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MUNSEY S MAGAZIN

VOLUME XIX.

APRIL TO SEPTEMBER, 1898.

NEW YORK :

FRANK A. MUNSEY, PUBLISHER,
in .FIFTH AVENUE.

1/898.

INDEX TO VOLUME XIX,

Peri -

SPECIAL ARTICLES.

AMERICAN CATHEDRAL, AN

AMERICA S BIG GUNS

BALTIMORE BELLES

BETTER NEW YORK, THE

BRITAIN AND AMERICA

CALIFORNIA SCULPTOR, A

CIVIL SERVICE REFORM

COTTAGE LIFE ON THE ST. LAWRENCE

DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH; SCULPTOR

DEWEY S INVINCIBLE SQUADRON

DOWNMAN AND HIS PORTRAITS

FAMOUS WAR PICTURES

FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY, THE

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM

HAVANA

HISTORIC NAVAL ENGAGEMENTS -

INTO BATTLE AND THROUGH IT -

LEADERS OF OUR ARMY, THE

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST AND HIS BEST BOOK

NEW YORK NAVY YARD, THE

OLD NEW YORK

ONE OF MANY

ON NIPPERSINK

OPPORTUNITY S BALD SPOT

OUR FIGHTING NAVY

OUR FLYING SQUADRON

OUR NATIVE ARISTOCRACY -

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE

OUT OF HIS PAST

PARISIAN ETCHER, A

PENSION PROBLEM, THE

POSTAL SAVINGS DEPOSITORIES -

PRAISHMONGERS, THE

PRIZES OF VICTOR v, THE
RISE AND FALL OF SPAIN, THE
ROMANOFFS OF TODAY, THE
SCULPTOR AND STUDENT
SIX QUEENS OF HENRY VIII, THE
SOME SOCIAL PESTS
THEATRICAL FIRST NIGHT, A
TWO MILES OF MILLIONAIRES
UNITED STATES SENATE, THE
WEALTH OF THE PHILIPPINES, THE
WHY IS NEW YORK DISLIKED?
WOMEN IN JOURNALISM

RIGHT REV. H. C. POTTER
GEORGE GRANTHAM BAIN
FREDERIC TAYLOR

ELIZABETH K. TOMPKINS

LYMAN J. GAGE

EDWIN WILDMAN - .-

F. VAN RENSSELAKR DRY
FRANK A. MUNSEY

ELLIOTT F. SHAW
RUFUS R. WILSON
JEROME K. JEROME

PERCIE W. HART -
SAMUEL MERWIN -
CLARINDA P. LAMAR
RUFUS R. WILSON -

JAMES L. FORD
KATHRYN JARBOE
H. L. HAWTHORNE

HENRY CLAY EVANS
JAMES A. GARY
JAMES L. FORD

R. H. TlTHERINGTOX

GEOKGK HOLME
CHARLES C. SARGENT, JR.

JAMES L. FORD
JAMES L- FORD

WILLIAM E. MASON-
JOHN ALDEN ADAMS
ARTHUR MCEWEN
ANNE O HAGAN

PAGE

- 242

- 205

- 264

- 917

- 603

- 9 4

- 171

- 194

- 234

- 401

- 569

- 518

- 214

- 43

- 323

- 394

- 643

- 28

- 105

- 43

- 2IO

- 833

- 26l

- 485
~ 425

- "06

- 837

- 606

- 226

- 697

- 387

- 181

- 522

- 713

- 99

- 43 6

- 73

- 943

- 121

- 345

- 504

- 665

SERIAL STORIES.

CASTLE INN, THE

SWALLOW

WOMAN OF KRONSTADT. THE

STANLEY J. WEYMAN 57, 250, 410, 581, 761, 921
H. RIDER HAGGARD - 362, 554, 733, 86t

MAX PEMBERTON - 81,284,441

SHORT STORIES.

ANNOUNCEMENT DINNER, THE

BAR HARBOR EPISODE, A

BY THE BRASSARD OF MERCY

CASEY S CLAIM
DOLLAR SCOOP, A
DUFFER, THE

FIVE LETTERS AND A CALL

FOR THE LIVERPOOL ORPHANS

GOOD SITUATION, A

GUARD No. 10

INTERNATIONAL MARRIAGE, AN -

JOKE CLUB, THE

LACK IN A LIFE, A

LIKE SOLDIERS ALL

MRS. BLIMBER S LITERARY EVENING

RICKSHAW COOLIE No. 72

TWO WOMEN AND A THEORIST

JULIET W. TOMPKINS
FLORENCE C. ABBOTT
MAUD H. PETERSON
W. M. CHAUVENET
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
FRANK H. SPEARMAN
WILLIAM FREDERICK Dix
ANNE O HAGAN
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER -
ANNA LEACH
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
J. E. V. COOKE
TOM HALL - - -
JAMES L. FORD
R. CLYDE FORD
PAUL ARMSTRONG

774
825
821
126

9
895
709

93
177
95
70 1
59
577
397
f5S
422

5 5

956

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.
STORIETTES.

AMERICAN MADE IN FRANCE, AN

AT DAYBREAK

BIT OF CLAY, A

CASE OF HERO WORSHIP, A -

" CONGRATULATIONS "

FABLE FOR WOMEN, A

HIS GREAT AUNT DEBORAH

HIS MOTHER

LAZY LOVER. A

LITTLE EXCITEMENT. A

MARRIAGE ON FRIENDSHIP -

MR. PRESTON S DINNER

"OH, PROMISE ME"

OLD GLORY

ONE WAY TO SUCCEED

PEMBERTON S WIFE

PUNCH AND JUDY

SIDE TRACKED AT BANFF

SOCIAL ATTEMPT OF THE YUENGENFELDT FAMILY

STEPPING STONE OF A DEAD SELF, THE

STILL WATERS AND BABBLING BROOKS

SURSUM CORDA!

TELLING SHOT, A

THREE S A CROWD

TO WHAT END?

WAR EXTRA No. 13

WHAT IS DEATH? ------

THOMAS CADY
J. FREDKRIC THORNE
ZOE ANDERSON NORRIS
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
DOUGLAS Z. DOTY
E. GARDNER BKNTLKY
KATHRYN JARHOE
HARRIET CARYL Cox
HATTIE WHITNEY
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
L. B. QUIMBY
A. S. DUANE
MARGUERITE TRACY
JULIET W. TOMPKINS
WARREN MCVEIGH
JOHN W. HARRINGTON
KATHRYN JAR HOE
KATHRYN JARHOE
JAMES L. FORD
JUDITH SPENCER
KATHERINE S. BROWN
N. L. PRITCHARD
MARY A. KING
HOWARD SHEDD
HARRIET CARYL Cox
KATHRYN JARHOI-:
ANNA LEACH

787
133
630
904
130
130
908
134
3"
306
628
902
788
470
35
4/2
789
467
792
307
905
468

79 1
469

309
627
902

POEMS.

CLORINDA S VIOLIN

COMMUTATION OF SENTENCE, A

EASTER FANCY, AN

EASTER S CHORALE

GRATITUDE

IDEAL, THE

JUST TO BE ALIVE

LIFE S PARADOX -

MASKS

MESSAGE OF THE ROSE, THE

PEACE

PRAISE OF HOPE, THE -

REVOLT

SAND HOUSES

SHELL, THE -

SONG FOR THE SAILORS, A -

SONG OF THE OLD MILL WHEEL, THE

SPELL OF NIGHT, THE

SPIRIT OF SEVENTY SIX, THE

SUNSET

SURRENDER

TIDINGS &lt;&gt;! Till-: PAST

TO DIE AND LEAVE IT ALL -

TWO FANCIES

WAR

WAY OF A MAN. THE -

WHEN GEORGE WAS KING. -

LULAH RAGSDALI; - 712

DOUGLAS Z. DOTY - 225

MINNA IRVING 32

MARTHA McCuLLOCH-WlLLlAMS 97

GRACE BOUTELLE - 421

HENRY J. STOCKARD - 616

EMMA C. Down - 184

SlIALER G. HlLLYER 3

ERNEST McGAKn y - 610

JAMES KING DUFFY - 483

FRANK ROE BATCHKLDKR - - 233

CLARENCE UK. MY - 916

MARIAN WEST - 400

ALBERT 1!. PAINE - 361

GUSTAV KOBIIK - 700

CLINTON SCOLLAKD - 596

OGDEN WARD - 776

IlATTIE Will TNI-.Y - 393

MINNA IRVING - 514

FREDKRIC F. SHERMAN - - 521

MARY F. NIXON - 705

WOOD L. WILSON - 224

HUNTER MACCULLOCII - 454

TOM HALL - 508

CLINTON SCOLLARD - 696

CATHARINE YOUNG GLEN - 5

THKODOSI.Y PICKERING - 409

DEPARTMENTS.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK
ETCHINGS

IN THE PUBLIC EVE

IN VANITY FAIR

LITERARY CHAT

PUI .I.ISHER S DESK, THE

STAGE, THE

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS

5, 163, 377, 876

- i,sS. 319, 479, 638, 799, 955

33, 1 86, 330, 597, 885
154, 3 3

- 147. 273, 474, 633, 794, 946

3 7

- 136, 296, 457, 617, 777, 933

746, 803

"THE SPIRIT S NAME WAS LOVE.

Dravn by Albert E. Sterner.

LIFE S PARADOX.

""THEY told me Wealth, was all in all, and then,

"With greed that comes alone to famished men,
I strove for wealth ; by day and night I toiled,
Nor recked how others fared, what hopes were spoiled.
And when twas gained I stopped to count my store,
To count, exult, and, eager, wish it more ;
But as each piece fell on the vault s hard stone,
Mixed with its ring I heard a human groan.
I started up from the accusing pile,
Now worse than vain, that did so late beguile !

They told me Pleasure was the chiefest good,
And so I followed wheresoe er she would ;
"Where light feet led, where mocking lips allured,
And black eyes told my hopes were half assured.
"When all was gained, then blight fell on my isle-
I had been dreaming on a wanton s smile.

They told me only Knowledge was divine,

And so I strove straightway to make it mine.

I read all books, held converse with the wise,

Traveled all lands, and searched the distant skies.

Then, standing in the edge of Learning s sea,

I heard the breakers calling thus to me :

"In vain, O man, my depths thou wouldst explore;

Thy soundings all lie close within the shore."

Wealth, Pleasure, Knowledge, all in turn were tried,
Yet in the dust it seemed I must abide.

A spirit came and whispered in my ear,

And raised me up; then led me to a height
From which we had a vision far and clear

Of all the world, its peace and joy and light.
The spirit said : "If thou wilt follow me,

"Wilt seek not self, but look beyond, above,
All that thou seest will I give to thee."

I raised my eyes the spirit s name was Love.

Sha/er C.

"A LOVE POTION."

From the painting by Mile. Consuclo FouldBy permission of Jean Boussod, Manzt, Joyant & Co

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XIX. APRIL, 1898. No. i.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

The prominence of Fortuny as the central figure of the great Stewart sale Notes on American
and foreign painters, with a series of engravings of representative canvases.

FORTUNY AND MR. STEWART.

The Stewart collection has been sold
and scattered, but its short existence in
America was a lesson to art collectors
and to students. The students were there
in force, and generally found some pro
fessor near by to point out the greatness

of the pictures which Mr. Stewart had
selected with such care.

The peculiarity of the collection lay in
the fact that one great artist had his very
best representation before the world con
centrated here. Mariano Fortuny was
Mr. Stewart s friend. The American

"OX THE WRUNG SIDE OF THE FENCE.
From the painting by Charles Herrmann Lion By permission of Jean Botissod, M,i izi, Joyani &= Co.

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

"AT A PARISIAN MILLINER S."
:iic fainting by Victor Gilbert By permission of Jean Boussod, Matizi, Joyant &* Co.

collector admired the Spanish painter
extravagantly, and purchased as man}- of
his paintings as he could, including his
most famous work, "The Choice of the
Model." Besides his purchases, several
of Fortuny s canvases came to him as
gifts most of them pictures which the
artist had painted for his own pleasure,

without anj thought of selling. One of
these was the fine life size head of the
negro Farragi, "One of the King s
Moors, " with his head dress of white and
red. In all, the collection contained
twenty five Fortunys.

Fortuny was a remarkable instance of
the impossibility of keeping genius out

MUXSKY S MAGAZINE.

"SHELTER FROM THE SHOWER."
From the painting by P. Out in By permission of Jean Boussod, Afanzi, Joyant & Co.

of its chosen path. He was the son of a
cabinet maker in Reus in Tarragona.
His father and mother died when lie was
a child, and he went over the country
with his grandfather, exhibiting wax
figures, and making pictures of even-
thing he saw. When the boy was four
teen, the old man took him to the Spanish
artist Talarn, by whose assistance For-

tuny was put in the Academy of Fine
Arts in Barcelona. He remained there
three years, and won the coveted Prix de
Rome a prize like the celebrated one of
the same name in Paris.

During one of the Spanish campaigns
in Morocco, the town council of Bar
celona sent Fortuny to the front to make
sketches, and it was there that he dis-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" I5LACK DIAMONDS."
From the painting by Jean J. Benjamin-Constant.

covered the great field of character and
color which he made all his own. He
was twenty three years old, strong,
sturdy, an ideal figure for an artist. He
came home from Africa to .study in Italy
and in Paris, making friends everywhere.
Then he went to Algiers, where he filled
his mind with more of those brilliant
pictures which he gave to the world. He

could do almost am thing. He painted
magnificent vases, glowing with color ;
he forged swords inlaid with gold, and he
lived a man} sided life. Mr. Stewart s
earliest purchases were four water colors.
The first oil painting of Fortuny s that
he saw was the " Fantasia Arabe, " which
was sold for twelve thousand dollars at
the sale the other day. The artist was

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"A FIRE ALARM IN PARIS."
From the painting by Georges Busson.

then quite unknown, and Mr. Stewart
said that he purchased the painting " for
a song."

One of the most interesting of the
Fortunys was "The Antiquary." This
picture was given to a dealer in Rome
in exchange for an Arab gun and some
bits of Venetian glass, and afterward pur
chased by Mr. Stewart. It shows a room

littered with bric-a-brac and a con
noisseur admiring a print, while a friend
leans over his shoulder. One day For-
tuny told Mr. Stewart that he would
like to take the picture home and touch
tip the background. \Vhen he returned
it, he had introduced a portrait of his
patron hanging on the wall of the room.
This introduction of the portraits of

"EXPECTATION."

From the j&gt;ainti&gt;:g ly Charles Aye-s Whipple.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK. 15

friends was one of Fortuny s pet fancies. "The Choice of a Model" was the

In "An Arab Street," Henri Regnault most widely discussed picture in the sale,

stood for the central figure, and the por- and its purchaser, Mr. \V. A. Clark,

"TICXDKR AND TRUE."
From the painting by E. Blair Leighton By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 1$J St., NtV York.

trait of Meissonier which went in the sale secured what has generally been regarded
was an elaboration of a sketch made for as Fortuny s master work. Whether it
another picture. will always be so considered is a moot

" HOSNAH."
From the painting ly Jacqueline Cojiierre-Pato

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

question. It represents a amber of the
artists of the Academy of St. Luke, in
Rome, gathered at the Palazzo Colonna
to inspect a model. The. nude figure
standing on the table is admirably painted,
and is brilliantly contrasted with the
elaborate dress of the eighteenth centuty
dandies. The whole picture glows like a
jewel, and is marvelous in the perfection
perhaps a little overdone of its detail.
Its new owner has some of Mr. Stewart s
characteristics. He too is known in
most of the studios abroad, where his
judgment is much regarded. It is said
that he studied pictures for seven years
before he presumed to purchase one, but he
has sufficient confidence now to buy what
strikes his fancy.

To go back to Mr. Stewart, it is won
derful to think of the influence this keen-
lover of art exerted upon men like For-
tuny, Madrazo, Rico, Zamacois, and
some of their associates. He fairly
brought masterpieces into being. "The
Choice of a Model " was one of the many
canvases that were painted for him.

It was largely through his influence
that Fortuny, from being quite unknown,
became famous. The brilliant painter
was able to indulge his luxurious tastes,
to surround himself with the things he
loved, to live in the Alhambra at Granada,
and to be a center of the cleverest artists
of his day. He died in Rome in 1874,
and his fame has been growing every year
since.

THE WATER COLOR SOCIETY. .

The American Water Color Society s
exhibitors seem to have a predilection for
landscapes, and landscapes without any
thing particularly cheerful about them.
Mr. Lathrop, for instance, with his
lowering skies, his gray atmospheres, and
his general depression, makes pictures
which are sometimes true to nature, and
are always clever, but if he had more
sense of color we should like him better.
We do like the fact that he paints land
scapes which we can locate in America.
Our artists are not national enough. We
are continually hearing that Americans
buy foreign pictures. They are likely to
continue to do so just as long as our
artists paint imitation foreign pictures.
They can get the Dutch or the English
3

or the French landscape rendered by a
man \y*io understands it, who is native to
it. Cfctr American artists should inter
pret our own nature, not only in form but
in feeling. Until they do that we shall
have no national art.

One of the most interesting pictures in
the recent exhibition was Mr. Herter s
"Sorrow." It was the chief figure pic
ture shown there.

Mr. Charles Curran is an artist whose
work is not as well known as it deserves.
This 3 r ear he exhibited two small figures
in water color ; but his best things have
been done in oil. Hang one of his views
on Lake Erie not always showing any
part of Lake Erie, but the light, high
toned summer atmosphere of that region
reflected on the face of a girl, or out
lining her figure and you have thrown
a flood of sunshine into the dullest room.
Mr. Curran reminds you of nobody but
himself, and he is one of the few distinct
ively American artists among the young
men.

ANOTHER FOREIGN PORTRAIT PAINTER.

The Gandara portraits were chiefly in
teresting to Americans as studies in
style.

Like other portrait painters in New
York this winter, M. de la Gandara suf
fered from the vogue of Boldini. He has
been made much of in Paris for several
seasons, and his portraits at the Salon
have attracted a great deal of attention.
He has over here a portrait of Sarah
Bernhardt which is very striking ; but
taking him altogether, he seems a little
artificial to us. His women lack human
ity. They are like figures passing before
us, remote. They are artistic, decorative,
everything except just the real, con
vincing human being that we want in a
portrait.

M. de la Gandara s work is more truly
artistic than that of almost any portrait
painter who has ever exhibited here.
He has never painted a canvas that might
not be considered as a picture without
any relation to the sitter. The figures
he shows us are beautiful, and in that
way satisfying ; but as a portrait, a con
vincing analytic presentation of one
human being different from every other
human being, a personality which causes

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

you to forget its background, not one of
his pictures is truly great.

* * * *

One of the notable pictures now on ex
hibition in New York is a "Hamlet"
by Edwin A. Abbey. It is more ambi
tious than anything he has shown here
since the "Holy Grail" series, which
was exhibited in the metropolis before it
found its final resting place in the Boston
Public Library.

The picture is shown in the A very
galleries and is offered for sale at eleven
thousand dollars. It represents Hamlet
lying on a rug before the throne, with
the poor, beautiful, vacantly staring
Ophelia sitting beside him. The king
and queen sit side by side, and the queen
is the most interesting figure in the pic
ture. She draws her hair forward as if
to cover her face, and fairly cowers in the
corner of her throne. Mr. Abbey has
succeeded in painting a remarkable pic
ture of terrified guilt.

Surrounding this picture are several
pastels left over from Mr. Abbey s last
year s exhibition. The best is a delight
ful portrait surely it is a portrait of
" Mrs. Malaprop. "

* * * *
Leopold Flameng, the celebrated etcher,

has just made an important etching of
Edwin A. Abbey s "Richard, Duke of
Gloucester, and Lady Anne," one of the
pictures of last year in London.

Every 3~ear Abbey s art grows, and it
is probable that the next generation,
which will have lost sight of his begin
nings, and will know him only as a great
painter, will accept him without criticism
as one of the greatest. He is certain of
touch and always splendidlj fine in con
ception. There is no pettiness mingled
with his art. He is never commonplace.

* * % #

M. Chartran has brought together his
usual number of portraits of Americans
for the inspection of the piiblic, and has
added to the group several paintings
which are not portraits. One of these is
fairly pretty, but there is nothing to
approach his monks of last year. The
large portrait of Archbishop Corrigan, in
his episcopal robes of a delicately painted
purple, is the notable picture of the col
lection, and it is not by any means great.

It may be that M. Chartran did not find
such interesting people to paint this
year, but certainly there is a great falling
off in his portraits. Compared with
Madrazo s or Boldini s they appear at a
divSadvantage. There is nothing to ap
proach his brilliant portrait of Mme.
Calve, or that of Mrs. De La Mar, which
we saw in other years.

* * * *

The Madrazo collection is particu
larly interesting just now on account of
the prominence given to some of this
artist s paintings in the Stewart collec
tion. He was the artist whom Mr.
Stewart chose to paint his own portrait.

The most interesting of the Madrazo
portraits is a large one of Mrs. Harry
Payne Whitney, who was Miss Gertrude
Vanderbilt. She lends herself admirably
to portraiture, having a face full of color
and animation. The portrait is life size
and full length, and represents her in a
gown of white and lavender satin, seated
on a garden bench, with a wide hat
beside her. It is painted somewhat after
the poses Sir Joshua was wont to employ
for his sitters, but essentially modernized.

