctor, irrele- 
vantly, "will you climb up and bring 
down an oar from the boat ? Carry it 
down— don't throw it, my boy." Boston 
obliged him, and the doctor, picking his 
way forward, then aft, struck each tank 
with the oar. " Empty — all of them," he 

He dug out with his knife a piece of the 
whitish substance under foot, and exam- 
ined it closely in the light of the hatch. 

"Boston," he said, impressively, "this 
ship was loaded with lime, tallow, and 
acids — acids above, lime and tallow down 
here. This stuff is neither; it is lime 
soap. And, moreover, it has not been 
touched by acids." The doctor's ruddy 
face was ashen. 

"Well?" asked Boston. 

" Lime soap is formed by the causticizing 
action of lime on tallow in the presence of 
water and heat. It is easy to understand 
this fire. One of those tanks leaked and 
dribbled down on the cargo, attacking the 
lime, which was stowed underneath, as all 
these staves we see on top are from tallow- 
kids. The heat generated by the slacking 
lime set fire to the barrels in contact, which 
in turn set fire to others, and they burned 
until the air was exhausted, and then went 
out. See, they are but partly consumed. 
There was intense heat in this hold, and 
expansion of the water in all the tanks. 
Are tanks at sea filled to the top ? " 

" Chock full, and a cap screwed down 
on the upper end of the pipes." 

" As I thought. The expanding water 
burst every tank in the hold, and the cargo 
was deluged with water, which attacked 
every lime barrel in the bottom layer, at 
least. Result — the bursting of those bar- 
rels from the ebullition of slacking lime, 
the melting of the tallow — which could 
not burn long in the closed-up space — and 
the mixing of it in the interstices of the 
lime barrels with water and lime — a boil- 
ing hot mess. What happens under such 
conditions ? " 

" Give it up," said Boston, laconically. 

" Lime soap is formed, which rises, and 
the water beneath is in time all taken up 
by the lime." 

"But what of it?" interrupted the 

" Wait. I see that this hold and the 
'tween-deck are lined with wood. Is that 
customary in iron ships?" 

" Not now. It used to be a notion that 

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an iron skin damaged the cargo; so the 
first iron ships were ceiled with wood." 

** Are there any drains in the 'tween- 
deck to let water out, in case it gets into 
that deck from above — a sea, for in- 
stance ? ' ' 

**Yes, always; three or four scupper- 
holes each side amidships. They lead the 
water into the bilges, where the pumps can 
reach it." 

** I found up there," continued the doc- 
tor, ** a large piece of wood, badly charred 
by acid for half its length, charred to a 
lesser degree for the rest. It was oval in 
cross section, and the largest end was 
charred most." 

" Scupper plug. I suppose they plugged 
the 'tween-deck scuppers to keep any 
water they might ship out of the bilges 
and away from the lime." 

" Yes, and those plugs remained in place 
for days, if not weeks or months, after the 
carboys burst, as indicated by the greater 
charring of the larger end of the plug. I 
burrowed under the debris, and found the 
hole which that plug fitted. It was worked 
loose, or knocked out of the hole by some 
internal movement of the broken carboys, 
perhaps. At any rate, it came out, after 
remaining in place long enough for the 
acids to become thoroughly mixed and for 
the hull to cool down. She was in the 
ice, remember. Boston, the mixed acid 
went down that hole, or others like it. 
Where is it now ? " 

" I suppose," said Boston, thoughtfully, 
" that it soaked up into the hold, through 
the skin." 

" Exactly. The skin is caulked with 
oakum, is it not.^ " Boston nodded. 

"That oakum would contract with the 
charring action, as did the oakum in the 
hatch, and every drop of that acid — ten 
thousand gallons, as I have figured — has 
filtered up into the hold, with the excep- 
tion of what remained between the frames 
under the skin. Have you ever studied 
chemistry ? " 


"Then you can follow me. When tal- 
low is saponified there is formed, from the 
palmitin, stearin, and olein contained, with 
the causticizing agent — in this case, lime — 
a soap. But there are two ends to every 
equation, and at the bottom of this im- 
mense soap vat, held in solution by the 
water, which would afterwards be taken 
up by the surplus lime, was the other end 
of this equation; and as the yield from 
tallow of this other product is about thirty 
per cent., and as we start with eight 

thousand fifty-pound kids — four hundred 
thousand pounds — all of which has disap- 
peared, we can be sure that, sticking to 
the skin and sides of the barrels down 
here, is — or was once— one hundred and 
twenty thousand pounds, or sixty tons, of 
the other end of the equation — glycerine! " 

"Do you mean. Doc," asked Boston, 
with a startled look, " that — " 

"I mean," said the doctor, emphatic- 
ally, " that the first thing the acids — mixed 
in the *tween-deck to the right proportions, 
mind you — would attack,on oozing through 
the skin, would be this glycerine; and the 
certain product of this union under intense 
cold — this hull was frozen in the ice, re- 
member — would be nitro-glycerine; and, 
as the yield of the explosive mixture is 
two hundred and twenty per cent, of the 
glycerine, we can be morally sure that in 
the bottom of this hold, held firmly in a 
hard matrix of sulphate or nitrate of cal- 
cium — which would be formed next when 
the acids met the hydrates and carbonates 
of lime — is over one hundred and thirty 
tons of nitro-glycerine, all the more explo- 
sive from not being washed of free acids. 
Come up on deck. I'll show you some- 
thing else." 

Limp and nerveless, Boston followed 
the doctor. This question was beyond 
his seamanship. 

The doctor brought the yellow sub- 
stance — now well dried. " I found plenty 
of this in the 'tween-deck," he said; 
" and I should judge they used it to pack 
between the carboy boxes. It was once 
cotton-batting. It is now, since I have 
washed it, a very good sample of gun- 
cotton. Get me a hammer — crowbar — 
something hard." 

Boston brought a marline-spike from the 
locker, and the doctor, tearing off a small 
piece of the substance and placing it on 
the iron barrel of a gipsy-winch, gave it a 
hard blow with the marline-spike, which 
was nearly torn from his hand by the ex- 
plosion that followed. 