Madrazo s sister was the wife of For-
tuny, and the two men were close friends.

The student of portraiture may always
find examples of the old masters in New
York. It is seldom that some of the
dealers have not portraits by the great
men, particularly of the English school.
Just now there are a very strong Raeburn
and a good Sir Joshua Reynolds at the
Blakeslee galleries.

* -:: * *

Boldini has added two or three pictures
to his New York exhibition, but since
his arrival he has painted many that will
be seen only by the originals and their
friends.

One of the new ones, and a very strik
ing one, is a sketch of Miss Elsie de
Wolfe, the actress. It is very broadly
painted, with no attention to detail, and
a notice is placed in the frame telling us
that it is the work of one afternoon.
Like everything Boldini does, it is bril
liant and clever, but for all that, it is a
little hard. One cannot but wish to see
it a hundred years from now, when those
whites will be toned down.

A DOLLAR SCOOP.

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

The story of a business partnership between two small mice of the San
Francisco wharves, who undertook to gnaw through ropes that the great lions of
the city could not break.

IT was not only Rita s sex that made
the boys so angry: They could have
forgiven her for being a girl if she had
not taken an unfair advantage of the fact,
and made it a source of capital. No one
had a right to bring undue influence to
bear on patrons. As if the authorized
cry of the trade were not good enough
for her, she had to go on adding feminine
flyers utterly out of place in a business
transaction.

"Papers, papers ! All about the suey-
cide ! " her voice would blare out, not
unlike a feminine brass band, and rich
with superfluous r s. If she had stopped
there it would have been all right ; but
who ever heard of a woman that knew
when she d said enough? "Don t you
want one? It s only five cents, you
know, " she would bleat coaxingly, look
ing so pretty in her short blue gown and
braided pigtail that not one man in six
could resist her. And she did not con
sider the business ended the minute the
nickel touched her grubby little palm,
either, but looked up and smiled and
said, "Oh, thank yon! 1 so earnestly
that many a customer bought another (to
drop in the gutter a block or two further
on), or looked out for her next time, when
the boys were at his heels.

And Rita, puffed up with the jingle of
the nickels in her pocket, strutted proudly
about the ferry, blithely calling her wares,
while the boys lounged in forced con
tempt against the walls, and scorned to
cry their papers till she had passed,
watching her much as St. Bernards might
watch the antics of a Japanese poodle.
They were far too proud to compete
openly with her ; also too wi.se.

Rita was not what you would call sen
sitive. In the intervals of business she
hung around her rivals, and listened

frankly to what they were talking about.
When they made fun of her, she smiled
with the air of one who understands and
tolerates, and their insults passed over
her as if she had been oiled.

It was one of those days when the fog
muffled the bay like a gray blanket, and
the ferry boats ran only once an hour,
that they might feel their way across in
comparative safety. Business was dull,
and Rita, seeing what looked like an in
teresting conversation going on among
half a dozen boys perched on a baggage
truck, came and seated herself on the
other end of the obtuse angle, dangling
her feet in happy independence.

"Haven t sprained your calliope, have
you ? " queried one of the bo} S, in mock
anxiety. Rita merely grinned. Repar
tee was not her strong point. The others
ignored her completely.

"I tell you, fellers, get onto a real
good thing before the reporters do, and
you re made," went on the one who had
been holding forth. "When Billy saw
Black Mary bobbing around in the bay,
he had the savey to chase right up to the
Recorder office while the others was fish
ing her out, and they just had time to
squeeze in a bully article before they went
to press. You oughter seen it On the
Face of the Waters Suicide of a No
torious Character The Last Chapter in
the Career of Black Mary and all that.
The other papers didn t get it, so it was
a scoop ; and they give Billy a dollar. "

"But she came to all right, and it
wasn t no suicide," objected one of the
others. "She just fell off in a drunk."

" That don t matter," insisted the first
speaker. So long as the other papers
don t get it it s a scoop, whether it s true
or fake. Say, isn t it most time for that
boat ?

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Rita looked over her shoulder at the
clock, peering dimly down through the
fog, and the boys seized the chance to all
jump up at once, letting her end of the
truck seesaw down to earth with a dislo
cating bump. She sprang up with a
stinging funny bone in every joint, and
stuck out her tongue at them, which was,
with her, the alternative of a grin, then
soothed her feelings by selling three
papers right in front of their eyes, before
she strolled away along the dripping
wharves. A big idea was puffing in her
brain, and she wanted to get it in work
ing order ; but it is hard to think all by
yourself. For the first time, Rita wished
she had a partner.

A dismal little figure was sitting on the
edge of one of the piers, all alone in the
fog, staring down at the dirty scows that
bumped forlornly at their moorings be
low.

" Hello, Shavings ! " Rita called, with
the glimmer of a new idea.

Shavings did not hear. Beside him lay
a soggy -pile of unsold papers. The pale,
spiral curls that had won him his name
dangled down to the two rear buttons of
his overalls in back, and dripped limply
from his shoulders. These curls stood for
the tragedy of a life. Shavings suffered
a daily martyrdom that no grown person
would have endured, and wandered a sad
but plucky little outcast among his fel
lows, all because his mother thought the
ringlets were " cunning " or perhaps it
was cute and refused to have them
clipped. They hurt his business with
their foolish fluttering around his dingy,
high backed overalls, they scorched his
pride, and walled him away from his
kind with their unmanliness. And law
abiding little Shavings never dreamed
that there was any way out of it, or that
they would not cling to him until he was
seventy times seven, if he had the mis
fortune to live that long. One of the
boys had just started up a refrain to the
effect that Shavings head was coming un
raveled, and knowing how it would pur
sue him, he had crept away to look into
the idea of suicide. The water beneath
had an opalescent gleam that did not sug
gest cleanliness, but it would probably
do as well as any other to drown in. He
was wondering if he would bump against

the wharf as persistently as the Mattie C.
was doing, when Rita s voice sent the dark
thought scurrying back to its hole.

"What s the matter, Shavey ? " she
said sympathetically, sitting down be
side him and letting her feet dangle over
the edge, a couple of inches lower than his
stubby boots, thanks to her three years
seniority.

The kindly words sent a glow through
the chilled and aching heart of Shavings.
For a moment, he could almost have told
her his trouble. Not quite, though. It
still lay too deep for words. So he stared
into the slimy water and said nothing.

Do yon know what a scoop is ? " pur
sued Rita. " Well, it s when you tell a
newspaper something it doesn t know.
Then it prints it in big letters, and you
yell it on the street, and none of the other
papers can print it till the next day. It s
an awful big thing to make a scoop.

Shavings began to hold up his head.
It was so beautiful to be talked to just as
if he were a regular person, with no de
formity to disqualify his right to trousers.

I was thinking, said Rita ; what if
you and me should club together and find
out things that nobody knows, and then
tell the Recorder about them. If we got
something good, they d give us a dollar,
and maybe more. What do you say ?

For the first time in his seven years,
Shavings had forgotten his curls. His
eyes were as big as silver dollars with ex
citement.

" Great ! " he shouted. It wasn t onl}-
the money and the importance of helping
a big paper that was swelling his chest to
the bursting point and pushing his heart
up into his throat and spreading delicious,
warm tears under his eyelids. It was
this first recognition that he, even he, had
his place in the brotherhood of man. At
that moment he could have died for Rita.
He jumped to his feet.

"And I know something this very
second," he cried.

Not long after, two panting figures
scuffled up the long, dark stairs that led
to the Recorder s editorial rooms. A
slight complication had arisen on the
first flight. As every one knows, if you
say "I choose to tell" before the other
person does, you have an inviolable right,
as sacred as "King s X" or " Mis for-

A DOI^AR SCOOP.

givings," to give out the cream of the
news. But Rita and Shavings having
both said it at exactly the same second,
the only way to settle the matter was to
see which could get to the top first.

Shavings breath held out best, but he
feckoned without his bashfulness, which
swooped down on his soaring spirit
and brought it cowering to earth the
instant he found himself in the gaslit
apartment at the top, with men scurry-
hig past in every direction, and three
iordly office boys lounging around a table.
He stood tongue tied and crimson while
Rita came confidently forward.

" We want to see the editor," she an
nounced.

The three boys stared with widening
mouths at the small couple.

" Which editor ? said one. " Would
you prefer the managing editor, the news
editor, the city editor, the Sundaj
editor, the sporting "

Rita broke in impatiently.

" I want the editor you tell scoops to, "
she said.

A general smile went around the room.
Hurrying men paused, holding the doors
with their feet, to hear the rest.

" You ve brought in a story, have
you?" said the boy. "Well, perhaps
you d better tell it to me, and I ll take it
in. The editors are all too busy to see
people just now."

"Well, but you know it s our scoop.
We get the dollar, "said Rita earnestly.
It s about Mrs. Mulligan, and she had
twins this very morning at nine o clock.
It s true, for her Katy told Shavings
about it herself, and they re a boy and a
uirl, and "

The rest was buried in an avalanche of
laughter. Rita stood stanchly in the
midst of it, red and defiant.

"Well, it s true," .she shrieked. "If
you don t believe me, you can go and see
them for yourself. And I ll never tell
your old paper another thing ! "

The uproar tried to subdue itself a little
under this, and a young man, whose face
was now very grave, stepped forward,
taking out his cigar with appeasing
deference.

"Of course we believe you," he said.
" It was very nice of you to come and tell
us. Who gave you the idea of doing it ? "

"Why, they gave Billy a dollar for
telling about Black Mary, and I should
think two babies was worth as much as
one old black dago that didn t drownd
after all, "said Rita, still resentful.

"A great deal more, " said the young
man ; but, you see, twins happen very
often, and people like to read about sui
cides better. Now, suppose you keep
your eyes out for anything very queer
and surprising that you see, and then
you come and tell me about it. Ask for
Mr. Baker. I ll guarantee the dollar if
you bring anything good. How does
that suit you ?"

The children were delighted, and
beamed proudly on the subdued crowd.

"You mustn t come running in with
just anything, you know," Mr. Baker
warned. It must be something very-
queer. Dead good copy, there," he
addea to the man beside him.

"Um. But, for heaven s sake, don t
shove it into the Supp.," said the other
tiredly. " We have thirty seven remark
able kids on the files now."

During the next few days Rita and
Shavings explored every nook and cranny
of the water front in the hope of finding
something queer and interesting enough
to suit the Recorder, but from the Fish
erman s Wharf to the Potrero there
seemed to be nothing worthy of a big
silver dollar. The boys jeered at the part
nership, shouting "Two little girls in
blue ! " with insulting emphasis ; at which
Shavings flushed to the edge of his hated
curls, and longed with all the ardor of
his still unbroken spirit to fight. But he
was as handicapped as an undocked ter
rier, and the puniest little scrub in the
profession could get the better of him
while his head offered a score of handles,
each with a separate anguish at its base.
Rita stuck out her tongue till it threat
ened to come up by the roots, but cared
little, not divining the torture it meant
to the sensitive spirit beside her.

Late one afternoon, when they were
least expecting it, something queer
enough for any paper came in their wa}-.
They were sitting in the shadow of a huge
pile of lumber at the end of a forlorn,
dingy street which they had been explor
ing. An occasional electric car hummed
down it, switched its trollev around, ;md

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

hurried away, glad to be out of such a
neighborhood. Dust and sand whirled
chokingly from the empty lots, and beat
like rain on a few staggering houses and
a couple of saloons. Between them and
the desolate wharf stretched endless
squares of lumber, piled log cabin fashion,
and offering fine opportunities for play
ing house to any one not burdened with
business cares.

Rita was stumbling through the Re
corder s lurid accotint of the fire at the
Hotel Broderick, in which the Spanish
dancer Teresita had lost all her beautiful
gowns and laces and jewels, when the
car, contrary to its custom, produced two
passengers, an elderly woman and a } r oung
one, who alighted and strolled aimlessly
along until the car had disappeared again.
Then their manner changed. They looked
up and down, and when satisfied that there
was no one in sight, hurried towards the
lumber piles. The children inferred a
mystery, and set their eyes to the chinks
of their hiding place. The young woman
wore a trim little hat and a mackintosh
with big capes, and walked with a qtiick,
short step that was at once nervous and
resolute. She carried a straw traveling
basket. The other was worn and shabby,
yet it was a different sort of shabbiness
from what the children knew, and roused
a vague respect. Her face, as well as her
clothes, suggested that when it was new
it had been accustomed to better sur
roundings. Just now it wore a look of
repressed anxiety.

"Here s a good place, mother, " said
the girl, leading the way into an angle of
the lumber piles, close to where the
children lay. They could catch broken
glimpses of her movements as she knelt
down and unstrapped her bag, and occa
sional fragments of conversation. Sud
denly the girl s voice rose a little.

Mother, you are making it so hard
for me ! Don t you suppose I m fright
ened, too ? I d back out this minute if I
could see any other way. " And again,
impatiently: "But I want to live,
whether you do or not. And I intend to.
This is my chance, and I don t mean to
throw it away. I m ready now. Will
you see if the coast is clear ? " The elder
woman stepped outside and looked about
the forlorn neighborhood. The children

were so near they could see how wet her
eyes were.

" There is no one in sight, but a car is
coming, she said.

" Well, you take it and go home now, "
said the other. "I ll wait here till
you re gone. Here is the bag. Don t
worry; I ll get through all right. Good
by."

The elder woman went wearily away, and
there was silence till the car had whirled
out of sight. ^Then the girl came slowly
out from her hiding place, and the chil
dren nearly screamed at the transforma
tion. Instead of the mackintosh, she wore
a limp, ragged gown of blue cotton that
flapped weakly around battered shoes. A
disreputable straw hat with a wisp of
aigret shooting out rakishly from a
burst crown was tipped over her face?
which was further concealed by strag
gling locks of her dark hair. Her decided
walk had slipped into an aimless sham
ble. The children squeezed each other s
hands, and as the uncouth figure started
along the wharves, followed as stealthily
as two little Indians, keeping in the
shadow as much as possible.

The girl was evidently anxious to slip
along unseen in the gathering dusk.
When a crowd of boys approached, she
hid behind a great truck till the3 had
passed, and her face looked frightened.
A sauntering policeman sent her scurry
ing up a side street, but she kept to the
water front as much as possible.

At the end of a grimy street, given
over chiefly to sailors boarding houses
and saloons, stood Black Mary s cottage.
Passing close to it, as if to escape the
notice of a group on the other side, the
girl stumbled over the step and fell with
a crash against the very door which the
neighbors hurried past as respectfully as
the width of the street allowed.

It flung open, and a .scowling, swarthy-
figure stood in the doorway. The chil
dren drew as near as they dared, forget
ting even-thing in the excitement of a
good look at Black Mary, the dreaded,
the mysterious, into whose cabin no one
ever went by daylight, whatever the dark
ness covered ; to whose door the law
had come a score of times, only to be
cleverly evaded under the mocking glint
of the wicked old eves. A ring of

A DOLLAR SCOOP.

curious people gathered as she stood
scowling at the forlorn figure on the step.
She was as seamed and gnarled as a scrub
oak, and the police knew that she was
part Mexican and part Indian, with a
dash of negro in the background not a
pleasant combination to run in single
handed.

The girl on the step did not even look
up. She was clutching her ankle with
both hands and rocking as though in pain.
When she saw that a crowd was gather
ing, she shrank and turned imploringly
to the unfriendly face above her. The
children had crept to the corner of the
but.

Please let me come in for a second
just till they go," she exclaimed nerv
ously. " My foot will be all right in a
minute. It s only a twist."

"They won t eat you," said Black
Mary crossly, preparing to shut the door.
The crowd pressed closer.

" I ve two bits you can have, if you ll
just let me in till they go," whispered
the girl.

" Let s see it," was the gruff answer.
Well, 3 ? ou can stay ten minutes. Tain t
most people that would want to, she
added with a chuckle, as she shut the
door on the spectators.

It was growing dark, and the loiterers
soon began to dwindle away in search of
other excitements. The children waited
in awed suspense.

She could get out now, whispered
Shavings, after an interval. " Nobody d
see her. Couldn t we whistle or some
thing?"

"But do we want her to?" said Rita
thoughtfully. " If she has done some
thing awful and is fleeing for her life,
why, we ought to catch her. That s the
scoop, } ou know. I guess she s mur
dered her lover, don t you?" A course
of big black " scare heads had decidedly
rubbed the bloom off Rita s childish in
nocence.

" I don t care if she did. I guess he
needed it, said Shavings excitedly. I
ain t going to give her away. I ll I ll
I ll

"Well, all right, we won t, " said Rita
easily. "We ll see just where she goes
and tell Mr. Baker about it, and he can
do what he likes. My, I wouldn t be

alone with Black Mary ! Shouldn t won
der if she d killed her by this time. "

"Let s peek in," whispered Shavings,
pointing to a grimy little window at the
side, through which a dull light flickered.

With hearts that pounded fearfully, the
two climbed on top of a broken wheel
barrow that lay beneath the window, and
peered in. A flaring candle showed a
dreary, dirty room, littered with rubbish.
On a bench sat the girl, holding her
ankle in both hands. Her face -was pale,
but her eyes were alert and eager, seem
ing to see on every side of her at once.
Black Mary sat by the table, and was just
refilling a tumbler from a tall bottle.
She put the latter down between the
candle and the window, and Rita squinted
knowingly at the line of the dark con
tents.

"She ll talk, this glass, and be real
friendly ; but the next, she ll be cross as
two sticks, and her legs will begin to go. "
she whispered. And poor little Shavings,
envying her her worldly knowledge,
nodded as though he knew all about it.

Rita was right. Black Mary talked
volubly it seemed to be about politics
.till the bottom of the glass appeared ; then
she grew morose, and poured out another
in sullen silence.

"Oh- why don t she go? " whispered
Shavings, with chattering teeth.

The girl inside, not having had Rita s
advantages, was unwise enough to repeat
some unanswered question, and the old
woman turned on her furiously, with a
stream of language that made the dim
light of the candle shudder and shrink.
The girl started up, but Black Mary came
towards her, lurching, and threatened her
with the now empty glass.

"Move, and I ll smash you," the chil
dren heard her shout. " You don t go
till you tell me what you re about, sneak
ing into my house for fear some one
woxild look at you. What have you
done ? What do you want ? Speak up,
or I ll "

There was a sudden crash against the
window. In the terror of the moment,
the children had leaned breathlessly for
ward, till the old wheelbarrow, losing its
balance, had flung them out. Black
Mary sprang towards the sound, then
stood as though turned to stone, the glass

-MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

still upraised. The girl darted up, and a
second later the cabin door banged.

There she goes ! Come, come !
gasped Rita, dragging Shavings to his
feet and plunging forward. Tripping,
falling, sobbing with excitement, they
started after the scudding footsteps, but
the girl was too fleet for them, and disap
peared hopelessly in the dark streets.

Meanwhile Black Mary still gazed stu
pidly at the window. Then she swore in
a new 7 way, that might almost have been
called half hearted, and getting out
another bottle that she had intended for
the next day, proceeded to get very drunk
indeed ; but she coiild not quite drown
out the sight of a little pale face in a
nimbus of golden hair that had appeared
at her window for one awful second. For
the first time in forty 3~ears Black Mary
crossed herself.

A cruel blow awaited the children at
the Recorder office. Mr. Baker was up in
Sacramento, and would not be back until
the following afternoon. The next day
crawled away by inches, and the firm did
not sell half a dozen papers between
them, they were so absorbed in discuss
ing the mysterious girl. Shavings was ,
inclined to the injured innocence theory,
but Rita would not give up the murdered
lover, and made out an elaborate case,
based largely on Recorder head lines.
When they were finally admitted, they
found the editor seated at a big desk in a
little office, with a pile of letters and
manuscripts in front of him.

He nodded to the children with a pleas
ant, "Just a minute," and turned to
speak to a young woman who had fol
lowed them in.

"Your stuff is very good, Miss Har
rison, " he said. " We shall run it in the
Sunday. I m sure we shall have plenty
of regular work for you."

I m very glad, " said the girl. At the
sound of her voice, Rita clutched Shav
ings by the arm, and both stared open
mouthed.

"I wish you would get an interview
with Teresita about what she lost in the
fire," Mr. Baker went on. "She wants
sixty thousand dollars insurance, and the
companies are trying to persuade her that
some of the valuables were stolen, not
burned. You won t have am* trouble with

her, if you could work Black Mar} . How
did you get her to let you in ? You re the
fifth woman who has tried it, and the first
who has succeeded, or even got a word
out of her.

" It was strategy, " said Miss Harrison,
with a laugh. But the children knew.

She went out, and Mr. Baker turned
with businesslike gravity. "Well, have
3 ou found something very strange and in
teresting?" he asked.

The children stood flushed and mute.
Their wonderful scoop had been snatched
away before their eyes. The patient track
ing and the shivering fright and the green
and yellow bruises had all been for noth
ing. They had neglected their legitimate
business, disappointed their regular
patrons, let others proclaim the murders
and fires, while they were off on a wild
goose chase, trying to report a reporter.
It was too hard. Shavings stared at the
wall with eyes that did not dare wink, and
two big tears rolled down Rita s cheeks.

My dear kids, what is the matter ?
exclaimed the editor, and then the whole
thing came out pell mell. He was kind
and sympathetic, and sent them away com
forted, each with ten cents firm in a moist
clasp. They never knew what strange
sounds echoed through that little office,
and several other offices in turn, after
they had gone.

One morning, a few days later, after
the rush of business was over, Rita
strolled along the wharves to take a fur
tive stare at Black Mary s cottage, which
drew her as the blood stained floor does a
murderer. Shavings came, too, but he
was morose and unresponsive, swamped
in bitter memories. The very Billy who
had won the historic dollar had greeted
him that morning with a cry of " Gee ! I
see snakes ! and a realistic attack of
delirium tremens, and the joke had flown
back and forth about the ferries with a
hundred witty variations wherever the
poor little Medusa head had appeared.

Shavings had sold his papers and said
nothing, but his endurance was strained
to the breaking point. He wanted to
massacre Billy and all his jeering crew,
then creep into a corner and die quietly
by himself, where no one would ever
again see and laugh at the foolish, dan
gling curls.

A DOLLAR SCOOP.

" There s Black Mary going out, " ex
claimed Rita. "She s locked her door
and she s got a hat on, so she must be
going some ways. Let s go and peek in.

They watched Black Mary walk with
unusual steadiness up the street and
board a car before they ventured to come
near. The cabin looked more bleary and
squalid than ever. The wheelbarrow lay
on its side just as they had left it.

"That girl came up this way, and then
she just fell down kerchunk, on purpose,
said Rita, acting it out as she spoke.
The step, being merely a rakish board on
two dissolute supports, bounced up with
her, landing her in the dirt, but she
picked herself up unresentfully. "She
didn t really hurt herself, but she did
hurt this old step. The top board is most
off. Let s fix it straight. Why, what s
this?" She lifted a small object that
was lying in the dirt under the step, a
narrow tarnished case two or three inches
long with a piece of broken chain attached.
There were two elabarate rings at the
top. Rita pulled them, and out came a
pair of tiny scissors, their blades still
bright and new, thanks to their close
sheath.

"Scissors! Did you ever?" she ex
claimed. "Isn t that a funny way to
keep them, in a brass box ? How do you
suppose they got under there ?"

Shavings sat down on the other end of
the step with his back to his partner, and
kicked up the dust in sullen silence.

" You mad, Shavey ?"

The friendly, anxious tone did what
nothing else could have done ; it dragged
his grief right up to the surface.

" Yes, I am. I wisht I was dead," he
burst forth. I can t stand it no longer.

"Stand what?"

He seized his hair in both hands and
faced her with tragic eyes.

11 Them curls. "

Rita pondered some seconds.

"You mean because the boys josh
you?" she finally asked, with a pu//.led
frown.

He nodded and turned away, sick with
disappointment. She did not under
stand.

"Why don t you cut em off?" asked
Rita. He looked at her much as if she
had suggested scuttling an ocean liner.

" But my mother "he stammered.

"She d be mad, of course, but she
couldn t put em back," was the brazen
answer.

The knowledge of sedition, privy con
spiracy, and rebellion dawned on the
soul of Shavings. His eyes widened and
his cheeks blazed. He breathed hard.

"I ll cut em off for you, if you want.
We ve got the scissors right here," Rita
continued, in an every day voice.

"Oh, Rita, will you?" he shouted,
jumping to his feet in such excitement
that the board tipped up again.

"I jus soon. If I had a hammer, I
could fix this old step. "

"Oh, come on, come quick!" urged
Shavings, tugging at his doomed curls
in an agony of impatience. " Nobody 11
see us around here behind the wheelbar
row. Cut em off, quick !

He flung himself down on the ground,
on the very spot where he had fallen the
night they had dreamed of a great scoop,
and Rita knelt beside him. She took one
long curl in her hand, then paused, con
sidering.

"You know, Shavey, your mother 11
be madder n hops, she said. He nodded ,
but did not change his position.

" You ve got to be sure, " she pursued,
settling back on her heels. " Which
would you drather, curls or a licking? "

Shavings held up his head gloriously.

" Fourteen lickings," he said.

" All right, then ;" and the little blades
grated thrillingly through their first vic
tim. A few moments later there was a
shimmering heap on Shavings news
papers, and his head had a strange,
patchy look that would have given a bar
ber hysterics. But his face was beautiful.

He stood feeling his head while Rita
tore out an advertisement page to wrap
his curls in.

" You can sell the paper just the same.
No one will know it s gone," she said.

"But that wouldn t be fair, " he pro
tested.

" Well, then, we ll give it to some poor
person who can t buy one," amended
Rita. " Now, do you know what I d do,
if I was you ? I d go right home and get
it over.

Shavings straightened up, his eyes
.shining bravelv. Then he grew rather

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

pale and slipped his hand into hers, for,
after all, he was only a very little boy.

" Walk as far as the corner with me, "
he whispered.

Rita had a lonely afternoon. She tried
hard to find an excuse for a call on Mr.
Baker, and finally wandered into the
neighborhood without one.

I don t suppose Shavings curls would
be a scoop, but I should think he d like
to hear about it, any way, " she argued, as
*he climbed the stairs.

" Tell Mr. Baker it s me," she said to
the office boy, who grinned as he obeyed.
!n a minute or two Miss Harrison came
out.

" Mr. Baker is ver_y sorry, but he is too
Mi.sy to see any one," she said. " But I
want to thank you for helping me so the
-&gt;ther night. If you hadn t banged
against Black Mary s house, I don t know
how I should have got away. It w r as very
nice of you. Was it anything very
special you wanted to tell Mr. Baker ? "

"No, it wasn t a scoop," admitted
Rita. " I just thought he d like to know
about Shavings curls being cut off. We
fcmnd these funny little scissors."

Miss Harrison took the case with an ex
clamation, and examined it on every
side.

"Where did you find this ? " she de
manded.

"Down there at Black Mary s cabin.
And I told Shavings "

" Come with me," interrupted the re
porter, and hurried Rita straight into the
little office with the big desk. "Mr.
Baker, I think we ve got a big thing,"
she exclaimed. "That was found at
Black Mary s cabin, and I m almost cer
tain it belongs to a chatelaine Teresita
was wearing when I interviewed her a
big, jingling thing with lorgnettes and
mirrors and purses dangling from it. I
noticed they were all in this queer pat
tern it s gold, you see and that one
chain had nothing on it. "

"And 3 T ou think -" said Mr. Baker.

This ma}- prove that some of the
jewels were stolen, not burned, and that
Black Mary had a hand in it."

"Good work!" exclaimed the editor.
"I ll look into that myself, but I can t
do anything for an hour. Suppose, Rita,
YOU and Shavings come here at six, and

we ll get some dinner together if your
parents will let you, of course." Rita
grinned at this, but made no comment.
" And then you can show me just where
you found it, and tell me all you know.
Leave the scissors with me, and don t you
breathe a hint of this to a living soul.
Six o clock, remember ;" and he attacked
the yellow paper in front of him with a
flying pencil, while Rita went joyfully
away in search of her partner.

At five by the ferry clock Shavings had
marched down Market Street with his
papers over his arm. He held his head
very high, and looked around him with
the air of one who has the full rights of
citizenship. A barber had done his best
to smooth and even what was left b}
Rita s shearing, and the round head
looked very small and naked. Shavings
walked a trifle stiffly, but that might have
been from pride. As he sauntered up to
the ferry, an astonished cat call from one
newsboy drew the attention of the rest.

" Shavings head hasn t got its clothes
on ! " he shouted.

It was the boy who had started the tor
turing refrain of " Shavings head is coin
ing unraveled," and the memory of past
suffering acted on the present exaltation
like a spark on nitrogl&gt; T cerin.

With a savage " You would, would
you?" Shavings flung down his papers
and plunged like a fury on his adversary.
The latter was slightly the bigger, but he
was taken by surprise, and he had not the
pent up passion of seven years to relieve.
He struck out wildly, but Shavings was
working w T ith fists and feet and the top
of his head, beating, pounding, butting,
his face crimson, and his heart ready to
burst with the freedom and the glory of
the fight. The boys gathered in a de
lighted ring, and as the white head
rammed the last gasp of breath out of the
adversary s bruised body, a shout went
up, the sweetest cry that ever fell on
human ears :

" Bully for Shavings !"

The tide had tvirned, and all the in
glorious past was wiped out. He was
one of the crowd forever more.

Rita found her partner with a purple
cheek and a swollen nose, fraternizing
with the most exclusive set of the enemy,
and for a minute her heart sank. But it

THK COMPASS.

never occurred to Shavings to go back on
her, even though she belonged to a sex
with which he was no longer allied. He
waved his cap and went over to tell her
about it, and the boys, newly respectful,
made no comments.

It was dark when the two children
guided Mr. Baker down to Black Mary s
cabin, and showed him, with excited
whispers, how the scissors had lain in
the dirt under the loose step. He talked
to them just as if they were grown up.

"If we can prove that the scissors be
longed on Teresita s chatelaine, we can
be pretty sure there are more of her
things in that little house," he said;
and perhaps we can get them back for
her. We may even prove that Black
Mary set fire to the Broderick so that she
could steal the jewels. And if it all
comes out right and no other paper gets
hold of it, that will be a real dollar scoop.
But you ll spoil it all if you tell."

The children would have sewn up their
mouths with black shoe thread to prove
their good faith. Just then they had to
grasp each other s hands and stand very
still in the darkness, for the cabin door
opened.

" Look again some time. I think I
must have lost them down here, " said a
low voice. Then some one, young and
light footed, came down the rickety step
and hurried away. As she walked, there
was a swish of silk and a slight clanking.

The editor muttered .something that
would have shocked well brought up
children.

" What is it ? Why will you be
damned ? " whispered Rita.

"Because that was Teresita herself."
answered the editor. "Children, this
scoop is getting curiouser and curiouser,
but I think I can promise that you ll get
your dollar all right. Now you must go
home and not open your mouths. I ve
got to hustle."

And he did hustle, so cleverly and
effectively that the next morning the
Recorder delighted the insurance com
panies and exasperated the rival dailies
by announcing that a large part of the
jewels and laces of Teresita had been
stolen, not burned, and that the thief
was no other than Teresita herself, aided
and abetted by her aged grandmother, a
notorious character who went by the name
of Black Mary. The evening papers
avenged themselves by denying it as a
"Recorder fake," and the morning
papers tried to make light of it, but it
was a big discovery, and in the end they
all acknowledged the fact by the size and
blackness of the headlines they gave it.
Mr. Baker was promoted, Miss Harrison
became a regular member of the staff on
a good salary, and Rita and Shavings
received tw r o dollars apiece and tickets
to the circiis. And no one ever hinted
that their part in it was only a" acci
dent.

During the sensational trial which fol
lowed the Recorder had a glorious time
puffing and pluming itself and pointing
out its own adroitness ; but it never could
match with its pride the little girl who
strutted about the ferry, crying, "All
about the stolen jewels! " and selling
more papers than any three boys put to
gether.

THE COMPASS.

A THING so fragile that one feather s weight

Might break its poise or turn the point aside,

The mightiest vessel, with her tons of freight,

O er pathless seas from port to port will guide.

What wonder, then, if lodged within the breast,
Some simple, yet unwavering faith may lit-

To guide the laden soul to ports of rest

And, like the compass, point it to the sky ?

John Trot and.

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST
AND HIS BEST BOOK

BY JEROME K. JEROME.

The clever English author names "David Copperf ield " as an especial favorite
in fiction, telk of its influence upon his own life, and passes in review Dickens
wonderful picture gallery of characters.

RE was once upon a time a charm-
. ing young lady, possessed of much
taste, who was asked by an anxious
parent, the years going on and family
expenditure not decreasing, which of the
numerous and eligible young men then
paying court to her, she liked the best.
She replied that that was her difficulty ;
she could not make up her mind which she
Jiked the best. They were all so nice.
She could not possibly select one to the ex
clusion of all the others. What she would
have liked would be to marry the lot, but
that, she presumed, was impracticable.

I feel I resemble that young lady, not
so much in charm and beauty as in inde
cision of mind, when the question is
that of my favorite author and my favorite
hook. It is as if one were asked one s
favorite food. There are times when one
fancies an egg with one s tea. On other
occasions one dreams of a kipper. Today
one clamors for lobsters. Tomorrow one
feels one never wishes to see a lobster
again. One determines to settle down,
for a time, to a diet of bread and milk
and rice pudding. Asked suddenl} r to say
whether I preferred ices to soup, or beef
steaks to caviare, I should be complete^ 7
nonplussed.

There may be readers who care for
only one literary diet. I am a person of
gross appetites, requiring many authors to
satisfy me. There are moods when the
savage strength of the Bronte sisters is
companionable to me. One rejoices in
the unrelieved gloom of " Wuthering
Heights " as in the lowering skies of a
stormy autumn. Perhaps part of the
marvel of the book comes from the knowl

edge that the authoress was a slight,
delicate young girl. One wonders what
her future work would have been had
she lived to gain a wider experience of
life ; or was it well for her fame that
nature took the pen so soon from her
hand ? Her suppressed vehemence may
have been better suited to these tangled
Yorkshire byways than to the more open,
cultivated fields of life.

There is not much similarity between
the two books, yet when recalling Emily
Bronte my thoughts always run on to
Olive Schreiner. Here again was a young
girl with the voice of a strong man.
Olive Schreiner, more fortunate, has lived,
but I doubt if she will ever write a book
that will remirrd us of her first. " The
Story of an African Farm " is not a work
to be repeated. We have advanced in
literature of late. I can well remember
the storm of indignation with which the
" African Farm " was received by Mrs.
Grundy and her then numerous, but now
happily diminishing school. It was a
book that was to be kept from the hands
of every young man and woman. But
the hands of the young men and women
.stretched out and grasped it, to their
help. It is a curious idea, this of Mrs.
Grundy s, that the young man and
woman must never think that all litera
ture that does anything more than echo
the conventions must be hidden away.

Then there are times when I love to
gallop through history on Sir Walter s
broomstick, At other hours it is pleas
ant to sit in converse with wise George
Eliot. From her garden terrace we look
on Loamshireand its commonplace people,

MY FAVORITE NOVELIST.

and in her quiet, deep voice she tells me
of the hidden hearts that beat and throb
beneath these velveteen jackets and lace
" falls."

Who can help loving Thackeray, wit
tiest, gentlest of men, in spite of the faint
suspicion of snobbishness that clings to
him ? There is something pathetic in the
good man s horror of this snobbishness,
to which he himself was a victim. May
it not have been an affectation, born un
consciously of self consciousness ? His
heroes and heroines must needs be all
fine folk, fit company for lady and gentle
men readers. To him the livery was too
often the man. Under his stuffed calves
even Jeames de la Phiche himself stood
upon the legs of a man, but Thackeray
coiild never see deeper than the silk stock
ings. Thackeray lived and died in Club
land. One feels that the world was
bounded for him by Temple Bar on the
east and Park Lane on the west ; but what
there was good in Clubland he showed us,
and for the sake of the great gentlemen
and sweet ladies that his kindly eyes fotind
in that narrow region, not too overpeopled
with great gentlemen and sweet women,
let us honor him.

"Tom Jones," "Peregrine Pickle,"
and Tristram Shandy are books a man
is the better for reading, if he read them
wisely. They teach him that literature,
to be a living force, must deal with all
sides of life, and that little help comes to
us from that silly pretense of ours that we
are perfect in all things, leading perfect
lives, and that only the villain of the story
ever deviates from the path of rectitude.

This is a point that needs to be con
sidered by both the makers and the buyers
of stories. If literature is to be regarded
solely as the amusement of an idle hour,
then the less relationship it has to life
the better. Looking into a truthful mir
ror of nature we are compelled to think ;
and when thought comes in at the win
dow drowsy idleness goes out by the door.
Should a novel or play call us to ponder
upon the problems of existence, or lure
us from the dust\ high road of the world,
fora while, into the pleasant meadows of
dreamland ? If only the latter, then let
our heroes and heroines be, not what
men and women are, but what they
should be. Let Angclin a be always spot

less and Edwin always true. Let virtue
ever triumph over villainy in the last
chapter ; and let us assume that the mar
riage service answers all the questions of
the Sphinx.

Very pleasant are these fairy tales,
where the prince is always brave and
handsome ; where the princess is always
the best and most beautiful princess that
ever lived ; where one knows the wicked
people at a glance by their ugliness and
ill temper, mistakes being thus rendered
impossible ; where the good fairies are,
by nature, more powerful than the bad ;
where gloomy paths lead ever to fair
palaces ; where the dragon is ever van
quished ; and where well behaved hus
bands and wives can rely upon living
happily ever afterwards. The world is
too much with us, late and soon." It is
wise to slip away from it at times to fairy
land. But, alas, we cannot live in fairy
land, and knowledge of its geography is
of little help to us on our return to the
rugged country of reality.

Are not both branches of literature
needful ? By all means let us dream, on
midsummer nights, of fond lovers led
through devious paths to happiness by
Puck ; of virtuous dukes one finds such
in fairyland ; of fate subdued by faith
and gentleness. But may we not also, in
our more serious humors, find satisfac
tion in thinking with Hamlet or Corio-
lanus ? May not both Dickens and Zola
have their booths in Vanity Fair ? If lit
erature is to be a help to us as well as a
pastime, it must deal with the ugly as
well as with the beautiful ; it must show
us ourselves, not as we wish to appear,
but as we know ourselves to be. Man
has been described as an animal with as
pirations reaching up to heaven and in
stincts rooted elsewhere. Is literature
to flatter him, or reveal him to himself?

Of living writers it is not safe, I sup
pose, to speak, except, perhaps, of those
who have been with us .so long that we
have come to forget they are not of the
past. Has justice ever been done to
Ouida s undoubted genius by our shallow
school of criticism, always very clever in
discovering faults as obvious as pimples
on a fine face ? Her guardsmen " toy "
with their food. Her horses win the
Derby three years running. Her very

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

wicked women throw guinea peaches
from the windows of the Star and Garter
into the Thames at Richmond. The dis
tance being about three hundred and fifty
yards, it is "a good throw. Well, well,
books are not made worth reading by the
absence of absurdities. Ouida possesses
strength, tenderness, truth, passion ; and
these be qualities in a writer capable of
carrying many more faults than Ouida is
burdened with. But that is the method
of our little criticism. It views an artist
as Gulliver saw the Brobdingnag ladies.
It -is too small to see them in their en
tirety ; a mole or a wart absorbs all its
vision.

Have Mark Twain s literary qualities,
apart altogether from his humor, been
recognized in literary circles as they
ought to be? " Huck Finn" would
be a great work were there not a laugh in
it from cover to cover. Among the Indians
and some other savage tribes the fact that
A member of the community has lost one
of his senses makes greatly to his ad
vantage ; he is regarded altogether as a
superior person. So among a school of
4nglo Saxon readers, it is necessar} to a
man, if he would gain literary credit,
ihat he should lack the sense of humor.
One or two curious modern examples oc
cur to me, of literary success secured
rhiefly by this failing.

All these authors are my favorites ; but
such catholic taste is held nowadays to
be no taste. One is told that if one loves
Shakspere, one must of necessity hate
Ibsen ; that one cannot appreciate Wag
ner and tolerate Beethoven ; that if we
admit any merit in Dore, we are incapable
of understanding Whistler. How can I
say which is my favorite novel ? I can
only ask myself which lives clearest in
my memory, which is the book I run to
more often than to another, in that pleas
ant half hour before the dinner bell,
\vhen, with all apologies to good Mr.
Smiles, it is useless to think of work.

I find, on examination, that my " David
Copperfield" is more dilapidated than any
other novel upon my shelves. As I turn
its dog eared pages, reading the familiar
headlines: "Mr. Micaifber in difficul
ties, " " Mr. Micaii bcr in prison, " I fall
in love with Dora," 1 " Mr. Barkis goes
otit with the tide," "My child wife,"

" Traddlcs in a nest of roses" pages of
my own life recur to me, so many of
my sorrows, so many of my joys, are
woven in my mind with this chapter or
the other. That day how well I remem
ber it ! I read of David s wooing, but
Dora s death I was careful to skip. Poor,
pretty little Mrs. Copperfield at the gate,
holding up her baby in her arms, is al
ways associated in my memory with a
child s cry, long listened for. I found
the book, face downwards on a chair,
weeks afterwards, not moved from where
I had hastily laid it.

Old friends, all of you, how many times
have I not slipped away from my worries
into your pleasant company ! Pcggotty,
you dear soul, the sight of your kind
eyes is so good to me. Our mutual
friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, is prone, we
know, just ever so slightly, to gush. The
friends he introduces to one are so very
perfect. Good fellow that he is, he can
see no flaw in those he loves, but yon,
dear lady, if you will permit me to call
you by a name much abused, he has
drawn in true colors. I know you well,
with 3 our big heart, your quick temper,
your homely, human ways of thought.
You yourself will never guess your
worth how much the world is better for
such as you ! You think of yourself as
of a commonplace person, useful only for
the making of pastry, the darning of
stockings, and if a man not a young
man, with only dim, half opened eyes,
but a man whom life had made keen to see
the beauty that lies hidden behind plain
faces were to kneel and kiss your red,
coarse hand. } ; ou would be much aston
ished. But he would be a wise man,
Peggoity, knowing what things a man
should take carelessly, and for what
things he should thank God, who has
fashioned fairness in many shapes.