"We have in the *tween-deck," said 
the doctor, as he turned, " about twice as 
many pounds of this stuff as they used to 
pack the carboys with; and, like the nitro- 
glycerine, it is the more easily exploded 
from the impurities and free acids. I 
washed this for safe handling. Boston, 
we are adrift on a floating bomb that 
would pulverize the Rock of Gibraltar! " 

"But, Doctor," asked Boston, as he 
leaned against the rail for support, 
" wouldn't there be evolution of heat from 
the action of the acids on the lime — 

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enough to explode the nitro-glycerine just 
formed ? *' 

" The best proof that it did not explode 
is the fact that this hull still floats. The 
action was too slow, and it was very cold 
down there. But I can't yet account for 
the acids left in the bilges. What have 
they been doing all these fifty years ? " 

Boston found a sounding-rod in the 
locker, which he scraped bright with his 
knife; then, unlaying a strand of the rope 
for a line, sounded the pump-well. The 
rod came up dry, but with a slight dis- 
coloration on the lower end, which Boston 
showed to the doctor. 

** The acids have expended themselves 
on the iron frames and plates. How thick 
are they ?" 

** Plates, about five-eighths of an inch; 
frames, like railroad iron." 

'•This hull is a shell! We won't get 
much salvage. Get up some kind of dis- 
tress signal, Boston." Somehow the doc- 
tor was now the master spirit. 

A flag was nailed to the mast, union 
down, to be blown to pieces with the first 
breeze; then another, and another, until 
the flag locker was exhausted. Then they 
hung out, piece after piece, all they could 
spare of the rotten bedding, until that too 
was exhausted. Then they found, in a 
locker of their boat, a flag of Free Cuba, 
which they decided not to waste, but to 
hang out only when a sail appeared. 

But no sail appeared, and the craft, 
buffeted by gales and seas, drifted east- 
ward, while the days became weeks, and 
the weeks became months. Twice she 
entered the Sargasso Sea— the graveyard 
of derelicts — to be blown out by friendly 
gales and resume her travels. Occasional 
rains replenished the stock of fresh water, 
but the food they found at first, with the 
exception of some cans of fruit, was all 
that came to light. The salt meat was 
leathery, and crumbled to a salty dust on 
exposure to the air. After a while their 
stomachs revolted at the diet of cold 
soup, and they ate only when hunger com- 
pelled them. 

At first they had stood watch-and- 
watch, but the lonely horror of the long 
night vigils in the constant apprehension 
of instant death had affected them alike, 
and they gave it up, sleeping and watching 
together. They had taken care of their 
boat and provisioned it, ready to lower 
and pull into the track of any craft that 
might approach. But it was four months 
from the beginning of this strange voy- 
age when the two men, gaunt and hungry 

— with ruined digestions and shattered 
nerves — saw, with joy which may be imag- 
ined, the first land and the first sail that 
gladdened their eyes after the gale in the 
Florida Channel. 

A fierce gale from the southwest had 
been driving them, broadside on, in the 
trough of the sea, for the whole of the 
preceding day and night; and the land 
they now saw appeared to them a dark, 
ragged line of blue, early in the morning. 
Boston could only surmise that it was the 
coast of Portugal or Spain. The sail 
which lay between them and the land, 
about three miles to leeward, proved to be 
the try-sail of a white craft, hove-to, with 
bows nearly toward them. 

Boston climbed the foremast with their 
only flag and secured it; then, from the 
high poop-deck, they watched the other 
craft, plunging and wallowing in the im- 
mense Atlantic combers, often raising her 
forefoot into plain view, again descend- 
ing with a dive that hid the whole for- 
ward half of the craft in a white cloud of 

** If she .was a steamer I'd call her a 
cruiser," said Boston; "one of Uncle 
Sam's white ones, with a storm sail on her 
military mainmast. She has a ram bow, 
and — yes, sponsons and guns. That's 
what she is, with her funnels and bridge 
carried away." 

" Isn't she right in our track, Boston ? " 
asked the doctor, excitedly. " Hadn't she 
better get out of our way ? " 

** She's got steam up — a full head: see 
the escape-jet. She isn't helpless. If 
she don't launch a boat, we'll take to ours 
and board her." 

The distance lessened rapidly — the 
cruiser plunging up and down in the same 
spot, the derelict heaving to leeward in 
great, swinging leaps, as the successive 
seas caught her, each one leaving her half 
a length further on. Soon they could make 
out the figures of men. 

**Take us off," screamed the doctor, 
waving his arms, **and get out of our 
way! " 

"We'll clear her," said Boston; "see, 
she's started her engine." 

As they drifted down on the weather side 
of the cruiser they shouted repeatedly 
words of supplication and warning. They 
were answered by a solid shot from a 
secondary gun, which flew over their 
heads. At the same time, the ensign of 
Spain was run up to the masthead. 

"They're Spanish, Boston. They're 
firing on us. Into that boat with you! If 

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a shot hits our cargo, we won't know what 
struck us.** 

They sprang into the boat, which luckily 
hung on the lee side, and cleared the falls 
— fastened and coiled in the bow and stern. 
Often during their long voyage they had 
rehearsed the launching of the boat in a 
seaway — an operation requiring quick and 
concerted action. 

•* Ready, Doc?*' sang out Boston. **One, 
two, three — let go ! * ' The falls overhauled 
with a whir, and the falling boat, striking 
an uprising sea with a smack, sank with it. 
When it raised they unhooked the tackle 
blocks, and pushed ofif with the oars just 
as a second shot hummed over their heads. 

"Pull, Boston; pull hard — straight to 
windward ! " cried the doctor. 

The tight whaleboat shipped no water, 
and though they were pulling in the teeth 
of a furious gale, the hulk was drifting 
away from them, and in a short time they 
were separated from their late home by a 
full quarter-mile of angry sea. The cruiser 
had forged ahead in plain view, and, as 
they looked, took in the try-sail. 

** She's going to wear," said Boston. 
** See, she's paying off." 

"I don't know what 'wearing' means, 
Boston," panted the doctor, ** but I know 
the Spanish nature. She's going to ram 
that hundred and thirty tons of nitro. 
Don't stop. Pull away. Hold on, there; 
hold on, you fools ! " he shouted. " That"*s 
a torpedo; keep away from her I " 

Forgetting his own injunction to pull 
away, the doctor stood up, waving his 
oar frantically, and Boston assisted. But 
if their shouts and gestures were under- 
stood aboard the cruiser, they were ig- 
nored. She slowly turned in a wide curve 
and headed straight for the '* Neptune," 
which had drifted to leeward of her. 