Mr. Wilkins Micawber, and you, most
excellent of faithful wives, Mrs. Emma
Micawbcr, to you I also raise my hat.
How often has the example of your phi
losophy saved me, when I, likewise, have
suffered under the temporary pressure of
pecuniary liabilities ; when the sun of
my prosperity, too, has sunk beneath the
dark horizon of the world in short,
when I, also, have found myself in a
tight corner ! I have asked myself what

MY FAVORITE NOVKUST.

would the Micaivbers have done in my
place. And I have answered myself.
They would have .sat down to a dish of
lamb s fry, cooked and breaded by the
deft hands of Emma, followed by a brew
of punch, concocted by the beaming
Wilkins, and have forgotten all their
troubles for the time being. Whereupon,
seeing first that sufficient small change
was in my pocket, I have entered the
nearest restaurant, and have treated nry-
self to a repast of such sumptuousness as
the aforesaid small change would go to,
emerging from that restaurant stronger
and more fit for battle. And lo, the sun
of my prosperity has peeped at me from
over the clouds with a sly wink, as if to
say : Cheer up ; I am only round the
corner. "

Cheery, elastic Mr. and Mrs. Micaw-
ber, how would half the world face their
fate but by the help of a kindly, shallow
nature such as yours ? I love to think
that your sorrows can be drowned in
nothing more harmful than a bowl of
punch. Here s to }^ou, Emma, and to
you, Wilkins, and to the twins ! May
you and such child-like folk trip lightly
over the stones xipon your path ! May
something ever turn up for you, my
dears ! May the rain of life ever fall as
April showers upon your simple, bald
head, Micawber !

And you, sweet Dora, let me confess I
love you, though sensible friends deem
you foolish. Ah, silly Dora, fashioned
by wise mother nature, who knows that
weakness and helplessness are as a talis
man calling forth strength and tender
ness in man, trouble yourself not unduly
about the oysters and the underdone
mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks
at twenty pounds a year will see to these
things for us. Your work is to teach us
gentleness and kindness. Lay your fool
ish curls just here, child. It is from
such as you we learn wisdom. Foolish
wise folk sneer at you. Foolish wise folk
would pull up the laughing lilies, the
needless roses, from the garden, would
plant in their places only useful, whole
some cabbage. But the gardener, know
ing better, plants the silly, short lived
flowers, foolish wise folk asking for what
purpose.

Gallant Traddlcs, of the strong heart

and the unruly hair ; Sophy, dearest of
girls ; Betsy Trotwood, with your gentle
manly manners and your woman s heart,
you have come to me in shabby rooms,
making the dismal place seem bright. In
dark hours your kindly faces have looked
out at me from the shadows, vour kindly
voices have cheered me.

Little Em ly and Agnes, it may be my
bad taste, but I cannot share my friend
Dickens enthusiasm for them. Dickens
good women are all too good for human
nature s daily food. Esther Summerson,
Florence Dombey, Little Nell you have
no faults to love you by.

Scott s women were likewise mere illu
minated texts. Scott only drew one live
young heroine Catherine Seton. His
other women were merely the prizes the
hero had to win in the end, like the suck
ing pig or the leg of nmtton for which
the yokel climbs the greasy pole. That
Dickens could draw a woman to some
likeness he proved by Bella Wilfer, and
Estella in "Great Expectations." But
real women have never been popular in
fiction. Men readers prefer the false, and
women readers object to the truth.

From an artistic point of view, David
Copperfield " is undoubtedly -Dickens
best work. Its humor is less boisterous ;
its pathos less highly colored.

One of Leech s pictures represents a
cabman calmly sleeping in the gutter.
"Oh, poor dear, he s ill," says a tender
hearted lady in the crowd. " 111 ! " re
torts a male bystander indignantly.
" 111 ! E s ad too much of what I ain t
ad enough of. "

Dickens suffered from too little of what
some of us have too much of criticism.
His work met with too little resistance to
call forth his powers. Too often his
pathos sinks to bathos, and this not from
want of skill, but from want of care. It
is difficult to believe that the popular
writer who allowed his sentimentality
or rather the public s sentimentality to
run away with him in such scenes as the
death of Paul Dombey and Little Nell was
the artist who painted the death of
Sydney Carton and of Barkis, "the will
ing." Barkis death, next to the passing
of Colonel Ncivcontc, is, to my thinking,
one of the most perfect pieces of pathos
in English literature. The surroundings

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

are so commonplace, so simple. No very
deep emotion is concerned. He is a com
monplace old man, clinging foolishly to
a commonplace box. His simple wife
and the old boatmen stand by, waiting
calmly for the end. There is no straining
after effect of any kind. One feels death
enter, dignifying all things ; and, touched
by that hand, foolish old Barkis grows
great.

In Uriah Heep and Mrs. Gummidge,
Dickens draws types rather than char
acters. Pecksniff, Podsnap, Dolly Varden,
Mr. Bumble, Mrs. Gamp, Mark Tapley,
Turvcydrop, Mrs. Jellyby these are not
characters ; they are human characteris
tics personified.

We have to go back to Shakspere to
find a writer who, through fiction, has so
enriched the thought of the people. Ad
mit all Dickens faults twice over, we
still have one of the greatest writers of
modern times. Such people as these
creations of Dickens never lived, says
your little critic. Nor was Prometheus,
type of the spirit of man, nor was Niobe,
mother of all mothers, a truthful picture of
the citizen one could meet a thousand
times during an hour s march through
Athens. Nor grew there ever a wood
like to the Forest of Arden, though even/
Rosalind and Orlando knows the path to
glades having much resemblance to it.

Steerforth, upon whom Dickens evi
dently prided himself, I must confess,
never laid hold of me. He is a melodra

matic young man. The worst I could
have wished him would have been that he
should marry Rosa Dartle and live with
his mother. It would have served him
right for being so attractive. Old Peg-
gotty and Ham are, of course, impossible.
One must accept these also as types.
These Brothers Cheeryble, these Kits, Joe
Gargeries, Boffins, Garlands, John Peery-
bingles, we will accept as types of the
goodness that is in men though in real
life the amount of virtue that Dickens
often wastes upou a single individual
would, by more economically minded
nature, be made to serve for fifty.

To sum up, "David Copperfield " is a
plain tale, simply told ; and such are all
books that live. Eccentricities of style,
artistic trickery, may please the critic of
a day, but literature is a story that inter
ests us, boys and girls, men and women.
It is a sad book, too ; and that, again,
gives it an added charm in the sad later
days. Humanity is nearing its old age,
and we have come to love sadness, as the
friend who has been longest with us. In
the young days of our vigor we were
merry. With Ulysses boatmen, we took
alike the sunshine and the thunder of life
with a frolic welcome. The red blood
flowed in our veins, and we laughed, and
our tales were of strength and hope.
Now we sit like old men, watching faces
in the fire ; and the stories that we love
are sad stories like the stories that we
ourselves have lived.

Jerome K. Jerome.

AN EASTER FANCY.

IN church on Easter morning

The lilies in a row
Uplifted buds of beauty

And cups of fragrant snow.
Between the organ s shadow

And the altar s purple gloom
I heard them speaking softly

In the language of perfume.

" We are the souls of maidens

Who died in early youth,
Translated by the Saviour

In blossoms white as truth.
Out of the dust and darkness,

He called us, and we came,
In joyous resurrection,

To glorify His name ! "

Minna Irritu

IN THE PUBLIC EYE

THE NEW SUPREME COURT JUDGE.
The accompanying portrait shows
Judge McKenna in the robes of his new
office as an associate justice of the
United States Supreme Court. Little
more seems to be heard of the opposition
aroused by his appointment to the
highest Federal bench, and it may,

before long, be practically forgotten, as
has been the case with other contested
nominations.

Such is the power and importance of
the Supreme Court that the selection of
its personnel has always been jealously
watched. Not a few previous nomina
tions have been challenged in the Senate,

JOSEPH E. MCKEXXA, ASSOCIATE JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT.

From his latest photograph by Thors, San Francisco.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the usual ground for criticism being that
they were made as part of a political bar
gain, or for partisan purposes. The
charge brought against Mr. McKenna
was the rather indefinite one that he
lacked the judicial temperament which

and a pension follows the period of active
service. Few men have had the ambition
to seek higher honors. But Mr. McKenna
is still in the prime of life, and if he
should discover that his critics in the
Senate are right, and that he has not

COLONEL P. C. HAINS, SENIOR ENGINEER OF THE NICARAGUA CANAL COMMISSION.
From a photograph by Blessing, Baltimore.

seems strange in view of the fact that for
four years, before entering the cabinet, he
wore the judge s robe, and is generally
admitted to have made an excellent
record.

Almost invariably a public man s ap
pointment to the Supreme Court has
marked the limit of his political pro
motion. The work of the Federal bench
is not light, but it is dignified and
Tegular ; the position is one of social
and legal prestige ; the salary is by no
means large ten thousand dollars a
year but it suffices for the necessities,

found his vocation, he may be seen again
in the political arena.

AX AMERICAN ENGINEER.

The construction of a canal between the
Atlantic and the Pacific will be one of the
great engineering operations of the com
ing century; and no other is likely to be
of more supreme importance to American
interests. The isthmus may be pierced
at Panama, where the French company is
still at work upon its colossal task, or by
the Nicaragua route, where American
capital and enterprise are already enlisted.

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

CHARLES F. ROE, MAJOR GENERAL OF THE NEW YORK NATIONAL GUARD.
From a photograph by 11 ilhclm, Neiv York.

Much depends upon the report to be made
by the commission of inquiry no\v making
surveys and investigations in Nicaragua
on behalf of the United States govern
ment.

As senior engineer of this American
commission, Colonel P. C. Hains has an
important part in its work. Colonel
Hains left West Point to go to the front
at the outbreak of the Civil War, through
which he served as an artillery officer,
from Bull Run to Appomattox. He is
now the ranking colonel in the engineer
corps, and his regular duty is the com

mand of the Soittheast division, which,
roughly speaking, includes the defenses
of the vast territory between Baltimore
and Galveston.

A NATIONAL GUARD LEADER.

General Charles F. Roe, recently ap
pointed major general of the Xew York
National Guard, is a soldier of practical
experience. He was a plebe at West
Point when Lee surrendered at Appo
mattox, but he has seen active service
involving hardships as great as those of
the civil war, with far less chance of

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the expedition of 1876 against
Sitting Bull, and several other Indian
campaigns in the West. After twenty
years as a cavalry officer he resigned

National Guard. A notable instance of
its efficiency was given during the Brook-
lyn labor troubles, in 1895, when the
troopers did really valuable service, dis-

SANFOKU B. DOLE, PRESIDENT OF HAWAII.
From a photograph by Stalee, Washington.

from the regular army and settled in
New York, where he was elected to the
captaincy of Troop A, then newly
formed.

When the troop was increased to a
squadron, Captain Roe took the cor
respondingly higher rank of major.
Under his command, Squadron A has
become the model cavalry body of the

persing thousands of rioters without
firing a shot.

THE PRESIDENT OF HAWAII.

Rulers sometimes meet as host and
guest, but it is seldom that the official
head of a government goes abroad upon a
business errand. President Dole s visit
to the United States is an incident of a

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

MRS. SANFORU B. DOLK.
from a photograph by Stalee, Washington

sort that is rare in diplomatic annals,
and one that shows the supreme impor
tance to Hawaii of the mission on which
he came. Still more unique is the fact
that what is understood to be his purpose
is to terminate the existence of his own
government, and surrender the independ
ence of his diminutive country. If he
succeeds, he will go down in history as
the first and last President of Hawaii.

But if his rule in the Pacific island
group should be ended thus, Mr. Dole
might find before him the ampler possi
bilities of a career in American politics.

Whatever form of representation Hawaii
might have at Washington, he would
very probably be chosen for the post. He
would be a striking and interesting figure
at the Capitol. He is fully six feet tall,
with a silvery beard which is more patri
archal and impressive than that of Senator
Peffer. His features are of strong but
kindly mold, his utterances direct, digni
fied, and courteous.

Mr. Dole s father was a New Bedford
man, who went to Hawaii as a missionary
in 1840. The son was born in the islands,
but was educated at a Massachusetts

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

college, and admitted to the bar of the
Bay State. Going back to Honolulu, he
was appointed judge of the Hawaiian
supreme court by the late King Kala-
kaua, and this position he held up to the

Mr. Dole was married twenty five
3 ears ago to Miss Annie P. Gate, of
Castine, Maine. Mrs. Dole s social duties
in Hawaii are similar though of course
upon a smaller scale to those of our own

CHARLES G. DAWES, COMPTROLLER OF THE CURRENCY.
From a photograph by Root, Chicago.

time of the revolution of five years ago.
He was not one of the active promoters
of that much discussed upheaval, and his
selection as president which was brought
about by proclamation, without any form
of election was due to the fact that he
was recognized as a " safe man " a man
of character and known ability, not an
extremist, but one who commanded the
respect of all parties.

"first lady." She is also actively inter
ested in educational and philanthropic
work.

THE COMPTROLLER OP THE CURRENCY.

Charles G. Dawes, who recently suc
ceeded Mr. Eckels as comptroller of the
currency, is the youngest man who ever
held that office. He is a politician to
whom success came early and quickly.

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

H. HASTINGS, GOVERNOR OF PEXXSYL
From a photograph by Gutekiuist, Philadelphia.

He was twenty eight years old, and had
lived only two years in Illinois, when he
became recognized as a leader of the
political forces whose aim was to insure
the nomination of Major McKinley for
the Presidency, in 1896 ; and it was
largely due to his tact and skilful man
agement that instructions for the Ohio
candidate were given to the delegates
elected at the State convention at Spring
field. During the campaign he served as
a member of the Republican executive
committee, where he was regarded as per
haps the ablest and most active of all
Mr. Hanna s lieutenants.

Mr. Dawes is an Ohioan by birth, a
native of the old town of Marietta. He

was educated for the bar, and went West
to hang out his shingle in Lincoln,
Nebraska. In 1894 he moved to Evans-
ton, near Chicago, where he is interested
in the gas business. He has always been
a student of financial subjects, and his
book on The Banking System of the
United States" is a manual that has won
high praise from authorities on this im
portant and much controverted theme.
His friends promise that his administra
tion of his present office will be a very
successful one.

THE GOVERNOR OF PENNSYLVANIA.

Governor Daniel Hartman Hastings,
of Pennsylvania, has several claims upon

4 o

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

fame, one of the latest being his leader
ship of a faction in the politics of his
State in opposition to Senator Qua} . He
first came into national notice in iSSS,
when he put John Sherman in nomina-

election followed by an overwhelming
majority.

Governor Hastings is a native Penn-
sylvanian of Scotch Irish ancestry. He
has been both a teacher and a lawyer.

JOHN R. ROGERS, GOVERNOR OF WASHINGTON.
From a photograph by llis, Whatcom, H ashing tou.

tion for the Presidency. Although his
eloquence was as futile as that of those
who did a like service for Mr. Sherman
in other years, his prominence in the
Republican convention paved the way to
Mr. Hastings promotion to the chief
magistracy of Pennsylvania. He was
once an unsuccessful candidate for the
nomination, but when he secured it his

Later, he served for several years as ad
jutant general of the State, and was con
spicuous in the relief work at Johnstown
after the great flood of 1889.

A WESTERN GOVERNOR.

Governor Rogers, of the young State
of Washington, is one of the men who
are dissatisfied with existing social con-

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

ditions and are not afraid to say so.
He declares that noble as was the past of
the American republic, its present " is a
frightful picture. " " Mammon , " he says,
"rides roughshod over the hopes and
heaven born aspirations of the poor.
Vast numbers of men are despairing.
The occupants of many of our pulpits are
so debased that they have forgotten the
precepts of Christ. The accepted ideas of
political economy are evidently all wrong.
The late Henry George had a nostrum
for reforming all this, but his proposition
Governor Rogers summarily dismisses as
insufferable rot. The field thus cleared,
he produces a little scheme of his own.
He would change the face of the world by
allowing to every family twenty five
hundred dollars worth of land free of
taxation. We presume that the reformer
purposes to have each and every home
stead conspicuously labeled " Not Trans
ferable, as otherwise the greed and gul
libility of the human race would be
almost certain to defeat his amiable object.

These reformers are the best intentioned
and most hopeful people on earth.. For
thousands of years humanity has toiled on
under the burdens of its primal curse, but
it need do so no longer. Every one of these
modern prophets has a plan for the extir
pation of existing evils. Each plan is
different from all other plans, but all are
guaranteed to be absolutely infallible.
Poverty is to disappear. Sickness and
sorrow, vice and crime, are to be forgot
ten. Floods, earthquakes, and tornadoes
are to cease. A beautiful dream who
can help sympathizing with the dreamer
of it?

The career of Governor Rogers has been
typically American, if we may use that
overworked phrase once more. He was
born in New England almost sixty years
ago, the great grandson of a Captain John
Rogers who commanded a Yankee priva
teer in the Revolutionary war. He has
lived in half a dozen States, and has
turned his ready hand to three or four
callings besides those of politics and
authorship. As a boy of fourteen he
went to Boston to become a clerk in a
Tremont Street drug store. At eighteen
he was in business at Jackson, Missis
sippi. A few years later he settled in
Illinois, where he was first a school

teacher and then a farmer. Next he
migrated to Kansas, where from tilling
the soil he drifted into Farmers Alliance
politics and journalism ; and his most
recent move was to follow the star of
Empire to the Pacific slope in 1890. In
the "grand young commonwealth" of
which he is chief magistrate he sees a
new Eden prepared for the habitation of
man as truly and with as much regard
for his future happiness and well being as
was the first and fabled garden of Adam
and Eve.

Governor Rogers has three sons, the
eldest of whom is an assistant professor
of physics at Cornell.

Emperor William of Germany compels
the recognition of his own dignity by
every one within his dominion with an
insistency that is creating no small
amount of comment. His long list of
arrests for lese majeste, reaching five
thousand sentences, inflicted since his
accession, seems to indicate an autocratic
assumption of sovereign dignity that
comports ill with the modern spirit.

It is singularly in keeping with his
character that he should start upon a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the
royal yacht Hohenzollern, as it is reported
that he is intending to do. Even if he
decided to go afoot, we should expect to
see his penitential sackcloth garments
lined with silk and trimmed with the
imperial ermine.

# * * *

The Iron Chancellor has long been
suffering from neuralgia, particularly in
the facial nerves, and to obtain relief
from the sharp pain he sits for long
periods with his hands pressed firmly
against his mouth and cheeks.

A visitor to Friedrichsruh found him
thus one day recently, and expressed
sympathy. Bismarck, who had been
ruminating upon his old student days as
well as his long public career, replied :

"This is justice. During my life I
have sinned most with my month eat
ing, drinking, and talking. "

* # * *

Almost everybody has heard of the
eminent English reformer, Lady Henry
Somerset, but the existence of Lord Henry
Somerset has been merely an inference.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It has been discovered that Lord Henry
who seems to be a reformer s husband
and nothing more has resided for many
years in Florence, upon an income of two
thousand pounds a 3 - ear, granted him by
his distinguished wife. An irreverent
paragrapher suggests that if he had con
sented to live further away from London,
his allowance might have been propor
tionately larger.

* * # #

The enthusiastic enterprise of New
York s " new "or " yellow " journalism,
whichever we ma} choose to call it, not
long ago encountered an iceberg in the
person of ex President Grover Cleveland,
the resultant shock being distinct!}- felt
along Park Row. The publishers of the
sensational newspapers seem to be great
believers in the magic power of distin
guished names, and to care a great deal
more for the signature to an article than
for the article itself. They will pay more
for an article by Archbishop Corrigan on
How They Open Oysters in Fulton
Market," or a treatise on "Cuban Ama
zons Who Wage Relentless War Clad in
Connecticut Wrappers, by the celebrated
Deacon Squash of the Methodist confer
ence, than for a legitimate and interesting
news story from the pen of the best news
paper writer in the city. As a rule, they
find it easy enough to get well known
signatures, for Ne\v York is fairly over
flowing with celebrities who are willing
to sign their names to anything, from a
profession of faith in a proprietary pill to
an editorial about Cuba ; but Mr. Cleve
land is less obliging.

One of the one cent morning dailies
was vehemently opposing the construction
of a certain trolley line in which it had
detected an invasion of popular rights.
It had taken the matter into court, and it
was deemed desirable to have the case
argued by a lawyer of national reputa
tion some one whose mere presence in
the court house would attract an idle
crowd from the adjacent saloons and
barber shops, and spread abroad through
the different boroughs of Greater New
York the fame of the newspaper s enter
prise. A member of the staff was des
patched to Princeton, with instructions
to offer the ex President a sum of money
that was said to be not much short of

three thousand dollars for one da} s work
in court.

To the intense surprise of the munificent
publisher, the offer was peremptorily re
fused by Mr. Cleveland on the ground
that it would be an injustice to the other
members of his profession to emerge
from his retirement and come into the
great white light of newspaper fame for
a single moment, merely for the sake of a
large fee which oxight really to be given
to some lawyer in active practice.
#*,.*

Strange are the vagaries of interna
tional fame. The late Professor Huxley
was accepted as the inspired apostle of
modern science in America as he never
was in his native country. Charles Reade,
esteemed in England, was far more popu
lar on this side of the Atlantic. Mrs.
Hungerford, famous as " the Duchess " in
every American servants parlor, was
quite unknown to her fellow country
men. On the other hand, Max Miiller,
one of the famous and interesting figures
of contemporary England, is known here
to scholars only.

Max Miiller was born in Germany, but
settled in England more than fifty years
ago, and has long been professor of com
parative philology at Oxford. He has
known all the great men of his day, and
of some of them he tells amusing personal
details in a recently published volume of
reminiscences. One day when Tennyson
was visiting him, the laureate, coming
down to the breakfast table, whipped off
the cover of the hot dish and exclaimed :
Mutton chops ! The staple of every bad
inn in England ! " The poet s abruptness
was soon forgiven, however, for his
hosts found his conversation simply
delightful. "

v *.#: :

Another of Max Miiller s friends was
Matthew Arnold. For some years before
his sudden death Arnold knew that the
thread of his life might snap at any mo
ment. Taking leave of Robert Browning,
he hinted that they might never meet
again, and playfully warned the volu
minous poet : Now one promise, Brown
ing. Please not more than ten lines. "

" Browning, " says Max Miiller, " un
derstood, and went away with a solemn
smile."

The story of New York s growth from a frontier settlement to the metropolis of the western
world Pictures of the city and its life in Colonial times, and in the early days of
independence.

IT was, historically speaking, only the
other day that New York was the
settlement of New Amsterdam, and the
placid Dutch burghers in their wide
breeches walked about the grassy streets
and counted the geese and calves that
flocked about them. They had a town of
fifteen hundred inhabitants when the
fortunes of war made them turn over
their prosperous village to the English,
to be renamed after the Duke of York,
who was afterwards the last Stuart mon
arch of Britain. They had a stockade
where Wall Street now runs ; they had a
weekly market "near Mr. Hans Kier-
sted s house," as the town advertised,
and they had a herder who went about
the streets every morning with a loud tin

horn, collecting the cattle. The cows
were pastured in the meadows beyond
Maiden Lane the latter being then De
Maagde Paatje, the path by which the
Dutch lassies went down to the water s
edge to wash their clothes.

Governor Stuyvesant, who lost his post
when the Dutch flag was hauled down
before the British guns, had a farm, or
" bowerie, " on the road that led north
ward ; and his neighborhood was so much
sought that a small village of five houses
sprang up there, and a half way tavern
was erected by Wolfert Webber for the
accommodation of the sedate Dutch in
their long journey from town. It stood
at Chatham Square.

The embryo metropolis had its promi-

FORT AMSTERDAM, AS FINISHED BY GOVERNOR WOl TER VAN TWILI.KK, IN 1635.
From an old engr.tving printed in Hi Hand.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE DUTCH COLONY OF NEW AMSTERDAM.
From an old engraving m the State Library.

nent business men even then. One of
these was Cornelius Clopper, a black
smith, who established a shop at what is
now the corner of Maiden Lane and Pearl
Street. All the country people who came
that way stopped to have their horses
shod and to smoke and gossip. It was
one of New York s early landmarks, and

the road which led to it was known as
"De Sink s Vly," or "The Smith s
Valle\-. " When Cornelius died he was
one of the wealthiest men on the island.
His fortune of ten thousand dollars
caused his widow, Hielke Pieters, to be
much sought.
Under the English many changes came

NEW AMSTERDAM, NOW CALLED NEW YORK.

From a print dated 1667.

- -" ..

k s; A

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

DE SMIT S VLY, AT THE FOOT OF MAIDEN LANE.

in. HeereStraat, which lay to the westward
of the town s principal line of develop
ment, became Broadway, and a fashion
able residence street. At the close of the
seventeenth century, when New York had
about four thousand inhabitants, Madam
Knight, an English lad}-, who came over
on a visit, wrote back that the place had
" an agreeable character. The build
ings," she said, " are of brick generally,

in some houses of divers colors and laid
in checks. Being glazed, they look very
well. On the inside they are neat to ad
miration. " The sidewalks were paved
with cobblestones, but as there was no
sewerage the streets were left unpaved
in- the center that they might absorb
water. Here and there were public wells
to supply the citizens with water.

There are many romantic traditions of

NO. I BROADWAY, IN 1850 (SITE NOW OCCUPIED BY THE WASHINGTON BUILDING.)

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

these late days of the seventeenth cen
tury. Queer ships came into the harbor,
and men who were believed to be pirates
and slave dealers walked about the town.
There is a pathetic tale of the first slave

Lord Somers, the Earls of Romney and
Or ford, and some New York gentlemen
made up a purse for the expenses of the
expedition, and with the great seal of
England on his papers Captain Kidd set

;5^

THE COLLECT POND.

wj^

girl sold in New York, who died of grief
as she was being led home by her pur
chaser, Nicholas Boot. The friends of
the man who made so unlucky a bargain
stood about and looked at her, and shook
her, and said it was all nonsense for her
to be dead, for "she was sound."

There was one scandal that shook not
only New York, but the world. Piracy
had become so common on the high seas
that Colonel Robert Livingstone went
to England and introduced his intimate
personal friend, Captain Willian Kidd, to
the English government and recom
mended that he be sent out on an expedi
tion to put down pirates. The king,

sail from Plymouth in 1696111 the Adven
ture. By and by, when it was learned
that Kidd was himself a pirate, it almost
upset the government, and the noblemen
concerned were indelibly disgraced. Poor
Kidd, as everybody knows, after burying
his treasure where it has never been found,
sailed peacefully into Boston harbor,
supposing that he was protected, or that
nobody knew ; was arrested, taken back
to England, and hanged in chains. Some
body had to suffer.

For most of two centuries, New York

itilfflfflin!ffl{?H&lt;WaW

HI!

BVCKHORN TAVERN, BROADWAY AND
TWENTY SECOND STREET, l8l2.

OLD NEW YORK.

was merely an adjunct to the fort at the
Battery, and had all the characteristics
of a garrison town. This fort had eight
names previous to its final christening of
Fort George. It was laid out by an engi
neer named Kryn Frederick, and his ideas
of fort building were decidedly primitive.
When Stuyvesant was induced to sur
render it without a shot, he called atten
tion to the fact that it was so low that on
two sides, within pistol shot, was ground

The fort was demolished in 1788, with
the intention of building upon its site
a house for the President of the United
States. Before it was completed, the
capital was transferred to Philadelphia,
and the house subsequently became the
custom house.

The old tavern of Mrs. Kocks, on the
site of No. i Broadway, now occupied
by the Washington Building, had stood
there fof a century when it was taken

THE JUNCTION OF PEARL AND CHATHAM STRKKTS, IX COLONIAL DAYS.

so much higher that it made the position
defenseless. Almost every time a new
sovereign sat on the throne of England,
or a new ruler came to New York, the
old fort was renamed. It seems to have
been as useless as some of our coast forti
fications today. In 1738 the governor
wrote of it : " It is a fort of little defense.
We have guns, but no carriages ; ball,
but no powder." He had an indignant
reply from England. Where, the gov
ernment asked, "is the powder we sent
you in 1711 ?"

But if the governors had no powder in
the magazines, they had plenty for their
footmen s heads. They lived in state in
the mansion in the fort, and made the
provincial court a center of gaiety. The
aristocracy of the English administration
kept up a great deal more ceremony than
New York knows today, and 1898 cannot
show many more liveried servants. In
the governor s stables were state coaches,
and in his boat house state barges.

down to make way for the residence of
Archibald Kennedy. Mr. Kenned}- was
at that time collector of the port, but he
afterward went home to Scotland to be
come Earl of Cassilis. In Colonial times
this house was the scene of the greatest
festivities in town. Sir Henry Clinton
had his official residence there. After
the Revolution it became the home of
several prominent citizens in turn.

Broadway, as it stretched further
northward, was a fashionable street
for shopping and residences. During
Dutch times, the site of the present City
Hall Park was known as the " Vlacte,
or Flat ; a little later it became the Com
mons or Fields, and lastly, the Park.
Here bonfires were made on the king s
birthday, Coronation Day, and other
holidays. The first public building erected
there was a poorhouse, built in 1736, but
this did not deter the gatherings. The rec
ords tel of the burning of a press gang s
boat there in 1764 ; of a meeting to oppose

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

JOHN JACOB ASTOR S COUNTRY PLACE, NEAR THE EAST RIVER AT EIGHTY EIGHTH STREET.

the Stamp Act, and the burning of Gover
nor Cadwallader Golden in effigy. When
the Stamp Act was repealed, the people
met in the Fields to roast an ox and drink
twenty five barrels of ale a quantity of
beef and ale that tells of a not very
numerous crowd. The Fields, too, were
the scene of many head breaking battles
between the soldiers and the people over

the Liberty Pole, an emblem which was
several times demolished and as often
restored.

On the 9th of July, 1776, the Conti
nental troops were drawn up here in a
hollow square about General Washington
on horseback, and the Declaration of
Independence was read to them. Then
came the disastrous battle of Long Island.

THE BULL S HEAD TAVERN ON THE BOWERY, BETWEEN BAYARD AND PI Ml
(NOW CANAL) STREETS, 1783.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE STONE BRIDGE TAVERN AND GARDEN,
BROADWAY AND CANAL STREET, l8l2.

and the city was in possession of the
king s forces. In September, the young
country schoolmaster, Nathan Hale, was
hanged as a sp}% not far from the spot
where his statue stands today.

The first improvement of the Park it
was then far uptown, in the country, in
fact was made in 1785, when it was in
closed by a post and rail fence. A jail
and bridewell had been erected before
this. The old log barracks built in
Colonial days had long been deserted, and
had become the homes of bands of roving
Indians, who sold beads and baskets up

and down Broadway. Beyond the Park
lay a piece of ground which was given
over to the negroes for a burying ground.
It was a desolate spot, descending toward
the Collect.

Of all the old topographical features of
Manhattan Island that have been obliter
ated by the city s growth, this Kalchhook
or Collect Pond was the most notable.

WALL STREET, ABOUT 1650.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It was a fresh water lake, as much as
sixty feet deep, in a swampy depression
that cut entirely across the island. It
was connected with the East River by
a creek that ran through marshy fields,
while between it and the Hudson were
Lispenard s Meadows, afterwards drained
by a deep ditch that gave its name to
Canal Street. It was on the Collect that
the first screw propelled steamboat was
tried, in 1796. There was a plan to make

erected by Walter Langdon, son in law
of John Jacob Astor, the prosperous fur
merchant.

One of the notable improvements on
Broadway was on the east side of the
street, between Howard and Grand.
This was a building designed for a circus,
which was afterwards called the Olympic
Theater. In 1825 it was a circus, owned
by Mr. Pierre Lorillard. New York can
not support a permanent circus now, but

TAMMANY HALL, 1830 (NOW THE OFFICE OF THE NEW YORK "SUN").

a park of the land about it. but it was
regarded as too distant from the city.
Finally it was filled in, and the old Tombs
prison was built in the center of its
site.

The first account of a bridge over the
canal between the Collect and the North
River occurs in a map made during the
Revolution. It was evidently a military
work built of solid stone, and designed to
connect the fortifications on the Collect
with those further north. It was on the
line of Broadway at Canal Street, and
stood there for many years. Here, too,
was a famous tavern with a garden.

From this stone bridge, Broadway was
called "The Middle Road," and in 1802
a survey was ordered from the bridge to
Dr. Livingstone s house," at the corner
of Prince Street. Near Dr. Livingstone s
were the homes of the Beekmans and the
Motts, and a " ver} T superior residence"

she could then. The site of the old
Niblo s Garden and the Metropolitan
Hotel, landmarks which have disappeared-
in the past five j-ears, was once a circus
owned by Mr. Van Rensselaer, and called
the Stadium. The old building was left
in Niblo s Garden, and used for light per
formances, which were so successful that
Mr. Niblo, who was a coffee house pro
prietor and never dreamed of becoming a
dramatic manager, was encouraged to
build his famous theater. James Feni-
more Cooper lived next door.

Year by year New York grew north
ward, and each }-ear the inhabitants be
lieved that the limit had almost been
reached, just as people think nowadays
that Yonkers, nearly twenty miles from
the Battery, is far out of tow 7 n and can
never become a second Greenwich Village,
lost in the expansion of the American
metropolis.

THE CASTLE INN.*

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Mr. Weyman, whose "Gentleman of France" created a new school of
historical romance, has found in the England of George HI a field for a story
that is no less strong in action, and much stronger in its treatment of the
human drama of character and emotion, than his tales of French history.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

IN the spring of 1767, on his way from Bath, Lord Chatham, the great English statesman, stops
at the Castle Inn, at Marlborough, where he is detained by an attack of the gout. While here he
sends for Sir George Soane, a young knight who has squandered his fortune at the gaming tables,
to inform him that a claimant has appeared for the ^"50,000 which were left with him by his grand
father in trust for the heirs of his uncle Anthony Soane, and which, according to the terms of the
will, would have become Soane s own in nine months more. "Sir George arrives in time to find
Lady Dunborough, the mother of a man whom he has recently wounded in a duel, vehemently
denouncing as impostors a party of three who have taken possession of Soane s rooms. Sir George
recognizes them as Julia Masterson, a young girl reputed to be the daughter of a dead college
servant at Oxford, her mother, and an attorney named Fishwick, who once rendered some slight
professional services to him. Though ignorant of the cause of their presence, the shrewish vis
countess is repugnant to him, so, to her great disgust, he sides with the humbler travelers, and
relinquishes his rooms to them.

XIV. have married me she would have gone
on her knees to marry me ! And with

ft "VKN minutes later Mr. Thomasson all that money I would have lived to be

JL slid back the bolt, and, opening bishop of Oxford ! It is monstrous !

the door, glanced furtively up and down Positively, I am fit to kill myself when I

the passage. Seeing no one, he came think of it!"

out, closed the door behind him, and, He paused a while to roll the morsel on

humming an air from the " Buona Figli- the palate of his imagination, and found

ola, " which was then the fashion, re- that the pathos of it almost moved him

turned slowly and with apparent delibera- to tears. But by and by he fell from the

tion to the east wing. There he hastened clouds to more practical matters. The

to hide himself in a small closet of a secret was his, but what was he going to

chamber which he had that morning se- do with it ? Where make his market of

cured, plumped down on the scanty bed, it ? For assuredly the opportunity was

and stared at the wall. He was the prey too good to be lost. One by one he con-

of a vast amazement. sidered all the persons concerned. To

"Jupiter ! " he muttered at last, " what begin with, there was her ladyship. The

a a Pactolus I have missed ! Three knowledge did not affect her, one way or

months, two months ago, she would the other ; and he did not trust her. He

* Copyright, i8g8, by Stanley J. M eyiiinn.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

dismissed the thought of applying to her.
It was the same with Dunborough ;
money or no money was all one to him,
he would take the girl if he could get
her. He was dismissed as equally hope
less. Soane came next ; but Sir George
either knew the secret, or must know it
soon, and though his was a case the tutor
pondered long, turn it as he might he
could see no profit he could claim from
him. Moreover, he had not much stom
ach for driving a bargain with him ; so
in the end Soane, too, was set aside.

There remained only the Buona Figli-
ola the girl herself. I might pay my
court to her, the tutor thought ; but
she will have a spite against me for last
night s work, and I doubt I could not do
much. To be sure, I might put her on
her guard against Dunborough, and trust
to her gratitude ; but it is ten to one she
would not believe me. Or I could let
him play his trick if he is fool enough
to put his neck in a noose and step in
and save her at the last moment. Ah !
Mr. Thomasson exclaimed, looking up in
an ecstasy of appreciation, " if I had the
courage ! That were a game to play in
deed, Frederick Thomasson ! "

But it was hazardous ; and the plotter
rose and walked the floor, striving to dis
cover a safer mode of founding his claim.
He found none ; and presently he took
out a letter which he had received the day
before his departure from Oxford a letter
from a dun, threatening process and ar
rest. The sum was one which a year s
stipend of a fat living would discharge,
and until the receipt of the letter, the
tutor, long familiar with embarrassment,
had taken the matter lightly ; but the
letter meant business, and with the cold
shade of the rules in immediate prospect,
he was at his wits end. He thought and
thought, and presently despair bred in
him a bastard courage.

Buoyed up by this, he tried to picture
the scene : the lonel} r road, the carriage,
the shrieking girl, the .ruffians looking
fearfully up and down as they strove to
silence her and himself running to the
rescue as Mr. Burchell ran in Mr. Gold
smith s novel, which he had read a few
months before. Then the struggle ; he
saw himself knocked well, pushed
down. After all, with care, he might

play a fine part without much risk. The
men might fly at sight of him, or when
he drew nearer and added his shouts to
the girl s cries ; or or some one else
might come up, by chance, or summoned
by the uproar ! In a minute it would be
over ; in a minute and what a rich re
ward he might reap !

Nevertheless, he did not feel sure he
would be able to do it. His heart thumped
and his smile grew sickty, and he passed
his tongue again and again over his dry
lips, as he thought of the venture. But
do it or not, when the time came he would
at least give himself the chance. He
would attend the girl wherever she went,
dog her, watch her, hang on her skirts ;
so if the thing happened and he had the
courage, he would be at hand to save her.

" It should it should stand me in a
thousand," he muttered, wiping his
damp brow ; " and that would put me on
my legs.

He put it at that ; and it was a great
sum, a great bribe. He thought of the
money lovingly, and of the feat with
trembling ; and took his hat and unlocked
the door and went down stairs. He spied
about him cautiously till he learned in
the hall that Mr. Dunborough had de
parted ; then he went out boldly to the
stables, and inquired and found that the
gentleman had started for Bristol in a
postchaise. "In a middling black tem
per, "the hostler added, saving your rev
erence s presence."

That learned, the tutor needed to ask
no more. He was aware that Dunborcmgh,
on his way to foreign service, had lain
ten days in Bristol whistling for a wind ;
and had also landed there on his return,
and made on his own authority some
queer friends. Bristol, too, was the port
for the plantations ; a slave mart under
the rose, with the roughest of all the Eng
lish sea town population. There were
houses at Bristol where crimping was the
least of the crimes committed ; and in the
docks, where the great sugar ships sailed
in and out in their season, were sloops
and skippers ready to carry all comers,
criminal and victim alike, beyond the
reach of the law. The very name gave
Mr. Thomasson pause. He could have
done with Gretna, or Berwick, or Har
wich, or Dover ; but Bristol had a grisly

THE CASTLE INN.

sound. From Marlborough it lay but forty
miles away, by the Chippenham and
Marshfield road ; a postchaise and four
stovit horses might cover the distance in
four hours.

He felt, as he sneaked into the house,
that the die was cast. The other meant

to do it, then. And that meant

"Oh, lord! " he muttered, wiping his
brow, " I shall never dare. If he is
there himself, I shall never dare ! " As he
crawled up stairs, he went hot one mo
ment and shivered the next ; and did not
know whether he was glad or sorry that
the chance would be his to take.

Fortunately, on reaching the first floor,
lie remembered that earlier in the day
Lady Dunborough had requested him to
convey her compliments to Dr. Adding-
ton, and inquire how Lord Chatham did.
The tutor felt that a commonplace com
mission of this kind would settle his
nerves ; and having learned the position
of Dr. Addington s apartments, found
his way down the snug passage and
knocked at the door. A voice, disagree
ably raised, was speaking on the other
side of the door, but paused at the sound
of his summons ; some one .said Come
in, " and he entered.

He found his host standing on the
hearth, stiff as a poker, and swelling
with dignity. Facing him stood Mr.
Fishwick. The attorne}^ flustered, hot,
and excited, cast a look at Mr. Thomasson
as if his entrance were an added griev
ance ; but he instantly resumed his com
plaint.

" I tell you, sir with all respect," he
said "I do not understand this. His
lordship was able to travel yesterday, and
last evening he was well enough to see
Sir George Soane "

"He did not see him, " the physician
answered stiffly. There is no class which
extends less indulgence to an inferior
class, than the higher grade of profes
sional men to the lower grade. While to
Sir George, Mr. Fishwick was an odd
little man ,. comic and not altogether in
estimable, to Dr. Addington he was
anathema.

"I said, sir, only that he was well
enough to see him," the lawyer retorted
querulously. "But, be that as it may,
his lordship was not seriously ill yester

day. Today I have business of the ut
most importance with him, and am will
ing to attend upon him at any hour.
Nevertheless you tell me that I cannot
see him today, nor tomorrow - "

Nor, in all probability, the next day,
the doctor answered grimly.

Mr. Fishwick s voice rose almost to a
shriek. Nor the next day ? " he cried.

"No, nor the next day, so far as I can
judge."

" But I must see him ! I tell you, sir,
I must see him ! " the lawyer ejaculated.
" I have the most important business
with him. "

" My dear sir," Dr. Addington said,
raising his hand and clearly near the end
of his patience, "my answer is that you
shall see him when he is well enough to
be seen, and chooses to see you ; and not
before. For myself, whether you see
him now or never see him is no business
of mine. But it is my business to be sure
that his lordship does not risk a life
which is of inestimable value to his
country. "

But but yesterday he was well
enough to travel ! " murmured the law
yer, somewhat awed. "I I do not like
this! "

The doctor looked at the door.