What was in the minds of the officers on 
that cruiser's deck will never be known. 
Cruisers of all nations hold roving com- 
missions in regard to derelicts, and it is 
fitting and proper for one of them to 
gently prod a " vagrant of the sea " with 
the steel prow and send her below to 
trouble no more. But it may be that the 
sight of the Cuban flag, floating defiantly 
in the gale, had something to do with the 
speed at which the cruiser approached. 

When but half a length separated the two 
crafts, a heavy sea lifted the bow of the 
cruiser high in air; then it sank, and the 
sharp steel ram came down like a butcher's 
cleaver on the side of the derelict. 

A great semi-circular wall of red shut 
out the gray of the sea and sky to lee- 
ward, and for an instant the horrified men 
in the boat saw — as people see by a light- 
ning flash — dark lines radiating from the 
centre of this red wall, and near this cen- 
tre, poised on end in mid-air, with deck 
and sponsons still intact, a bowless, bot- 
tomless remnant of the cruiser. Then the 
spectacle went out in the darkness of un- 
consciousness; for a report, as of concen- 
trated thunder, struck them down. A 
great wave left the hollow vortex in the 
sea, which threw the boat on end, and with 
the inward rush of surrounding water arose 
a mighty gray cone, which subsided to a 
hollow, while another wave followed the 
first. Again and again this gray pillar 
rose and fell, each subsidence marked by 
the sending forth of a wave. And long 
before these concentric waves had lost 
themselves in the battle with the storm- 
driven combers from the ocean, the half- 
filled boat, with her unconscious passen- 
gers, had drifted over the spot where lay 
the shattered remnant, which, with the 
splintered fragments of wood and iron 
strewn on the surface and bottom of the 
sea for a mile around, and the lessening 
cloud of dust in the air, was all that was 
left of the derelict "Neptune" and one 
of the finest cruisers in the Spanish navy. 

A few days later, two exhausted, half- 
starved men pulled a whaleboat up to the 
steps of the wharf at Cadiz, where they 
told some lies and sold their boat. Six 
months later, these two men, sitting at a 
camp-fire of the Cuban army, read from a 
discolored newspaper, brought ashore with 
the last supplies, the following: 

** By cable to the * Herald.* 
** Cadiz, March 13, 1895. — Anxiety for the safety 
of the * Reina Regente * has grown rapidly to-day, 
and this evening it is feared, generally, that she went 
down with her four hundred and twenty- souls in the 
storm which swept the southern coast on Sunday 
night and Monday morning. Despatches from 
Gibraltar say that pieces of a boat and several sema- 
phore flags belonging to the cruiser came ashore at 
Ceuta and Tarifa this afternoon." 

A CoRRFcnoN.— We reijret the appearance, in a recent issue of McCllre's Magazine, of an article on Mr. Whistler 
which, we Icam, has caused annoyance to our distinguished countr>'man, and we ukc this opportunity of tendering him 
our apologies. In justification of ourselves, it should be said that the article was written by a man who represented him- 
self as enjoying Mr. Whistler's confidence. Upon e.xamination, it was judged unsuited for the magazine and so put aside. 
Through some mistake the manuscript was put into type and the proofs filed with those of other articles that had been 
accepted as available. During the editor's absence last summer, the necessity arose for a short article to fill a place in the 
September number left vacant by delay in receipt of a certain contribution. This article was hastily made up in pages, 
and, in the belief that it had been passed for publication, unwittingly included in the contents of that number. 

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From the original portrait, in tlie possession of General G. W. Custis I.ce, Lexington, Virginia. Canvas, 40 by 
50 inches. This is the earliest portrait of Washington painted and the Hrst of the scries that Peale was destined to 
draw. Washington is depicted in the uniform of a Virginia colonel— blue coat with scarlet facings, scarlet waist- 
coat and breeches, with a purple scarf hanging from shoulder to hip. The silver gorget, suspended from a ribbon 
around his neck, is preserved in the cabinet of the Massachusetts Historical Society. This picture was begun at 
Mount V^ernon on May 20, 1772, and was completed and paid for in ten days, Washington entering in his accounts 
under May 30th : " By Mr. Peale drawing my pict. /^i8 4^." There has recently been exploited a small copy of this 
head, as the original study from life, which is emphatically negatived by the dates given. The opportunity thus 
given Peale to know and paint Washington, before he was Commander-in-chief and first President, was undoubtedly 
what gave him the unrestrained intercourse which enabled him to delineate so truthfully the man as he really was. 
General Lee inherits the picture in direct line from Mrs. Washington. 

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McGlure's Magazine. 

Vol. VIII. 

FEBRUARY, 1897. 

No. 4. 

[the series of life portraits of great AMERICANS BEGAN IN JANIAKV WITH THE PORTRAITS OF FRANKLIN.] 




IN these degenerate days, when the deaf- 
ening huzzas of spurious patriotism 
pass for the genuine ring, the unsullied 
grandeur of George Washington's pure 
love of country cannot too constantly be 
blazoned before the people, and in no more 
salutary way can this be done than by the 
continual exhibition of his " counterfeit 
presentment." To those who have given 
close attention to his portaiture, the num- 
ber of times that he submitted to the 
painter's yoke cannot but seem appalling. 

As early as May 16, 1785, he wrote: ** I 
am so hackneyed to the touches of the 
Painter's pencil, that I am now altogether 
at their beck, and sit like Patience on a 
monument, whilst they are delineating the 
lines of my face. It is a proof of what 
habit and custom can effect. At first, I 
was as impatient at the request and as 
restive under the operation as a colt is of 
the saddle. The next time, I submitted 
very reluctantly, but with less flouncing. 
Now, no dray moves more readily to the 
Thill, than I do to the Painter's chair." 
Thus it will be seen it was an ordeal that 
he felt to be a great burden; but he was 
conscious that he was performing a duty 
to posterity, and posterity, wonderful to 
relate, acknowledges and appreciates the 
debt, recognizing that " he was a man, 
take him for all in all, we shall not look 
upon his like again." 

It is almost superfluous to say that it is 

Copyriifht, 18^7, by the S. S. Mc 

impossible to do justice to such a subject 
in the pages of a popular magazine. It 
would require a volume to adequately dis- 
cuss the mooted questions of copies, rep- 
licas, and originals, and refute the heresies 
that surround a theme of such importance. 
The material for it is ample, and there is 
no field more ready to be garnered; but all 
that can be given here are the bare con- 
clusions, resulting from years of study and 

The thirty portraits reproduced, cov- 
ering a period of twenty-six years, are 
originals from life, taken by artists of 
almost every nation, and it is the most 
sumptuous pictorial tribute to the Father of 
his Country that has ever been attempted 
under one cover. Portraits will be found 
from pictures by Charles Willson Peale, in 

1772, 1777, T779, 1784, 1785, ^7^h 1794, 
and 1795; by Joseph Wright, in 1783, 
1784, and 1 790-1 793; by Robert Edge Pine 
and Jean Antoine Houdon, in 1785 ; by 
James Peale, in 1788 and 1795; ^Y ^^^ 
Marchioness de Brehan and John Ram- 
age, in 1789; by Edward Savage, in 1790; 
by John Trumbull, in 1790 and 1792; 
by Giuseppe Ceracchi, in 1 791-1795 ; by 
Adolph Ulric Wertmtlller, in 1794; by 
Jean Fran9ois Valine, in 1795; ^Y Gilbert 
Stuart, in 1795 ^"^ 1796; by James Shar- 
pies, in 1796, and by George Miller and 
Fevret de St. Memin, in 1798. 

While this is a goodly array, it does not 

Ci.i'RE Co. All rights reserved. 

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include all. Beside the six necessary to 
make up Peale's full complement, there 
are two by Trumbull, one by Savage, and 
the whole length by Gilbert Stuart, men- 
tioned particularly in the notes to the por- 
traits by these painters. 

In addition, Pierre Eugene Du Simiti^re, 
a native of Switzerland, who about 1766 
settled in Philadelphia, made, on February 
£, 1779, a ** drawing in black lead of a 
likeness in profile of his Excellency Gen- 
eral Washington." This portrait is known 
only through engravings. It forms one of 
a set of thirteen heads of illustrious Ameri- 
cans, from originals by Du Simiti^re, pub- 
lished in London, May, 1783. 

William Dunlap, in 1783, at the age of 
seventeen, made a pastel sketch of Wash- 
ington, at Rocky Hill, New Jersey, but it 
has no artistic or delineative value. 

Christian GUlager, a Dane, had a sit- 
ting from Washington at Portsmouth, New 
Hampshire, November 3, 1789, but the can- 
vas has nothing to commend it. 

In 1791, Archibald Robertson came from 
Scotland to America, and Washington sat 
to him December 13, for a miniature, from 
which he painted a larger picture for the 
Earl of Buchan. The miniature remains in 
the possession of the artist's descendants, 
while the large picture is still in Scotland. 

Walter Robertson, who was neither kith 
nor kin to Archibald, crossed the ocean 
with Gilbert Stuart, and painted a minia- 
ture of Washington, in 1794, which Robert 
Field, no mean miniature painter him- 
self, wrote, " is as good a likeness and as 
fine a piece of painting as 1 ever saw." 
The original is owned by the estate of the 
late Edmund Law Rogers of Baltimore, 
and it is hard to believe that Field's en- 
dorsement of the likeness is correct. 

Washington Lodge of Alexandria, Vir- 
ginia, owns a picture of Washington, 
painted in 1794, by William Williams, but 
it is beneath consideration as a portrait. 

Raphaelle and Rembrandt Peale each 
drew Washington, during the last sitting 
to their father, in 1795. Raphaelle made 
a small water-color profile, in uniform, 
which was owned by the late H. H. Hous- 
ton of Philadelphia, but wrongly attrib- 
uted to James Peale. Rembrandt made a 
more ambitious attempt in oil, resulting in 
a feeble picture, which he took to Charles- 
ton, South Carolina, and, after making 
several copies, sold to Chancellor De 
Saussure. It is now owned by Mr. George 
Sanderson of Williamsport, Pennsylvania. 
Rembrandt Peale's familiar portrait of 
Washington is a composite picture, painted 

in 1823, concerning which he says, in a letter 
to the writer, September 24, i860, nine 
days before his death: "Besides having 
painted thirty-nine copies of my father's 
Washington, I have made seventy-nine 
copiesof my own." There are sketches, sil- 
houettes, and shadow profiles galore, by La- 
trobe, Folwell, Powel, and others, but few 
of them merit consideration. Claims are 
made for the originality of miniatures by 
Birch, Field, Trott, and some of less re- 
nown, but they are nearly all traceable to 

While of Franklin there is no pen portrait 
giving an accurate description of his col- 
oring and person, the difficulty in the case 
of Washington is to determine which one is 
correct. His hair, eyes, and complexion 
apparently partook of each individual color 
of the rainbow. He was not, however, in 
truth, such a chameleon. His eyes were 
grayish-blue, his hair sandy brown verging 
on auburn, and his skin that fair mottled 
complexion, rather than ruddy, that com- 
monly accompanies the hair and eyes de- 
scribed. He was "straight as an Indian," 
six feet two inches high, of large frame 
" without fulness of covering," broad 
shoulders, and had large hands and feet. 

A British traveller, Isaac Weld, who 
was here from 1795 ^^ ^797» says: " His 
head is small, in which respect he resem- 
bles the make of a great number of his 
countrymen. . . . Mr. Stewart, the emi- 
nent portrait painter, told me that there 
were features in his face totally different 
from what he ever observed in that of any 
other human being; the sockets for the 
eyes, for instance, are larger than what he 
ever met with before, and the upper part 
of the nose broader." While Brissot de 
Warville writes that " there are few por- 
traits which resemble him," another con- 
temporary says Washington " could not be 
mistaken by any one who had seen a full- 
length picture of him, and yet no pictures 
accurately resembled him in the minute 
traits of his person. His features, how- 
ever, were so marked by prominent char- 
acteristics, which appear in all likenesses of 
him, that a stranger could not be mistaken 
in the man. ... It was observed to me, 
there was an expression in Washington's 
face that no painter had succeeded in tak- 
ing." We are not in a position to question 
the accuracy of this closing sentence. 
But we do know that the following pages 
will exhibit much dissimilarity in feature, 
yet a countenance always the same, so 
that the life portraits of George Washing- 
ton cannot well be mistaken. 