"I I believe I am being kept from
his lordship !" Mr. Fishwick stuttered.
" And there are people whose interest it
is to keep me from his lordship. I warn
you, sir, that if anything happens in the
mean time - "

The doctor rang the bell.

I shall hold you responsible ! cried
Mr. Fishwick passionately. " I consider
this a most mysterious illness. I repeat,

But apparently that was the last straw.
" Mysterious? " the doctor cried fiercely.
" Leave the room, sir ! You are not sane,
sir ! By God, you ought to be shut up,
sir ! You oxight not to be allowed to go
about. Do you think that you are the
only person who wants to see the minis
ter ? Here is a courier from his grace the
Duke of Grafton, and tomorrow there
will be a score, and one from his majesty
among them and all this trouble is given
by a miserable, little paltry begone, sir,
before I say too much ! John, the door !
The door ! And see that this person does

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

not trouble uie again. Be good enough
to communicate by message, sir, if you
have anything to say."

And with that poor Mr. Fishwick was
hustled out, protesting, but not convinced.
It is seldom the better side of human
nature which lawyers see ; nor is an at
torney s office the soil in which a luxu
riant crop of confidence is grown. With
man} persons of warm feeling, but
narrow education, Mr. Fishwick was
ready to believe on the smallest evidence,
or on no evidence, that the rich and
powerful were leagued against his client ;
that justice, if he was not very sharp,
would be denied him ; that the heavy
purse had a knack of outweighing the
righteous cause even in England and
in the eighteenth century. And the
fact that all his hopes were staked on
this case, that all his resources were
embarked in it, that it had fallen as it
were from heaven into his hands where
fore the greater the pity, if things
went amiss rendered him peculiarly
captious and impracticable. Every day
nay, every hour that passed after this
without bringing him to Lord Chat
ham s presence augmented the suspense.
To be put off, not one day, but two days,
three days and what might not happen
in three days ! was a thing intolerable,
insufferable, a thing to bring the heavens
down in pity on his head ! What won
der, then, if he rebelled ; and being routed
as we have seen him routed shut him
self up in his sleeping place, and there
brooded miserably over his suspicions
and surmises.

Even when the lapse of twenty four
hours brought the swarm of couriers,
messengers, and expresses which Dr. Ad-
dington had foretold ; when the High
Street of Marlborough a name hence
forth written on the page of history
became one slowly moving line of coaches
and chariots bearing the select of the
county to pay their respects to the great
minister ; when the very town began to
throb with unusual life, and to take on
airs of fashion, by reason of the crowd
that lay there, all ostensibly drawn
thither by his presence ; when the Duke
of Grafton was reported to be but one
stage distant, and there detained by the
earl s express refusal to see him ; when

the very king, it was rumored, was com
ing on the same business ; when, in a
word, it became evident that the eyes of
half England were turned to the Castle
Inn at Marlborough, where England s
great statesman lay helpless and gave
no sign, though the wheels of state
creaked and all but stood still even then
Mr. Fishwick refused to be satisfied, de
clined to be comforted. In place of view
ing the stir and bustle, the coming and
going, as a perfect confirmation of Dr.
Addington s statement and as a proof of
his integrity, he looked askance at it.
He saw in it a demonstration of the
powers ranked against him and the prin
cipalities he had to combat ; he felt, in
face of it, how weak and insignificant he
was ; and at one time despaired, and at
another was in a frenzy. The reader may
laugh; but if he has ever staked his all
on a cast, if he has ever taken up a hand
of twelve trumps only to hear the omi
nous word misdeal ! " he will find some
thing in Mr. Fishwick s attitude, neither
unnatural nor blameworthy.

XV.

DURING those stirring daj S of the earl s
illness, when, as we have said, all the
political world of England seemed to be
turning their horses heads towards the
Castle Inn, it came to be the custom for
Julia to go every morning after breakfast
to the little bridge over the Kennet,
thence to watch the panorama of de
partures and arrivals ; and for Sir George
to join her there without excuse or ex
planation, and as if, indeed, nothing in
the world were more natural. The min
ister s illness continuing to detain all
who desired to see him from the Duke
of Grafton s parliamentary secretary to
the humblest aspirant to a Tide waiter-
ship Soane was not the only one who
had time and leisure on his hands ; nor
the only one who sought to while it awa%-
in the company of the fair. The shades
of Preshute churchyard, which lies in the
bosom of the leafy vale, not three bow
shots from the Castle Inn, formed the
chosen haunt of one couple. A second pair
favored a .seat situate on the west side of
the Castle Mound, and well protected by
shrubs from the gaze of the vulgar.

THE CASTLE INN.

But these Corydons were at ease; they
basked free from care in the smiles of
their Phyllises. Soane, in his philander
ing, had to do with black care that would
be ever at his elbow ; black care that
always, when he was not with Julia, and
sometimes even while he talked to her,
would jog his thoughts and draw a veil
before his face. The prospect of losing
Kstcombe, of seeing the family Lares
broken and cast out, and the family
stem, tender and young, yet not ungra
cious, snapped off short, wrung a heart
that belied his cold exterior. Moreover,
he was his own judge how far he could
without means pursue the life which he
had been living. Suspense, anxiety,
sordid calculation, were ever twitching
his sleeve, and would have his attention.
Was the claim a valid claim, and must it
prevail ? If it did, how was he to live,
and where, and on what? Would the
minister grant his suit for a place or a
pension ? Or might he still by one deep
night and one great hand at hazard win
back the thirty thousand guineas he had
lost in five years ?

Such qiiestions troubling him whether
he would or no, and forcing themselves
on his attention when they w T ere least wel
come, ruffled at last even the outward
composure on which he plumed himself
as a man of fashion. He would fall silent
in Julia s company ; and turning his eyes
from her, in momentary forgetfulness,
would trace patterns in the dust with his
cane, or stare by the minute together at
the quiet stream that oozed sluggishly
beneath them.

On these occasions she made no attempt
to rouse him. But when he again awoke
to the world, to the passing coach or the
gaping urchin, or the clang of the dis
tant dinner bell, he would find her con
sidering him with an enigmatical smile
that lay in the region between amuse
ment and pity, her shapely chin resting
on her hand, and the lace falling back
from the whitest wrist in the world. One
day the smile lasted so long, was so
strange and dubious and so full of a
weird intelligence, that it chilled him ;
it crept to his bones, disconcerted him,
and set him wondering. The tineas}
questions that had haunted him at first,
recurred. Why was this girl so facile

who seemed so proud, whose full lips
curved so naturally ? Was she really
won, or was she only playing with him
with some hidden motive ? The notion
was not flattering to his vanity ; and in
any other case he would have given him
self credit for conquest. But he had dis
covered that this girl was not as other
girls; and then, that puzzling smile?
He had surprised it half a dozen times
before.

What is it ? " he said abruptly, de
termined to clear up the matter.

"What? " she asked, in apparent in
nocence. But he saw that she under
stood .

" What does that smile mean, Pulcher-
rima ?

Only that I was reading your
thoughts, Sir George," she answered.
And they were not of me.

"Impossible!" he said. "I vow,

Julia

"Don t vow, " she answered quickly.
" or when you vow some other time I
shall not be able to believe you ! You
were not thinking of me, but of your
house, and the avenue of which you told
me, and the trees, and the river in which
you used to fish. You were wondering
to whom they would go, and who would
possess them, and who would be born in
the room in which you were born, and
who would die in the room in whicli
your father died."

" You are a witch ! "he said.
"Thank you," she answered, looking
gravely over her fan. " Last time you
said, Confound the girl ! It is clear
that I am improving your manners, Sir
George. You are now so polite that pres
ently you will consult me. "

So she could read his thoughts ! Could
deliberately set him on the rack ! Could
perceive when pain, and not irritation,
underlay the oath or the compliment. He
was always discovering something new in
her, something that piqued his curiosity
and kept him amused. "Suppose I con
sult you now ? " he said.

She swung her fan to and fro, playing
with it childishly, looking at the light
through it and again dropping it. "As
your highness pleases," she said at last.
"Only I warn 3-011 that 1 am not the
Bottle Conjurer. "

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

No, for 3 ou are here, and he was not
there," Sir George answered, affecting
to speak lightly; "but tell me, what
shall I do in this case ? A claim is made
against me. "

"The bomb?" she said "that burst,
Sir George ?

"The same. Well, shall I resist it,
or shall I yield to it? "

She tossed up her fan and caught it
deftly, and looked to him for admiration.
Then, " It depends, " she said. " Is it a
large claim ?"

" It is a claim for all I have, he an
swered. It was the first time he had
confessed that to any one ; except to him
self in the night watches.

If he thought to touch her, he suc
ceeded. If he had thought her unfeel
ing before, he did so no longer. She
was red one minute and pale the next,
and the tears came into her eyes. Oh,
she cried, "you should not have told
me! Oh, why did you tell me? " And
she rose hurriedly, as if to leave him,
and then sat down again, the fan quiver
ing in her hand.

But j ou said you would advise me.

" I ? Oh, no, no, no ! " she cried, with
abandon.

But j ou must ! " he persisted, more
deeply moved than he would show. " It
is a simple question, shall I fight or shall
I yield? "

" Fight or yield ? " she said, her voice
broken by agitation. "Shall you fight
or yield ? You ask me ?

"Yes."

" Then, fight ! Fight ! " she answered,
with astonishing emotion. She rose
again to her feet, and again sat down.
Fight them to the last, Sir George !
Let the creatures have nothing ! Not a
penny ! Not an acre ! "

" But if it is a righteous claim ? " he
said, amazed at her excitement.

Righteous ? she cried passionately.
How can a claim be righteous that takes
all a man has ? "

He nodded and studied the road a while
in silence, reflecting on her words and the
strange fervor she had thrown into them.
At the end of that time he was surprised
to hear her laugh. He looked up sharply
to learn the reason feeling hurt, as was
natural and was astounded to find her

smiling at him as lightly and gaily as if
nothing had occurred to interrupt her
most whimsical mood. As if the ques
tion he had put to her had never been
put or were a farce, a jest, a mere pas
time !

There, Sir George, she said, how
silly you must think me to proffer you
advice. Do you forgive me ?

"I forgive you that," Sir George an
swered ; but, poor fellow, he winced
under her sudden change of tone.

"That is well," she said. "There
again, do you know you would not have
said that a week ago ? I have certainly
improved your manners. "

Sir George made an effort to answer
her in the same strain. "Well, I should
improve, " he said. " I come very regu
larly to school. Do you know how
many days we have sat here, ma belle ? "

A faint color tinged her cheek. " If I
do not, that dreadful Mr. Thomasson
does, she answered. I believe he
never lets me go out of his sight ; and as
for days, what are days, or even weeks,
when it is a question of reforming a
rake, Sir George? Who was it you
named tome yesterday," she continued,
speaking a little hurriedly, and with her
eyes on the toe of her shoe, which pro
jected from her dress, who carried the
gentleman into the country when he had
lost I don t know how many thousand
pounds, and kept him there out of harm s
way ?

"It was Lady Carlisle," Sir George
answered drily ; and the gentleman was
her husband."

It was Julia s turn to draw figures in
the dust of the roadway, which she did
very industriously ; and the two were
silent for quite a long time, while some
one s heart bumped as if it would choke
her. At length, "He was not quite
ruined, was he ? " she said, with elabo
rate carelessness ; her voice was a little
thick perhaps by reason of the bumping.

" Lord, no ! " said Sir George. " And
I am, you see.

" While I am not your wife !" she re
torted, flashing her eyes on him sud-
denh- ; and then : "Well, perhaps if she
had her choice to be wife to a rake can
be no bed of roses, Sir George ! While
to be wife to a ruined rake perhaps to

THE CASTLE INN.

be wife to a man who, if he were not
ruined, would treat you as the dirt be
neath his feet, beneath his notice

beneath

She did not seem to be able to finish
the sentence, but rose, her face scarlet.
He rose more slowly. " Lord ! " he said
humbly, "what has come to you sud
denly ? What has made you angry with
me, child ? "

"Child!" she exclaimed. "Am I
a child ? You play with me as if I
were !

"Play with you ? " Sir George said.
He was quite taken aback by her sudden
vehemence. " My dear girl, I cannot
understand you. I am not playing with
yon. If any one is playing, it is you.
Sometimes I wonder whether you hate
me or love me. Sometimes I am happy

enough to think the one ; sometimes

"It has never struck you," she said,
interrupting him and speaking in her
harshest and most scornful tone, " that I
may do neither the one nor the other?
But be pleased to kill my time with you,
since I must stay here until my lawyer
has done his business !"

Oh ! said Soane, staring at the angry

beauty, " if that be all "

" That is all !" she cried.
He bowed gravely. " Then, I am glad
that I have been of use to you. "

" Thank you, " she said drily. " I am
going into the house now. I need not
trouble you. "

And she swept him a curtsy and
turned and sailed away, the picture of
disdain. But when her face was safe
from his gaze, and he could no longer see
them, her eyes filled with tears of vexa
tion ; she had to bite her trembling lip
to keep them back. Presently she
slackened her speed and almost stopped,
then hurried on when she thought that
she heard him following ; but he did not
overtake her,, and Julia s step grew
slow again, and slower, until she reached
the portico.

Between love and pride, hope and shame,
she had a hard fight ; but happily a coach
was unloading, and she stood and feigned
interest in the passengers. Two young
fellows fresh from Bath took fire at IKT
eyes ; but one who stared too markedly
she withered with a look, and, if the

truth is to be told, her fingers tingled for
his ears. Her own were on the alert,
directed backwards. Would he never
come ? Was he really so simple, so
abominably stupid, so little versed in
woman s ways? Or was he really play
ing with her ? Perhaps he had gone into
the town, or trudged up the Salisbury
road ; and if so, and she did not see him
now, she might not meet him until the next
morning ; and who could say what might
not happen in the interval ? True, he had
promised that he would not leave Marl-
borough without seeing her ; but things
had altered between them since then. -

At last at last, when she felt that her
pride would allow her to stay no longer,
and she was on the point of going in the
sound of his step cut short her miser}-.
She waited, her heart beating quickly, to
hear his voice at her elbow. But whether
he did not see her he walked like a man
heavy with thought or purposely averted
his eyes, he went by her. He passed
through the little bustle about the coach,
and was in the act of disappearing
through the entrance when she hurried
after him and called his name.

He turned, between the pillars, and saw
her. " A word with you, if you please, "
she said. Her tone was icy, her manner
freezing.

Sir George bowed. " This way, if you
please," she coniinued imperiously, and
preceded him across the hall and through
the opposite door and down the steps to
the gardens. Nor did she pau.se or look
at him until the} were half way across
the lawn ; then she turned, and with a
perfect change of face and manner, smil
ing divinely, she held out her hand.

" You have come to beg my pardon, I
hope?" she said winningly.

The smile she bestowed on him was an
April smile, the brighter for the tears
that lurked behind it ; but Soane did not
know that, nor, had he known it, would
it have availed him. He was utterly
dazzled, conquered, subjugated by her
beauty. "Willingly," he said. "But
lor what ?

" Oh, for everything !" she answered,
with supreme assurance.

"I ask your divinity s pardon for
everything," he said, gazing at her, his
eves betravin&lt;r his feelin&lt;rs.

6 4

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

" It is granted, she answered. And
I shall see you tomorrow, Sir George?"

"Tomorrow?" he said. "Alas, no.
I shall be away tomorrow. "

He had eyes, and the startling fashion
in which the light died out of her face
and left it gray and colorless was not lost
on him. But her voice remained steady,
almost indifferent. "Oh!" she said,
"you are going?" And she raised her
eyebrows.

" Yes, " he answered ; "I have to go
to Estcombe.

She tried to force a laugh, but failed.
And you do not return ? We shall not
vSee you again ?" she said.

"It lies with you," he answered
slowly. "I am returning tomorrow eve
ning by the Bath road. Will j ou come
and meet me, Julia say, as far as the
Manton Turning ? I shall be there a little
after five. If you come I shall know that,
notwithstanding your hard words, you
will take in hand the reforming of a rake
and a ruined rake, Julia. If you will
not

He hesitated. She had to turn away
her head that he might not see the light
that had returned to her eyes. "Well,
what then ? " she said softly.

" I do not know. "

But L,ady Carlisle was his wife, she
whispered, with a swift sidelong shot
from eyes instantly averted. " And you
remember what you said to me at Oxford
that if I were a lady you would make me
your wife ? I am not a lady, Sir George. "

" I did not say that, " Sir George an
swered quickly.

No ? What, then ?

" You know very well, " he answered.

All of her cheek and neck that he
could see turned scarlet. " Well, at any
rate, she said, are you sure now that
you were talking, not to Clarissa, but to
Pamela? "

I am talking to neither, madam, he
answered manfully. He stood erect, his
hat in his hand ; they were almost of a
height. " I am talking to the most beau
tiful woman in the world," he .said,
whom I also believe to be the most vir
tuous, and whom I hope to make my
wife. Shall it be so, Julia ?

She was trembling excessively, and she
used her fan. " I I will tell you to

morrow, " she murmured breathlessly,
at Manton Corner.

And she fled from him into the house,
deaf, as she passed through the hall, to
the clatter of dishes and the cries of the
waiters ; for she had the singing of larks
in her ears, and her heart rose on the
throb of the song until she felt that she
must either cr} or die of very happi
ness.

XVI.

I BELIEVE; that Sir George, riding
soberly to Estcombe in the morning,
was not guiltless of looking back in spirit.
Probably there are few men who, when
the binding word has been said, and the
final step taken, do not feel a revulsion of
mind, and for a moment question the wis
dom of their choice. A more beautiful
wife he could not wish ; she was fair of
face and faultless in shape, as beautiful
as a Churchill or a Gunning. And in all
honesty, and in spite of the advances she
had made to him, he believed to be good
and virtuous. But her birth, her quality,
or rather her lack of quality, her connec
tions, all were things to cry him pause,
to bid him reflect ; until the thought,
mean and unworthy, but not unnatural
that he was ruined, and what did it mat
ter whom he wedded ? came to him, and
he touched his horse with the spur, and
cantered on, by down and clump, by Ave-
bury, and Yatesbury, and Compton Bas-
sett, until he came to his home.

Returning in the afternoon, sad at
starting, but less sad with every mile that
separated him from the old place to which
he had bidden farewell in his heart and
which, much as he prized it now, he had
not visited twice a year while it was his
it was another matter. He thought
little of the future ; of the past not at all.
The present was all sufficient for him.
In an hour, in half an hour, in ten
minutes, he would see her, would hold
her hands in his, would hear her say that
she loved him, would look unreproved
into the depths of her proud eyes, would
see them sink before his. Not a regret
now for White s ! Or the gaming table !
Or the masquerades ! Gone the blase in
souciance of St. James . The whole man
was set on his mistress. Ruined, he had

THK CASTU* INN.

naught but her to look forward to, and
he hungered for her. He cantered
through Avebury, six miles short of
Marlborough, and saw not one house ;
through West Kennet, where his shadow
went long and thin before him ; through
Fyfield, where he well nigh ran into a
postchaise which seemed to be in as great
a hurry to go west as he was to go east ;
under the Devil s Den, and by Clatford
cross lanes ; nor drew rein until as the
sun sank finally behind him, leaving the
downs cold and gray he came in sight
of Manton Corner.

Then, that no look of shy happiness,
no downward quiver of the maiden eye
lids, might be lost for the morsel, now it
was within his grasp, was one to linger
over, and dwell on lovingly Sir George,
his own eyes shining with eagerness,
walked his horse slowly forward, his gaze
greedily seeking the flutter of her kerchief
or the welcome of her hand. Would she
be at the meeting of the roads shrinking
aside behind the bend, her eyes laughing
to greet him ? No*; he saw as he drew
nearer that she was not there. Then he
knew where she would be ; she would be
waiting for him on the foot bridge in the
lane, fifty yards off the high road, yet
within sight of it. She would have her
lover come so far to win her. The sub
tlety was like her and pleased him.

But she was not there, nor was she to
be seen in the lane beyond the bridge,
for this ran down a gentle slope until it
plunged, still under his eyes, among the
thatched roofs and quaint cottages of the
village, whence the smoke of the evening
meal rose blue among the trees. Soane s
eyes returned to the main road ; he ex
pected to hear her laugh, and see her
emerge at his elbow. But the length of
the highway lay empty before and empty
behind, and all was silent. He began to
look blank. A solitary house stood in
the obtuse angle formed by Manton Lane
and the road ; he scrutinized it. The big
doors leading to the stable yard it had
been an inn, but was unoccupied were
ajar ; but he looked in and she was not
there, though he noted that horses had
stood there lately. For the rest, the
house was closed and shuttered as he had
seen it that morning and every day for
days past.

Was it possible that she had changed
her mind ? That she had played or was
playing him false? His heart said no.
Nevertheless, he felt a chill and a
degree of disillusion as he rode down the
lane to the foot bridge, and over it and on
as far as the first house of the village.
Still he saw nothing of her, and he
turned. But riding back, his search was
rewarded by a discovery. Beside the
ditch, close to the corner where the road
and lane met, and lying in such a posi
tion that it was not visible from the
highway, but only from the lower ground
of the lane, lay a plain black fan.