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From the original miniature on ivory, in the Huntinpton Collection, Metropolitan 
Museum of Art. New York. Reproduced here in its actual size. This portrait, enj^raved 
for Irving's *' Washington," was inscribed " VV'ashington at the age of twenty-five," and 
this unauthorized statement laid the foundation for the assumption that it was painted 
in Boston in 1755, by Copley, then at the mature ageof eighteen. It is curiously youthful 
in appearance for a man of forty-five, but it must be remembered that Washington wore 
a youthful visage, and that miniatures discount at least a decade froTn a man's years. In 
1777, "on the march to the battle of Ciermantown," Peale did paint Washington's minia- 
ture, and'this is doubtless the one, since it is wholly monochrome, in blue, the limit of 
Peale's marching palette. It fell to the heirship of Harriot Washington, Mrs. Parks, 
from whose descendants it was acquired by the late W. H. Huntington, through Mr. 
S. P. Avery. The same youthfulness will be observed in the Valley Forge picture 
of a few months later, reproduced for the first time in McClure's Magazine for last 



From the original portrait, in 
the possession of Mr. Thomas Mc- 
Kcan, Philadelphia. Canvas, 59 by 
93 inches. This is the identical pict- 
ure painted by Peale on resolution 
of the Supreme Executive Council 
of Pennsylvania adopted January 
18, 1779, while Washington was tem- 
porarily in Philadelphia. When 
completed it was hung in the Coun- 
cil Chamber, in Independence Hall, 
where on Sunday night, September 
9, 1781, vandals broke in and "to- 
tally defaced " it. Popular writers, 
not giving words their exact value, 
have been pleased to write this 
picture out of existence, by under- 
standing " DEFACED " to be synony- 
mous with ^" dtstroyed." Not so. 
Peale the artist and mechanician 
understood how to reline and re- 
store the defaced picture, and it 
remained in the Sute House, and 
afterwards in Peale's Museum col- 
lection, until the latter was dis- 
persed under the hammer in 1854, 
when it was purchased for the 
father of the present owner. There 
are many replicas of it and of por- 
tions of it, Peale himself having 
made a mezzotinto plate of it in 
half length. Their history is most 
interesting, for which see the 
writer's paper read before the 
American Historical Association, 
December 2q. i8(j6, entitled "De- 
faced, not Destroyed." 


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From the orifirinAl painting, belonging to the Powel family, Newport. Rhode Island. Canvas, 40 6748 inches. See 
note to the next picture. 


From the original study in the Pennsylvania Historical Society. Panel. 
12 by 14. Joseph Wright was born in Bordcntown, New Jersey, July i6, 1756, and 
died in Philadelphia, of the yellow fever epidemic, in December, 1793. He was 
the son of Mrs. Patience Lovell Wright, with whose artistic temperament beseems 
to have been imbued, as he painted in oil and miniature, modelled in wax and clay, 
etched, and engraved dies for coins and medals. He accompanied his mother 
to England, receiving instruction from West and Hoppner (the latter married his 
sister), and was in France before returning to this country late in 1782. He 
brought from France a letter from Franklin to Washington, which was delivered 
at headquarters, Rocky Hill, near Princeton, New Jersey, in October, 1783, and 
resulted in his then painting Washington's portrait, with but little doubt the small 
crude study reproduced here. It became the property of Francis Hopkinson. and 
remained in his family until within a few years. This likeness is of marked 
importance, although strangely unlike any other portrait of Washington, for it 
has received his emphatic stamp of approval. In July, 1783, the Count de Solms, 
commandant of the Fortress of KOnigslcin, solicited Washington for his portrait, 
writing : ** Let the best pencil trace your image ; let no pains or cost be spared to 
WASHINGTON IN 8 ACF favor mc with the most faithful likeness." To comply with this earnest entreaty, 

,«..«, n.^. «.„.^."..^ ' Washington employed Wright to paint the portrait, telling him : "As the Count 


dc Solms proposes to honor it with a place in his collection of military characters, 
I am persuaded you will not be deficient in point of execution." Washington 
paid for the picture (jC>8) and sent it to Konigstein. so we may rest assured that it was a " most faithful likeness." Nor is 
this his only endorsement. He had a second portrait painted by Wright, which he presented to Mrs. Samuel Powel, of 
Philadelphia. It is the large picture reproduced above, and is signed and dated "J. Wright, 1784." If these portraits are 
"deficient in point of execution," their historical value is second to none. A replica of the head, with some variations 
of detail, is in the rooms of the Massachusetts Historical Society. 

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From the original bas-relief in wax, owned by Mr. Benjamin R. Smith of Phil- 
adelphia. Size, 5 by 6 inches. Joseph Wright seems to have quickly gotten into 
favor with Washington, who, soon after sitting for the portrait reproduced on page 
294, submitted to Wright's making a plaster mould of his face. This is said to have 
been broken irreparably in removing from the skin ; but whether this statement is 
correct or not, Wright made, in the style of his mother's work, the present profile, 
signed *' J. Wright, fecit," and also a bust, for which Congress voted, April 6, 1785, 
to pay him " 2334 dollars." Of this bust Washington writes to Patience Wright, in 
London, June 30, 1785: "If the bust which your son has modelled of me should 
reach your hands and afford your celebrated genius any employment that can amuse 
Mrs. WVight, it must be an honor done me." This bust, if it has survived, is not 
identified ; but from it Mrs. Wright made a wax profile. The laureated head on 
Wright's bas-relief would indicate that he had made it with a view to the resolution 
of Congress providing for an equestrian statue, " the General to be represented in 
a Roman dress, holding a truncheon in his right hand and his head encircled with 
a laurel wreath." A copy of this profile, life-size, reversed, in plaster of Paris, hung 
in Washington's library at Mount Vernon, and now belongs to General Custis Lee. 
Washington further showed his esteem for Wright by appointing him the first 
engraver and die-sinker in the mint, which position he held at the time of his death. 