Sir George sprang down, picked it up,
and saw that it was hers ; and, still pos
sessed by the idea that she was playing
him a trick, he kissed it and looked
sharply round, hoping to detect her.
Without result ; and then at last he
began to feel real misgiving. The road
under the downs w r as growing dim and
shadowy ; the ten minutes he had lin
gered had stolen away the warmth and
color of the day. The camps and tree
clumps stood black on the hills, the
blacker for the creeping mist that
stole along the river where he stood. In
another ten minutes night would fall in
the valle} r . Sir George, his heart sinking
under those vague and apparently foolish
alarms which are among the penalties of
affection, hurriedly mounted his horse,
stood in his stirrups, and called, "Julia!
Julia!" not loudly, but so that if she
were within fifty yards of him she must
hear.

He listened. His ear caught a confused
medley of voices in the direction of Marl-
borough ; but only the empty house,
echoing "Julia!" answered him. Not
that he waited long for an answer ; some
thing in the dreary aspect of everything
struck so cold to his heart that, touching
his horse with the spur, he dashed off at
a hand gallop, and, meeting the Bristol
night wagon beyond the bend of the road,
was by it in a second. Nevertheless, the
bells ringing on the horses necks, the
cracking whips, the tilt lurching white-
through the dusk, reassured him. Re
ducing his pace, and a little ashamed of
his fears, he entered the inn grounds b}-
the stable entrance, threw his reins to a
man who seemed to have something to

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

say, but did not say it and walked off to
the porch. He had been a fool to enter
tain such fears ; in a minute he would see
Julia.

As he approached it he might have seen
had he looked that way half a dozen
men on foot and horseback bustling out
with lanterns through the great gates.
Their voices reached him, but, immersed
in thinking w r here he should find Julia,
and what he should say to her, he crossed
the roadway without heeding a commo
tion which in such a place was not un
usual. On the contrary, the long lighted
front of the house, the hum of life that
rose from it, the sharp voices of a knot
of men who stood a little on one side,
arguing eagerly and all at once, con
tributed to dissipate such of his fears as
the pace of his horse had left. Beyond
doubt Julia, finding herself in solitude,
had grown alarmed and had returned,
fancying him late ; perhaps pouting be
cause he had not forestalled the time.

But the moment he passed through the
doorway his ear caught that buzz of
excited voices, raised in all parts and in
every key, that betokens disaster. And,
with a sudden chill at his heart as of a
cold hand gripping it, he stood and
looked down the hall. It was well per
haps that he had that moment of prepara
tion, those few seconds in which to steady
himself, before the full sense of what had
happened struck him.

The lighted hall was thronged and in
an uproar. A busy place, of much com
ing and going, it ever was. Now the
floor was crowded in every part with two
or three score persons all speaking,
gesticulating, advising at once. Here a
dozen men were proving something ;
there another group were controverting
it ; while twice as many listened, wide
eyed and opened mouthed, or in their turn
dashed into the babel. That something
very serious had happened Sir George
could not doubt. Once he caught the
name of the minister, and the statement
til at he was worse ; and fancied that th.it
was it. But the next moment the speaker
added, " Oh, he cannot be told ! He is
not to be told ! The doctor has gone to
him it is to be kept from him ! I tell
you he is worse today ! And this, giving
the lie to that idea, revived his fears.

His eyes passed quickly over the crowd,
he looked everywhere for Julia ; he found
her nowhere. He touched the nearest
man on the arm, and asked him what
had happened.

The person he addressed had not tiifte
to reply before an agitated figure, wig
awry, cravat loosened, eyes staring, forced
itself through the crowd, and, flinging
itself on Sir George, clutched him by the
lapels of his coat. It was Mr. Fishwick
but Mr. Fishwick transfigured by a great
fright, his face gray, his cheeks trem
bling. For a moment, such was his
excitement, he could not speak ; then
"Where is she?" he stuttered, almost
shaking Sir George on his feet. What
have you done with her, you villain ? "

Soane, cruel misgivings at his heart,
was in no patient mood. In a blaze of
passion he flung the attorney from him
You madman ! " he said. What idiocy
is this ?

Mr. Fishwick fell heavily against a
stout gentleman in splashed boots and an
old fashioned ramilie who, fortunately
for him, blocked the way to the hall.
Kven so the shock was no light one.
But breathless and giddy as he was, the
lawyer returned instantly to the charge.
"I denounce } T OU ! " he cried furiously.
" I denounce this man ! You and you, "
he continued, appealing with raised hands
to those next him, " mark what I say !
She is the claimant to his estates estates
he holds on sufferance ! Tomorrow justice
would have been done, and tonight he
has kidnaped her ! All he has is hers,
I tell you, and he has kidnaped her. I
denounce him ! I "

"What bedlam stuff is this?" Sir
George cried hoarsely ; and he looked
round the ring of curious starers, the
sweat standing on his brow. Every e3 7 e
in the hall was upon him, and there was
a great silence ; for the accusation which
the lawyer spoke out had been buzzed
and bruited since the first cry of alarm
roused the house. What stuff is this ?
he repeated, his head giddy with the
sense of that which Mr. Fishwick had
said. Who who is it has been kid
naped ? Speak ! Curse you, will no
one speak ?

" Your cousin ! " the lawyer answered.
" Your cousin, who claims

THE CASTLE INN.

"Softly, man, softly, " said the land
lord, coming forward and laying his hand
on the lawyer s shoulder ; " and we
shall the sooner know what to do. Briefly,
Sir George, the young lady who has been
in your company the last day or two was
seized and carried off in a postchaise half
an hour ago, as I am told maybe a little
more. From Manton Corner. For the
rest, which this gentleman says, about
who she is and her claim which it does not
seem to me can be true and you not know
it it is all news to me. But, as I under
stand it, Sir George, he alleges that the
young lady who has disappeared lays
claim to your honor s estate at Est-
combe. "

At Estcombe ?

" Yes, sir. "

Sir George did not speak again, but he
stood staring at the man, his mind trans
fixed by two thoughts. The first that
this was the solution of the many
things that had puzzled him in Julia !
This the explanation of her sudden amia
bility, her new born forwardness, the
mysterious fortune into which she had
come ; aye, and of her education and
her strange past. She was his cousin,
the unknown claimant ! She was his
cousin, and

He awoke with a start, pierced by the
second thought hard following on the
first. From Manton Corner ? " he
cried, his voice sharp, his eye terrible.
" Who saw it ? "

"One of the servants," the landlord
answered, who had gone to the top of
the mound to clean the mirrors in the
summer house. Here, you," he con
tinued, beckoning to a man who limped
forward reluctantly from one of the side
passages in which he had been standing,
show yourself, and tell this gentleman
the story you told me. "

" If it please your honor, the fellow
whimpered, "it is no fault of mine. I
ran down to give the alarm as soon as I
saw what was doing they were forcing
her into the carriage then but I was in
such a hurry I fell and rolled to the bot
tom of the mound, and was that dazed
and shaken it was five minutes before I
could find any one. "

" How many were there ? "Sir George
asked. There was an ugly light in his

eyes and his cheeks burned ; but he spoke
with calmness.

Two I saw, and there may have been
more. The chaise had been waiting in
the yard of the empty house at the corner,
the old Nag s Head. I saw it come out.
That was the first thing I did see. And
then the lady."

" Did she seem to be unwilling? " the
man in the ramilie asked. "Did she
scream ?

"Aye, she screamed right enough,"
the fellow answered lurnpishly. " I
heard her, though the noise came faint-
like. It is a good distance, your honor 11
mind, and some would not have seen
what I saw. "

And she struggled ?

" Aye, sir, she did. They were having
a business with her when I left, I can tell
you. "

The picture was too much for Sir
George, and he gripped the landlord s
shoulder so fiercely that Smith winced
and cried out. And you have heard
this man," he said, "and you chatter
here ! Fools ! This is no matter for
words, but for horses and pistols ! Get
me a horse and pistols. And tell my
servant. Are you so many dolls ?
Damn you, sir " this to Mr. Fishwick
get out of my way T "

XVII.

MR. FISHWICK, who had stepped for
ward with a vague notion of detaining
him, fell back. For the rest, Sir George s
stern aspect, which bore witness to the
passions that raged in a heart at that
moment cruelly divided, did not encour
age interference ; and, though one or two
muttered, no one moved. There is little
doubt that he would have passed out
without more delay, mounted, and gone
in pursuit with what result in the direc
tion of altering the issue, it is impossible
to state if an obstacle had not been cast
in his way by an unexpected hand.

In every crowd, the old proverb has it,
there is a knave and a fool. Between Sir
George, bursting with passion and wrath,
and the door by which he had entered
and to which he turned, stood Lady Dun-
borough. Her ladyship had been one of
the first to hear the news and to take the

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

alarm. Moreover, it is safe to say that
for obvious reasons and setting aside
Mrs. Masterson, the lawyer, and Sir
George she had been, of all present, the
one most powerfully affected by the news
of the outrage. But she had succeeded
in concealing alike her fears and her in
terest ; she had exclaimed with others
neither more nor less ; had hinted, in
common with three fourths of the ladies
present, that the minx s cries were forced,
and her bonne fortune sufficiently to her
mind ; in a word, she had comported
herself so fitly that if there was one per
son in the hall whose opinion was likely
to carry weight, as being coolly and im
partially formed, it was her ladyship s.

When .she stepped forward, therefore,
and threw herself between Sir George and
the door still more when, with an in
trepid gesture, she cried, " Stay, sir ; we
have not done with you yet ! there was
a sensation. As the crowd pressed up to
see and hear what passed, her accusing
finger pointed steadily to Sir George s
breast. " What is that you have there? "
she continued. "That which peeps from
your breast pocket? "

Sir George, who, furious and bursting
with impatience, could go no farther
without coming in contact with her lady
ship, smothered an oath. "Madam," he
said, " let me pass ! "

" Not until you explain how you came
"by that fan," she answered sturdily, and
held her ground.

"Fan?" he cried savagely. "What
fan ? "

The passions that had swept through
his mind during the last few minutes, the
discovery he had made, the flood of love
and pity that would let him think of
nothing but the girl the girl carried off
screaming and helpless, a pre} r to he
knew not whom these things left scant
room in his mind for trifles. He had
clean forgotten the fan ; but the crowd
gave him no credit for this, and some
murmured and some exchanged glances
when he asked, " What fan ? " Still more
when my lady rejoined, " The fan in your
breast, " and he drew it out and all saw
it, was there an evident and general feel
ing against him.

Utterly heedless of this, he stared at
the fan with grief stricken eves. " I

picked it up in the road," he muttered,
as much to himself as to them.

" It is hers ?

"Yes," he said, holding it reverently.
" She must have dropped it in the
struggle!" And then, " My God ! " he
continued fiercely, the sight of the fan
bringing all more vividly before him.
" Let me pass, or I shall be doing some
one a mischief! Madam, let me pass, I
say !

His tone was such that any ordinary
woman must have given way to him. But
the viscountess had her reasons for being
stanch. "No," .she said stoutly; "not
until these gentlemen have heard more.
You have her fan, which she took out an
hour ago. She went to meet you that
we know from this person, " she indicated
Mr. Fishwick " and to meet you at your
request ; at sunset, at the corner of Man-
ton Lane. And what is the upshot ? At
that corner at sunset persons and a car
riage were waiting to carry her off. Who
else knew, that she would be there ?
Lady Dunborough continued, with force.
" Who beside you knew the time ? And
all that being so, as soon as they are
safely away with her, you walk in here
with an innocent face and her fan in your
pocket, and know naught about it ! For
shame ! For shame, Sir George ! You
will have us think we see the bottle
trick next. For my part, " her ladyship
continued, I would as soon believe the
rabbit woman ! "

"Let me pass, madam," Sir George
cried, between his teeth. "If you were
not a woman "

" You would do something dreadful,"
Lady Dunborough answered mockingly,
and kept her place. Nevertheless, I
shall be much mistaken, sir, if some of
these gentlemen have not a word to say
in the matter. "

Her ladyship s glance fell on the stout,
red faced gentleman, in the splashed boots
and ramilie, who had asked two questions
of the servant, and who, to judge by the
attention with which he had followed my
lady s words, was not proof against the
charm which invests a viscountess. If
she looked at him with intention, she
reckoned well ; for as neatly as if the
matter had been concerted between them
he stepped forward and took up the ball.

THE CASTLE INN.

" Sir George, " he .said, puffing out his
cheeks, " I I am sorry to interfere, but
you know me, and what my position is
on the Rota. And I do not think I can
stand by any longer which might be
adhczrere culpas. This is a serious case,
and I doubt I shall not be justified in
allowing you to depart without some
more definite explanation. Abduction,
you know, is not bailable. You are a
justice yourself, Sir George, and must
know that. If this person, therefore, who
I understand is an attorney, desires to
lay a sworn information, I must take it.

"In heaven s name, sir," Sir George
cried desperately, "take it take what
you please, but let me take the road !"

"H m! That is what I doubt, sir, I
cannot do. Mark you, there is motive,
Sir George. And presentia in loco, 1 1 the
justice continued, swelling with his own
learning. "And you have a partem
delicti on you. And, moreover, abduction
is a special kind of case, seeing that if
\.}\o. participes criminis are free the femme
sole, sometimes called the femina capta,
is in greater danger. In fact, it is a con
tinuing crime. An information being
sworn, therefore "

"It has not been sworn yet," Sir
George retorted fiercely, and I warn
you that any one who lays a hand on me
shall rue it. God, man !" he continued,
horror in his voice, " cannot you under
stand that while you prate here they are
carrying her off, and that time is every
thing ? "

Some persons have gone in pursuit,
the landlord answered soothingly.

"Just so, some persons have gone in
pursuit, " the justice echoed, with satis
faction ; " and you could do no more
than they can do. Besides, Sir George,
the law must be obeyed. The sole
point is " he turned to Mr. Fishwick,
who through all had stood by, his face
distorted by grief and perplexity "do
you wish, sir, to swear the information ? "

Mrs. Masterson had fainted at the first
alarm, and been carried to her room.
Apart from her, it is probable that, of all
who had any connection with the matter,
only Sir George and Mr. Fishwick really
entered into the horror of the girl s posi
tion, realized the possible value of
minutes, or felt genuine and poignant

grief at what had occurred. On the de
cision of one of these two the freedom of
the other now depended; and the con
clusion seemed foregone. Ten minutes
earlier Mr. Fishwick, carried away by the
first sight of Sir George, and by the rage
of an honest man who saw a helpless
woman ruined, had been violent enough ;
and Soane s possession of the fan not
then known to him was calculated to
corroborate his suspicions and surmises.
The justice, therefore, in appealing to him
felt sure of support ; and was the more
astonished when Mr. Fishwick, in place
of assenting on the instant, passed his
hand across his brow and stared at the
speaker as if he had suddenly lost the
power of speech.

In truth, the lawyer, harried by the ex
pectant gaze of the room and the justice s
impatient eyes, was divided between a
natural generosity, which was one of his
oddities, and a suspicion born of his pro
fession. He liked Sir George ; his
smaller manhood went out in admiration
to the other s splendid nonchalance. On
the other hand, he had viewed Soane s
approaches to his client with misgiving.
He had scented a trap here and a bait
there ; and a dozen times, when dwelling
on Dr. Addington s postponements and
delays, had been hurried into suspecting
the two of collusive and even of cold
drawn chicanery. Between these feelings
he had now to decide, and to decide in
such a tumult of anxiety and dismay as
almost deprived him of the power to think.

On the one hand, the evidence and in
ferences against Sir George pressed him
strongly ; on the other, he had seen
enough of the futile haste of the hostlers
and stable helps, who had gone in pur
suit, to hope little from them ; while
from Sir George, were he honest, every
thing might be expected. In his final
decision we may believe what he said
afterwards that he was determined by
neither of these considerations, but by
his old dislike of Lady Dunborough ! For
after a long silence, during which he
seemed to be a dozen times on the point
of speaking and as often disappointed his
audience, he announced his determina
tion in that sense. " No, sir, I I will
not, " he said : "or rather I will not on
a condition. "

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

"Condition! " the justice growled, in
supreme disgust.

"Yes," said the lawyer stanchly :
" that Sir George, if he be going, as I
understand, in pursuit of them, permit
me to go. I I can ride ; or, at least, I can
sit on a horse," Mr. Fishwick continued
bravely ; " and I am ready to go. "

"Oh, la!" said Lady Dunborough,
spitting on the floor for there were ladies
did such things in those days. " I think
they are all in it together. And the fair
cousin, too! Cousin be hanged!" she
added, with a shrill, ill natured laugh.
I have heard that before.

But Sir George took no notice of her
words. " Come if you please," he cried
curtly, addressing the lawyer ; " but I do
not wait for you. And now, madam, if
your interference is at an end

" And what if it is not ? " she cried, in
solently grimacing in his face. She had
gained half an hour, and it might save
her son. To persist farther might betray
him; yet she was loth to give way.
" What if it is not ? " she repeated.

"I go out by the other door," Sir
George answered promptly ; and siiiting
the action to the word he turned on his
heel, strode through the crowd, which
subserviently made way for him, and in a
twinkling was gone through the garden
door, with Mr. Fishwick, hat in hand,
hurrying at his heels.

The moment they were gone, the babel,
suppressed while the excitement lasted,
rose again loud as before. It is not every
day that the busiest inn or the most ex
perienced traveler has to do with an
elopement, to say nothing of an abduc
tion. While a large section of the ladies,
seated together in a corner, teehee d and
tossed their heads, sneered at miss and
her screams and struggles, and warranted
she knew all about it and had her jacket
and night rail in her pocket, another
party laid all to Sir George, swore by
the viscountess, and quoted the masked
uncle who made away with his nephew
to get his estate. One or two, indeed,
and if the chronicler is to be candid, one
or two only, out of as many scores, proved
that they possessed both charity and im
agination. These sat apart, scared by
their thoughts, or stared with set C3 7 es
and flushed faces on the picture they

would fain have avoided. But they were
young and had seen little of the world.

On their part, the men talked fast and
loud, at one time laughed and at another
dropped a curse their form of pity ;
quoted the route and the inns, and
weighed the chances of Chippenham or
Bath, Bristol or Salisbury ; vaguely sug
gested highwaymen an old lover Mrs.
Comely s "ballet ; and finally trooped out
to stand in the road and listen, question
the passers by, and hear what the parish
constable had to say of it. All except
one very old man, who kept his seat and
from time to time muttered, " Lord, what
a shape she had ! What a shape ! " until
he dissolved in maudlin tears.

And all this time a woman lay up
stairs, tossing in passionate grie f , and
tended by servants who, more pitiful
than their mistresses, stole to her to
comfort her ; and three men rode hard
along the western road.

XVIII.

THE attorney was brave with a coward s
great bravery : he was afraid, but he went
on. As he climbed into his saddle in the
stable yard, the muttering hostlers stand
ing round and the yellow flaring light of
the lanthorns stretching fingers into the
darkness, he could have wept over him
self. Beyond the gates and the imme
diate bustle of the yard lay night, the
road, and dimly guessed violences, the
meeting of man with man, the rush to
grips under some dark wood, or where the
moonlight fell cold on the heath. The
prospect terrified ; at the mere thought
the lawyer dropped the reins and nerv
ously gathered them again. And he had
another fear, and one more immediate.
He was no horseman, and he trembled
lest Sir George, the moment the gates
were passed, should go oft" at a reckless
gallop. Already he felt his horse heave
and sidle under him in a fashion that
brought his heart into his mouth ; and he
was fain to cry for quarter. But the ab
surdity of such a request, when time was
everything, the Journey black earnest,
and its issue life and death, struck him
and heroically he closed his mouth. Yet,
at the very remembrance that these things
wer^so, he fell into a fresh panic.

THE CASTLE INN.

However, there was to be no galloping
yet. When all were up, Sir George took
a lanthorn from the head hostler, and,
bidding one of the men run at his stirrup,
led the way into the road, where he fell
into a sharp trot, the other two following.
The attorney bumped in his saddle, but
kept his stirrups, and gradually found
his hands and eyesight. The pace soon
brought them to Manton Corner and the
empty house, where Sir George pulled up
and dismounted. Giving his reins to the
stable boy, he thrust open the doors of the
yard and entered, holding up his lanthorn,
his spurs clinking on the stones and his
skirts swaying.

"But she they cannot be here?" the
lawyer ejaculated, his teeth still chatter
ing.

Sir George, busy stooping and peering
about the yard, which was grass grown
and surrounded by walls, made no answer,
and the other two, as well as Mr. Fish-
wick, wondered what he would be at.
But in a moment they knew. Soane
stooped, and took up a small object,
smelled it, and held it out to them.
" What is that?" he asked curtly.

The stable man who was holding his
horse stared at it. " Negro head, your
honor, he said. " It is sailors tobacco.

"Who uses it about here?"

" Nobody, to my knowing. "

" They are from Bristol, then," Soane
answered ; and then Get on ! " he con
tinued impatiently, addressing the other
two, who blocked the gateway ; and
springing into his saddle he pressed his
horse between them, his stirrups dan
gling. He turned .sharp to the left, and,
leaving the stable man staring after them,
the lanthorn swaying in his hand, led tlue
way westward at the same steady trot.