C. W. PEAI.E. 

From the original picture, belong- 
ing to Princeton University. Canvas, 
57 by 94 inches. This is the most dra- 
matic portrait of Washington that we 
have, and the verge of caricature it 
has reached shows that Peale was not 
at home in depicting action. The 
picture is interesting for its history, as 
it was painted to replace a portrait of 
George II. which was shot out of its 
frame by an American ball during the 
battle of Princeton. It is a general 
commemoration of the battle and the 
death of Mercer, as well as of the 
Commander-in-chief. The story goes 
that Washington presented the college 
with fifty guineas as a contribution 
to its pressing needs, but the trustees 
preferred to apply it to having Peale 
paint his portrait, to fill the frame his 
cannon-balls had made vacant. The 
same head and figure, with a change 
in the position of Washinj^lon's arms, 
are repeated in the picture of Wash- 
ington, with Lafayette and Tilghman 
on Yorktovvn Heights, in the House of 
Delegates, Annapolis, Maryland. The 
miniature shown herewith was painted 
the following year, and is one of the 
best examples of Peale's work on ivory 
I have ever seen. It belongs to the 
Long Island Historical Society, hav- 
ing been received from tlie estate of 
Robert Ben- 
son, and its 
ownership is 
traced from 
the painter's 
brother -in- 
law, Colonel 
Ramsay. It 
is reproduced 
about half its 
1785. AGE 53. actual size. 


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From the original marble, in the State Capitol, Richmond, Virgrinia. Houdon came to this country to model Washing- 
ton from life for the statue ordered by the State of Virginia. He arrived at Mount Vernon late on a Sunday night, October 
2, 1785, and remained Washington's guest a fortnight, studying his host's pose, action, and physiognomy. While there he 
made a mould of Washington's face, head, and the upper part of the body, and took accurate measurements of the entire 
frame. From these he completed the life-size statue within the contract time of three years ; but there being no place ready 
for its reception, it was not delivered until the spring of 1796. when it was placed where it now is. Washington's supreme 
manhood seems to have paralyzed the power of many of the artists who undertook to delineate him. Even the great 
Houdon essayed to convey too complete an idea of the man, and thus has overcrowded his statue with symbolism. The 
cane, the sword, the ploughshare, and the fasces take away from the majesty and simple dignity of the figure, until one 
might irreverently suppose that the *' Father of his Country" required a support on either side, or in boyish awkwardness 
knew not what to do with his hands. The truthfulness and artistic qualities of the head are beyond criticism, and must 
be the canon of comparison for all other portraits. As they approach this, or fall away from it, their due relation to the 
original can be assigned. That it is idealized goes without saying when the craftsman is recalled. But truth has not 
been sacrificed to imagination ; they have been blended and commingled, but not lost in each other. In other words, this 
portrait is both real and ideal, the perfection of true art. In its present elevated position the delicate and subtle modelling^ 
is lost, so that its full value cannot be discerned. Houdon's willingness to cross the ocean to make this statue for ;^i,ooo 
arose from his eagerness to be employed to make the equestrian statue that had been authorized by Congress, August 7, 
1783, and for which he not only prepared himself, but actually made a model, exhibited in the Salon of 1793. If this plaster 
model could be recovered and reproduced in bronze, we might have one equestrian statue at least to point to with pride as 
a work of art. Houdon exhibited a marble bust of Washington in the Salon of 1786, which was at Versailles. 

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From the picture in the National Museum. 
Independence Hall : owned by the city of Phil- 
adelphia. Canvas, 28 by 34 inches. Robert 
Edge Pine was born in London in 1730, and died 
in Philadelphia November 19, 1788. Imbued 
with the spirit of '* Wilkes and Liberty," became 
to America in 1784, with the object of painting 
a series of pictures representing the principal 
events of the war, but his sudden death by apo- 
plexy prevented the fulfilment of his design. 
Washington sat to Pine, at Mount Vernon, in 
the spring of 1785, and when in Philadelphia, 
July. 1787, sat again "to Mr. Pine who wanted 
to correct his portrait of me." The result of 
these sittings, however, cannot be deemed sat- 
isfactory. While the general contour of the face 
is quite close to Houdon's bust, there is a lack of 
characterization, which seems to have been a 
failing in Pine's American portraits. It was re- 
garding the sittings for this picture that Wash- 
ington wrote his famous *' In for a penny, in for 
1 pound " letter. A duplicate of Pine's portrait 
3f Washington is owned by Mr. Grenville Kane, 
Tuxedo, New York, which was purchased by his 
grandfather Mr. Henry Brevoort, in Canada, in 
181 7. Two others, left by Pine at his death, are 
unaccounted for. The picture reproduced here 
bears a tablet that it was " presented by Genl. 
Washington to his godson G.W^. Phillips." The 
itatement, however, needs verification. 



From the original portrait, in the possession of 
Mrs. Joseph Harrison, Philadelphia. Canvas, 19 by 
24 Inches. During the session of the convention to 
frame a Constitution for the United States, which 
met in Philadelphia, May to September, 1787, Wash- 
ington enters in his diary three sittings to Peale, 
"who wanted my picture to make a print or melzo- 
tinto (sic) by." The print from this portrait is among 
the rarities of early American engravings, and the 
painting was reserved by Peale for his own gallery, 
whence it was sold in 1854 and purchased for Mr. Har- 
rison. From it Charles Peale Polk, a nephew and 
close imitator of his uncle, made many copies, gener- 
ally extending it to half length, but oftentimes mak- 
ing the simple bust. Many of these copies were car- 
ried to Europe on speculation, where they were 
bought with avidity, and to-day come back to this 
side of the ocean as original portraits presented by 
Washington himself to the officer ancestor of the 
present owner. So much for the value of tradition, 
that baseless fabric of a dream. The pictures attrib- 
uted to James Peale, in Independence Hall and the 
Lenox Gallery, are from this head. 


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•• 1788. AOE 

From the original miniature on ivory, in the Pennsylvania Historical Soci- 
ety ; owned by the Artillery Corps, Washington Grays. Reproduced here in its 
actual size. James Peale was born in Annapolis, Maryland, 1749, and died in 
Philadelphia, May 24, 1831. He was the youngest brother of (!harles Willson 
Peale, from whom he received instruction in painting. He devoted himself 
almost exclusively to painting miniatures, in which field he became highly dis- 
tinguished and showed himself possessed of much higher artistic qualities than 
his more famous brother. He served in the Continental line during the Revolu- 
tion, and was an original member of the Society of the Cincinnati. The minia- 
ture reproduced, signed with his initials and dated, as was his wont, he retained 
during life. It was purchased from his representatives by the Washington 
Grays, and served until the company's disbandment as its target-shoxing prize. 
It is exquisitely beautiful as a picture, rather too poetical in its expression for 
Washington, yet in contour not unlike the Houdon bust, which vouches its 
general accuracy. 



From the original medallion, in the possession of Mrs. Kate Upsher Moor- 
head, Washington, District of Columbia. Reproduced here in nearly its 
actual size. Madame de Brehan was the sister of the Count de Mousiier. 
who succeeded the Chevalier de la Luzerne as minister from France to this 
country. She was an eccentric and accomplished woman, and painted en 
cama'ieu in monochrome several portraits of Washington, one showing the 
head accotated with the head of Lafayette. She made repeated visits to 
Mount V^ernon, and on one occasion Washington enters in his diary : '* Octo- 
ber 3, 1789. About two o'clock sat for Madame de Brehan to complete a 
profile miniature of me which she had begun from memory and which she 
had made exceedingly like the original." She returned to France a year 
later, where the medallion was engraved by A. F. Sergent. Several proofs 
of the engraving she sent to Washington, and he gave them to his lady 
friends. One, presented to Mrs. Robert Morris, with the autograph inscrip- 
tion, " The President's compliments accompany the enclosed to Mrs. Morris." 
was given, by her granddaughter, to General McClellan, after the battle of 
Antietam. The picture reproduced was inherited in a direct line from Mrs. 
Washington by her great-great-great-granddaughter, the present owner. 


From the original miniature on ivory, in the possession of Mrs. Moses S. Beach. 
Peekskill, New York. Reproduced here in its actual size. John Ramagc was an 
Irishman, who emigrated to Boston, became lieutenant of the Royal Irish Vol- 
unteers, organized in 1775 for the defence of the town during the siege, and the 
next year embarked for Halifax with the British army. He subsequently went 
to New York, and was commissioned by General Patterson, February 2, 17S0. 
lieutenant of Company 7. City Militia. He remained after the British evacuation 
and became the fashionable miniature painter of his day. in New York, painting 
all the belles and beaux of the periixl in a charming manner and setting them 
himself with much taste. He became involved in debt, and to escape prison fled 
to Montreal in 1794, where he died about 1803, poor and friendless. Washington 
sat to him October 3, 1789, and the miniature here reproduced was purchased in 
18S4 from the daughter of the man in whose house Ramage died, and to whom 
the artist had given it on his death-bed. Another miniature, claimed to be by 
Ramage. is owned in Maryland. 


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From the original portrait, in the United 
States National Museum, Washington, District of 
Columbia ; owned by Mr. G. L. McKean, Chicago. 
Illinois. Canvas, 17 by 21 inches. In 1790 Joseph 
Wright painted a portrait of Washington and 
etched a small profile, which is the same as the 
portrait reproduced except that the body in the 
etching is also in profile. Washington's prolilc is 
very attractive, and the simplicity and directness 
of this one have a charm of reality which is its 
highest recommendation, while the etched profile 
from its first publication was universally accepted 
for its correctness of line and expression. 



From the original portrait, owned by 
Harvard University. Canvas, 25 by 30 
inches. Edward Savage was born in 
Princeton, Massachusetts, November 26, 
1761, and died there July 6, 1817. Origi- 
nally a goldsmith, he turned his attention 
to portrait painting and engraving, and 
produced some very creditable work in 
both departments, although his paintings 
are of very unequal merit. The portrait 
for Harvard was begun in New York De- 
cember 21, 1789, and finished January 6, 
1790, as we learn from Washington's 
diary. The venerated Josiah Quincy 
pronounced it " the best likeness he had 
ever seen of Washington," and there 
certainly is a striking life-likeness about 
it, especially in Savage's own fine large 
mezzotinto plate, for which he first 
painted a panel, the same size, adapting 
Wright's figure and composition to his 
Harvard College head. This panel, 
signed, and dated " 1703." belongs to his 
grandson, and is on exhibition at the 
Metropolitan Museum, New York. Sav- 
age subsequently painted another por- 
trait of Washington (25 by 30 inches), 
which he used in his well-known print 
of "The Washington Family." It is 
owned by Mr. Luther Kountze. of Mor- 
ristown. New Jersey, but cannot be ob- 
tained for reproduction. The large can- 
vas of " The Washington Family " is 
owned by Mr. William F. Havemeyer. 
of New York. 


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From the original p>ortrait, belonging to Mr. Clarence Winthrop Bowen, New York, Canvas, 40 by scinches. When 
and where this picture was painted is not known ; but it was exhibited in the New York Museum prior to 1798, and must 
have been painted after 1789, since the plan of the new city of Washington appears in it. It is simple in treatment, as are 
all of Wright's portraits, and is exceedingly interesting, with every indication of originality. Its composition was used 
by Edward Savage in the well-known large mezzotinto plate of Washington which he published in London June 25, 1793. 

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From the orif^inal picture, belonsrinp to the Rojjers estate, Baltimore, Maryland. Canvas, 20 by 30 inches. John Trum- 
bull was born in Lebanon, Connecticut, June 6, 1756. and died in New York November 10, 1843. When a mere lad he joined 
the army at Cambridge, and owint^^ to the ability he showed as a topographical draughtsman was attached to Washington's 
staff. He left the service in February, 1777. owing to some dissatisfaction regarding rank, and three years later went to 
London to study under West. Upon the execution of Major Andr^ he was arrested and thrown into prison, and only 
released, to leave the country, upon the suretyship of Copley and West. He returned to West's studio towards the close of 
1782, where he remained seven years. He came back home, and in February and July, 1790. had a number of sittings from 
Washington. On Tuesday, July 8. Washington writes in his diary : " Sat from 9 o'clock till after 10 for Mr. Jno. Trumbull, 
who was drawing a portrait of me at full length which he intends to present to Mrs. Washington." This is the picture 
reproduced. Mrs. Washington by her will left it to her granddaughter Eliza Parke Law, who bequeathed it to her 
grandson, the late General Edmund Law Rogers, of Baltimore. The head in this picture is exceedingly fine, equal to the 
very best of Trumbull's small cabinet heads in the collection he gave to Yale College. From this perfect and complete 
study Trumbull painted the large canvas, 7a by 108, for the city of New York, which, with the portrait of Governor 
George Clinton, also painted for the city, he materially altered in 1804. 

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From the original picture, in the Trumbull Gallery, 
School of Fine Arts, New Haven. This picture, which has 
been termed the best military portrait of Washinffton, was 
painted for Charleston, South Carolina, but that city not 
beinn satisfied with it, it remained in the painter's hands and 
went with his other pictures to the gallery he founded as a 
monument to himself. Owinjf to its size and position on 
the wall, it cannot be adequately photographed for repro- 
duction. In 1793 Trumbull painted a bust portrait of Wash- 
ington, and the following year one of his favorite cabinet 
size ; but neither is satisfactory. The first is at New Haven, 
and the other in the United States National Museum, Wash- 
ington, District of Columbia. Perhaps few painters were 
more unequal in their work than the old patrician, Colonel 


From the original silhouette cut at Peale's Museum, 
1794, in the possession of Mr. EdwarJ S. Miles, Philadel- 
phia. Reproduced here half its actual size. This interesting 
profile, never before published, was cut out of white paper 
by an instrument that gave an exact outline, and was pre- 
sented by Washington to Alice Poultney, wife of James 
Todd, whose brother John Todd married Dorothea Payn, 
afterwards the wile of President Madison. From Mrs. Todd, 
who was at the Museum with Washington when the profile 
was cut, it has descended to her great-grandson, the present 
owner, who has heard from her own lips the story of her 
intimacy with President and Mrs. Washington. Mrs. Todd 
died in Philadelphia February 26, 1867, in her one hundredth 
year, possessed of all her faculties. 


From the original portrait, in the Bryan Collection, New 
York Historical Society. Canvas, 24 by 30 inches. This is 
the last portrait of Washington painted by Peale from life, 
and the sittinus for it were given in the artist's quarters, on 
the second floor of the Hall of the American Philosophical 
Society, Philadelphia. It was on this occasion that his sons 
Raph.iclle and Rembrandt essayed a delineation of the his- 
toric leaiures, and his brother James painted the water-color 
profile reproduced on page :;o5. If the Houdon bust is what we regard it to be. then this portrait must bean accurate 
likeness. It certainly so appeals to the observer, and the artist valued it too much to part with it. Mr. Bryan secured 
it at the final sale of the museum collection. Peale painted several replicas of it, and Rembrandt Peale frequently 
copied it. 


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From the ori^^inal marble, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art ; owned by the estate of Gouvcrneur Kemble ; photo- 
graphed by Charles Truscott, of Philadelphia. Giuseppe Ceracchi came to America in 1791 with an elaborate scheme for 
the erection of a monument to the American Revolution. Madison wrote : " He was an enthusiastic worshipper of Liberty 
and Fame ; and his whole soul was bent on securing the latter by rearing a monument to the former, which he considered 
as personified in the American Republic." The monument was to be embellished with statues of the chief actors in the 
Revolution, and he invited several of them to sit to him, among others Washington, who took a lively interest in the pro- 
ject. Ceracchi went back to Europe to formulate his plans, and returned to America in the fall of 1793, bringing with him 
an elaborate model, anticipating, with southern ardor, that all he would have to do was to proceed with the work. In 
this he was of course mistaken, and he complained bitterly to Washington of the failure of his plans, which induced Wash- 
ington to sign a recommendatory circular letter, asking for private subscriptions to carry on the work and naming the 
members of his cabinet as trustees of the fund, all of whom, save Hamilton, also put signatures to the letter. Even this 
failed, and Ceracchi, disgruntled, shook the dust of freedom from his feet, after demanding payment for the busts he had 
asked as a favor to make. Washington, who had sat to him in 1791-92, sat again at his request for some alterations in the 
bust, which, after these were made, was cut in marble and signed, "Ceracchi faciebat Philadelphiae, 1795." Washing- 
ton demurred to the unjust demand for payment, and the bust was purchased by the Spanish minister, who sent it to his 
home government, where, unwelcome, it was sold to the American agent, Richard W. Meade, father of General Meade, 
who brought it back to Philadelphia. At the sale of the important Meade collection of works of art. in 1847, it was bought 
by Mr. Kemble, of Coldspring, New York. Ceracchi was a well-equipped and thoroughly accomplished statuary, but his 
bust of Washington partakes, perhaps, too much of the character of "the old Roman." The expression of the mouth, 
however, has been highly commended for its faithfulness. 


From the original drawing in India ink. in possession of the 
writer. Reproduced here in nearly its actual size, Jean Fran9ois 
Valine came to this country with the intention of starting cotton 
mills near Alexandria, Virginia, relative to which he had corre- 
sponded with Washington. Jefferson, and others. His enterprise 
was not a success, and he removed to Philadelphia, where for 
several years he maintained a pension^ but subsequently went 
South and settled in New Orleans. He was of an artistic turn, 
as were many of the French emigres, and after the battle of New 
Orleans painted a miniature of General Jackson, which the latter 
presented to Edward Livinj^'ston. The above profile, now for 
the first time published, is signed " J. F. Valine, 1795." 


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From the original portrait, belonging to Mr. John Wajjncr, Philadelphia. Canvas, 21 by 25 inches. Adolph Ulric 
Wertmlillcr was born in Stockholm. Sweden. February 18, 1751, and died near Wilroinjfton, Delaware, October 5, 1811. and 
is buried in the old Swedes' churchyard, Philadelphia. When twenty-one he left Stockholm for Paris, to put himself under 
his cousin Roslin,oneof the chief portrait painters of the French capital, and subsequently received instruction from Vien. 
lie was admitted a member of the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture July 30, 1784, upon the presentation of por- 
traits of Bachelicr and Caffiere, havinff the year previous been brevetted First Painter of the King of Sweden. Upon this 
appointment he painted for Gustavus III. " Ariadne " and " Marie Antoinette with her Two Children in the Garden of the 
Litll2 Trianon," both now in the National Museum, Stockholm. In 1787 he painted his famous picture of " Danac Receiv- 
ing Jupiter in a Shower of Gold," which, both for conception and purity of execution, entitles him to a commanding place 
among the painters of his time. Driven from France by the exigencies of the Revolution, he sought a home in America, 
reaching Philadelphia May 13, 1794. Here, in August, Washington sat to him "dans la maison du Congre^ ou le Senat 
s'asscmble," and November 8 he makes record : " Fini le portrait du General Washington, prem. President du Congress, 
un habit dc velour noir, buste quar^ toilc de 15. d port, est pour mot" These two entries in the artist's autograph, now 
first published, are of the first importance, as the originality of Wertmllllers portrait of Washington has been directly 
questioned. He was called to Sweden in 1796 by the death of his agent ; but