The chase had begun. More than that,
Mr. Fishwick was beginning to feel the
excitement of it ; the ring of the horses
shoes on the hard road, the rush of the
night air past his ears exhilarated him.
He began to feel confidence in his leader,
and confidence breeds courage. Bristol ?
Then, Bristol let it be. And then on top
of this, his spirits being more composed,
came a rush of rage and indignation at
thought of the girl. The lawyer clutched
his whip and, reckless of consequences,
dug his heels into his horse, and for the

moment, in the heat of his wrath, longed
to be up with the villains, to strike a
blow at them. If his courage lasted, Mr.
Fishwick might show them a man yet
when the time came !

Trot trot, trot trot, through the dark
ness under the stars, the trees black
masses that shot up beside them and
vanished as soon as seen ; the downs,
gray, misty outlines that continually
fenced them in and went with them ; and
always in the van Sir George, a grim,
silent shape with face set immovably for
ward. They worked up Fyfield hill, and
thence, looking back, bade farewell to the
faint light that hung above Marlborough.
Dropping into the bottom they cantered
over the wooden bridge, and by Overton
steeple a dim outline on the left and
after passing Avebury hill eased their
horses through Little Kennet. Gather
ing speed again, they swept through
Beckampton village, where the Bath road
falls off to the left, and, breasting the
high downs towards Yatesbury, trotted
on to Cheril.

Here on the hills the sky hung low
overhead, and the wind, sweeping chill
and drear across the upland, was full of
a melancholy soughing. The world, it
seemed to one of them, was uncreate,
gone, and 11011 existent ; and only this re
mained the shadowy downs stretching
on every side to infinity, and the shadowy
riders plodding across them ; all shad
owy, all unreal, until a bell wether got
up under the horses heads, and with a
confused rush and scurry of feet a hun
dred Southdowns scampered into the
gray unknown.

Mr. Fishwick found it all terrible,
rugged, wild, a night foray. His heart
began to sink again. He was sore, too,
sweating, and fit to drop from his saddle
with the unwonted exertion.

And what of Sir George, hurled sud
denly out of his age and world the age
des philosophcs, and the smooth world of
White s and St. James insouciance, and
Lord March into this quagmire of feel
ing, this night among the Wiltshire
Downs ? A few hours earlier he had
ridden the same road, and the prize he
now stood in danger of losing had seemed
to him God forgive him ! of doubtful
value. Now as he thought of her his

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

heart melted in a fire of love and pity ;
of love that conjured up a thousand
pictures of her eyes, her lips, her smile,
her shape all presently dashtd by night
and reality ; of pity that swelled his
his breast to bursting, set his eyes burn
ing and his brain throbbing and was
only allayed by the succession of rage to
its seat a rage that gave him the
strength of ten, and grew with every mile
of his solitary ride for solitary it was,
though two rode behind him.

Even so he would not allow himself to
dwell on the worst. He had formed his
opinion of the abductors and the abduc
tion ; if it proved to be correct he believed
that he should be in time to save her
from that. But from the misery of sus
pense, of fear, of humiliation, from the
outrage of rough hands, and the shame
of coarse eyes from these things, and
alone they were enough to kindle his blood
into flame, he was powerless to save her !

This being so, not even Lady Dun-
borough could now have accused him of
airs and graces. Breeding, habit, the
custom of the gaming table, the pride of
caste, availed to mask his passions under
a veil of stern reserve, but were powerless
to stem them ; nay, so set was he on the
one object of recovering his mistress and
putting an end as speedily as possible to
the state of terror in which he pictured
her ignorant what her fate would be,
and dreading the worst that he gave
hardly a thought to the discovery, the
astounding discovery, respecting her
which the lawyer had made to him. He
asked him no questions, turned to him
for no explanations. Those might come
later ; for the moment he thought not 01
his cousin, but of his mistress. The
smiles that had brightened the dull pas

sages of the inn, the figure that, dis
cernible from others at any distance, had
glorified the quiet streets, the eyes that
had now invited and now repelled these
were so many sharp thorns in his heart,
so many goads urging him onward.

It was nine when they saw the lights
of Calne below them, and trotting and
stumbling down the hill, crossed Cumber-
ford Bridge and clattered eagerly into the
town. A moment s delay in front of the
inn, where their presence and questions
speedily gathered a crowd, and they had
news of the chaise : it had passed through
the town two hours before without chang
ing horses. The canvas blinds were down,
or there were shutters ; which, the
hostler who gave them the information
could not say. But the fact that the car
riage was closed had struck him, and,
together with the omission to take fresh
horses, had awakened his suspicions.

By the time the news was told, a dozen
were round them, listening open
mouthed ; and cheered by the lights and
company Mr. Fishwick grew brave again.
But Sir George allowed no respite; in
five minutes they were clear of the houses
and riding hard for Chippenham, the
next stage on the Bristol road, Sir
George s horse cantering free, the law
yer s groaning as it bumped across Stud-
ley bridge and its rider caught the pale
gleam of the water below. On through
the village the} swept, past Brumhill
lane end, thence up the hill, where the
road branches south to Devizes, and down
the farther slope. The moon rose as they
passed the fourth mile stone out of
Calne ; another ten minutes and they
drew up, their horses panting and hang
ing their heads, in the main street of
Chippenham.

(To be continued.}

AN INSTRUMENT.

A HUMAN heart, this was the instrument
That many, dowered with cunning skill, essayed ;

Joy fingered it, and Fear above it bent,
And Sorrow her pale hands upon it laid.

Then Anger smote it, and Despondency,

And Passion swept it with his touch of flame ;

But it gave forth no wondrous melody
Till Love, the masterful musician, came.

Clinton ScollanL

THE SIX QUEENS OF HENRY VIII.

The extraordinary matrimonial adventures of the famous Tudor monarch, their interest as one
of the strangest chapters in the annals of royalty, and their influence upon the
later history of England.

T T may sound like a paradox, but the
eighth Henry of England, looked at
from one point of view, might almost be
considered a pattern of kingly morality.
He was sometimes praised as such by
saints like Cranmer. Other rulers have
left us rows of brilliant faces on their
palace walls, painted in all their blooming
beauty and insolence by the monarch s

own painters. They are pointed out as
the Duchess of This and the Marchioness
of That, the king s favorites. But when
we see the row that Henry left, they are all
wives.

As it was against the feeling of Eng
land that he should have more than one
queen at a time, he was sometimes driven
to harsh measures to make the way clear

HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

for his latest fancy ; but he always suc
ceeded.

In the midst of Henry s reign, the
French ambassador wrote home to his
king : "This is an extraordinary monarch,
in the midst of an extraordinary people, "
and without doubt he was right. In his

Elizabeth to settle Britain hard and fast
upon her present foundation.

In succeeding to his brother s place,
Henry also succeeded to his brother s wife,
Catharine of Aragon. She was the daugh
ter of the Ferdinand and Isabella who
sent Columbus on his quest, and she was

CATHARINE OF AKAGOX, HENRY S FIRST \V
Married June n, i$og. Divorced May 23, 1533.

childhood Henry was designed to be Arch
bishop of Canterbury. It is a regret to
the student of human nature that his
elder brother, Arthur, died, and left him
heir to the throne. It would have been
a spectacle in histor} to have seen Henry
v as a churchman. Had he been at its head,
the Church of England might never have
been separated from Rome, unless he had
taken a fancy to set himself up as the
English Pope, and England would prob
ably be a Roman Catholic country to this
day. And there would have been no

one of the heiresses to the wealth of the
new world. She had been married to
Arthur, the English Prince of Wales,
when he was fifteen and she sixteen, but
their marriage was of only a few months
duration . Her father had not paid down all
of her dowry, and sly old Henry VII saw
no way of keeping what he already had,
and of getting the rest, save by manning
the ten year old Prince Henry to his
brother s widow.

. At first Catharine utterly refused her
consent. But the}* kept her in England,

THE SIX QUEENS OF HENRY VIII.

and as the years went by she changed her
mind. At fifteen, Henry was six feet
four inches in height, a master of fence
and all games of prowess, and the most
magnificently attired young gentleman in
the kingdom ; and Catharine, who was
twenty two, fell in love with him. She
is probably the only woman who ever did
so, and through her affection she held
him for years. Until the day of her death
she was the only woman who ever defied
him with impunity.

She did not marry Henry until he was
eighteen, and had come to the throne.
Catharine was so beautiful that nobody
wondered at Henry s love for her, al
though she was so much his senior. Her
hair was very black, and so long that it
hung to her feet, and she wore it "at
length , " with a crown of jewels on her head ,
when she and Henry rode through Lon
don in state after their wedding. They
lived together for twenty four years, and,
while Henry was not a pattern of faith
fulness, he certainly treated the dignified,
elegant, and good queen with the respect
and honor which she demanded, until the
merry Boleyns crossed his path.

Mary Boleyn, Sir Thomas Boleyn s elder
daughter, was a favorite of Henry s long
before her younger sister came to court as
a maid of honor to the queen ; but when
the fair Anne attracted his attention, he
forgot everything else. Catharine must
be gotten rid of. As usual, the king
called in his spiritual advisers, of whom
the good Cranmer was one, and they
thought out a plan. Of course Henry s
marriage was wrong, was indeed no mar
riage, because Catharine had been his
brother s wife. That the Pope had given
a special dispensation made no difference
at all, Henry said. His conscience hurt
him. Catharine was again called Prin
cess of Wales, after being a queen for
twenty four years, and Anne Boleyn, her
maid of honor, was put into her place.

Anne was a gay and light hearted girl,
undoubtedly beautiful, with a red and
white skin, lovely eyes, and a delicately
rounded figure. But Lombroso would
have described her character without the
aid of history. On her right hand she
had a sixth finger, and here and there on
her face and neck were large moles.

At first she appears to have flouted

Henry, with the result that he completely
lost his head about her so completely
that he gave her all the state of a queen,
and even married her, before his divorce
from Catharine had been pronounced. It
is said that a fortune telling book warned
her that if she married the king she
would lose her head, but she said she did
not care. Her children would be royal, in
any case.

It is not likely that she thought of the
waning of Henry s infatuation. Yet she
was to have only three years, and they
were to be miserable enough. Elizabeth
was born, but she was not the hoped for
son. Anne dreaded Catharine, and was
jealous of the dethroned woman, who led
her dignified life still, though a prisoner,
demanding and receiving the homage due
to a queen. Her supplanter did not see
that she, in turn, had a successor in
another false maid of honor, Jane Sey
mour, until one day Anne came suddenly
into the room and found her in Henry s
arms. From that moment the young
queen knew that her end had come, but
she did not dream of the block. That
was to appear a little later.

When Henry grew tired of Anne, he
began to hate her. When Catharine died
in 1536, he shed tears, and he seems to
have felt that he might ease his conscience
for his denial of his only real wife, the
only woman who ever cared for him, by
putting her rival to a cruel death. It was
his wish to burn Anne alive, the torture
being impossible to one of her rank. She
escaped burning by admitting herself
guilty of some crime which has never been
revealed, but which was considered to
render her marriage null and void, and
Elizabeth illegitimate. It was the irony
of fate that that same Elizabeth was to
be England s greatest queen, and her
country s idol Henry s one excuse for
having lived.

Anne came to the block with courage,
while her husband waited, with the hunts
men and the hounds around him, for the
signal to tell him that she was dead ; and
then he was. off to marry Jane Seymour.

Mistress Seymour had more than a
mixture of very plebeian blood. By his
marriage to her, Henry gained one
brother in law who was grandson to a
blacksmith, and another whose name was

7 6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ANXK BOLEYX, HENRY S SECOXD WIFE.
Afarried January, 25, 1533. Beheaded May ig, 1536.

Smith. Jane was thirty six and by no
means a beaut}-, nor, if \ve may judge by
her actions before her marriage, particu
larly discreet. While Anne was in the
Tower awaiting the day of her death, Jane
Seymour was at her father s home, Wolf
Hall, makingready for her marriage, which
could not take place until her predecessor
was dead. She has been called " the fair,
discreet, and humble queen," but it
seems hardly a good description of the
woman who could make read} for a merry
wedding for which another woman s blood
was to flow. This was no girl taken cap
tive by love, but a wily woman, approach
ing middle age, influencing a man who
by over indulgences had become almost
insane.

They still point out the oak tree at
Richmond under which Henry stood to
hear the signal, and from which he started
post haste to his third wedding.

Both of Henry s daughters had been
declared illegitimate, and Jane Seymour s
children were expected to reign. When
the young Prince Edward was born, his
mother almost died, and the surgeons
asked Henry which they should save,
mother or child.

"The child, by all means," the king
answered. " There are other wives. "

But it was the christening festivities,
which rioted through Hampton Court,
that killed Jane Seymour. She was the
only one of Henry s wives who died a
queen, and it was probably luck} for her

THE SIX QUEENS OF HENRY VIII.

that she died when she did. Henry
respected her as the mother of his suc
cessor, and ordered in his will that she
should be buried in his tomb. When
George IV searched the chapel at Wind
sor for the remains of Charles II, he found

To further this marriage, Holbein was
instructed to paint the princess portrait
for the king. He succeeded so well that
Henry was quite taken with the likeness.
When poor Anne came over, it \vas seen
that a terrible mistake had been made.

JANE SEYMOUR, HENRY S THIRD WIFE.
Married Jl/ity 30, 1536. Died October 24, 1537.

her coffin by the side of Henry s gigantic
frame.

England was now divided by the old
and new religions, and each was deter
mined to find Henry a wife, because it
would probably depend upon her to say
whether or not the nation should go back
to Rome. It was suggested that a Lu
theran princess, Anne of Cleves, should be
tried. It began to appear that any queen
of Henry s was only experimental.

Henry had been accustomed to the most
accomplished beauties of the time, and
here was a plain, thick waisted, stupid
girl, whose dull face was pitted with
smallpox, who knew no language except
her own, and could neither dance, dress,
nor sing. She was a fair minded, good
woman, but good women without the
graces were of little moment to Henry.

When she came to England, he entered
her presence quite unannounced, expect-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ing to find a woman as beautiful as Anne
Boleyn and as stately as Catharine of
Aragon. His courtiers said that it was
the only time they ever saw the king
abashed. It is probable that Anne was
no less revolted than he, for Henry had
lost all his beaut}-, and was a corpulent,

But he gave her three thousand pounds
a year and a palace, and Anne, called now
the king s " adopted sister," led a fairly
merry life. She was the friend of her
stepdaughters, Mary and Elizabeth, and
when she, who had come to fix England
in the Protestant faith, came to die, it was

ANNE OF CLEVES, HENRY S FOURTH WIFE.
Married January 6, 1540. Divorced July, 1540.

unwieldy old man ; but he could express
his fury and she could not. He brought
to disgrace and the block those who had
forced this marriage upon him, and then
one day his eye chanced upon another
maid of honor, Catharine, daughter of
Lord Edmund Howard, and Anne was in
vited to go to Richmond for a change of
air. When told she was to be divorced,
she expressed pleasure for the first time
since she had come to England, and there
by still more bitterly offended Henry, who
imagined that everybody loved him.

as a Catholic. Her monument, erected
in Westminster Abbey by Mary, is the
only one that any of Henry s wives ever
had.

Catharine Howard s storj- would make
a plot for a modern novel of the sort be
loved of the morbid. It was the fashion
in that day to send girls of noble families
to some friend to be educated. Catharine,
a daughter of one of the greatest houses
in England, was sent to the old Duchess
of Norfolk, who was a woman of the most
vulgar character. Here the child fell into

THE SIX QUEENS OF HENRY VIII.

the worst company, and before she was
fifteen had become the intimate of a man
who was little better than a highwayman
and a pirate. She was in the hands of
unscrupulous men and women, and her
future was blasted long before she saw
Henry. She grew up to hate her early

king had a memorial drawn up, thanking
heaven for so good a wife. The very next
day Cranmer handed the king a full
statement of all the queen s crimes before
she became his wife.

Catharine, being a Howard, was a
Catholic as the Duke of Norfolk the

CATHARINE HOWARD, HENRY S FIFTH WIFE.
Married July 28, 1540. Beheaded February 12, 1542.

life, but she had put herself in the power
of these people.

For the first six months after her mar
riage, she and Henry lived very quietly.
Every day the king grew to love her more
devotedly. She was beautiful, gentle,
and kind hearted, and had it not been for
that hidden blight she might have been
fairly happy. But during a royal prog
ress to the north, her old lover, whose
name was Dereham, forced himself upon
her, and she had an interview with him.
When they returned to Hampton, the

head of the house, is toda}- and it was
feared that her influence with Henry was
so great that the old religion might return,
to the confusion of Cranmer. Something
must be done, and the queen s past life
was the solution. When Henry read the
paper he was furiously angry, not at
Catharine, but her accusers. And he
ordered a rigid examination. The truth
came out. When Henry heard it, he
burst into tears before his council ; but
there was nothing but death for the un
fortunate queen. The king must be free.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CATHARINE PARK, HENRY S SIXTH WIFE.
Married July 12, 1543. Died a -widow in 1548.

So Cranmer, who had made and unmade
three marriages, led his second queen to
the block.

Henry s last wife, Catharine Parr, mar
ried him against her will. She had been
twice a widow, her first husband having
left her a widow and heiress at fifteen.
Her second, Lord Latimer, was hardly
dead when Henry came to ask her to
marry him. She had other suitors, but

they all withdrew, and as usual the king
had his way. She was a gentle woman,
who was a strong factor in the livqs of
his children, giving them the benefit of
her fine education and good judgment,
and w T hen Henry died he left her a most
happy widow.

The illustrations printed herewith are
from a set of modern miniatures owned
bv Mr. C. Wernicke, of New York.

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.*

BY MAX PEMBERTON.

The success of Mr. Pemberton s recent books has gained him a place among
the leading novelists of the present day&gt; and " The Woman of Kronstadt " will
confirm his literary repute and his popularity It is a strong story, realistic and
novel in its scenes and characters; a story of love, adventure, and intrigue, in
which woman s wit and man s courage are matched against the mighty military
power of Russia.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

TEMPTED by the large reward secretly offered by the British government for a complete map
of the mighty Russian fortress of Kronstadt, Marian Best, a beautiful English girl in straitened
circumstances, and with a little brother dependent upon her, undertakes the commission.
Obtaining the position of governess to the two young daughters of the commanding officer of the
fortress, General Stefanovic, she has many opportunities to secure information. Captain Paul
Zassulic, a Russian artillery officer, falls in love with her, and while she reciprocates his affec
tion, she cannot bring herself to give up her hazardous enterprise. Finally Russian agents
in London learn that certain plans have been transmitted to the English government, and when
the tidings reach Kronstadt suspicion is directed toward the Englishwoman. Not long afterward,
Marian enters the general s cabinet in search of a necessary document, and she is about to copy
it when Paul Zassulic enters. The young officer is horrified at his discovery, but when he hears
the girl :; pitiful story his great love for her overmasters his sense of duty and he resolves not to
betray her. But she has been watched, and their conversation is overheard. The following morning
Marian is seized and taken before the general for a hearing, and, realizing the futility ol denial,
Paul bears witness to her guilt. She is imprisoned in Fort Alexander, but some weeks later Zassulic
persuades the general to give him an order transferring the girl to Fort Katherine, where she will
be less harshly treated. Unable to endure longer the thought of Marian suffering the hardship of a
Russian prison, Paul escapes with her on board his yacht, the Esmerakla. When their flight is
discovered they are far away, but before they can get by the neck of the gulf, the telegraph has
flashed the news to Reval and Helsingfors, and warships are sent out to intercept them. While
Paul is trying to reassure Marian in the cabin, Reuben, his English engineer, summons him on
deck. On the port quarter he sees a great arc of light playing upon the sea a cruiser s searchlight.

XII.

E course of the Esmeralda was
J_ now almost due west. The lamps
in her saloons burned no longer ; she
carried no light and showed no glow of
flames above her funnel. Save for the
vibrations of her screw and the buffet of
the seas upon her arched bows, no .sound
followed in her wake. She cut the gath
ering waves rather than breasted them,
and rushed onward through the swell
as some living thing come tip for breath
or in pursuit of prey. The arc of light
which lay upon the sea like a golden
carpet had not yet spread so far that its
rays were shed upon the yacht. She

stood out of it to the northward, and her
crew watched its path with an excite
ment not to be described. Men clenched
their hands when the great lamp swung
round and their eyes were blinded by its
fuller radiance ; but darkness continued
to befriend them. Save in that place
where the great lantern gave gold to the
waves, night reigned upon the sea. And
night might yet deliver the Esmeralda
if destiny so willed.

" They are standing for the south, sir, "
said old John Hook, who was at the
wheel. " It ll be in their heads that
we re running for the German coast
perhaps for the Baltic port. You ll go by
em yet, with a handful of luck ! "

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Old John, who had shipped for the
trip willingly when he heard that an
Englishwoman was to be snatched from
a Russian prison, trusted to pick up at
Stockholm his own brig, then at anchor
at Kronstadt harbor. The adventure was
no more to him than an hour in the fog
at the mouth of the Thames.

"Stop you, sir ? " he had exclaimed.
" Why, there ain t no ship in the Baltic
as could catch yon bit of a kettle when
she d the mind to show her stern. And
if so be as they do, why, ain t there such
things as counsels for to talk to em
properly and show em what s the color
of your flag ? I d spit on all the skippers
in Roosher for a noggin of rum I m
derned if I wouldn t ! "

With this proper contempt for all
foreigners and their ships (and a bundle
containing a lace handkerchief, a photo
graph, and a not over clean shirt), John
had come aboard the Esmeralda. The
race from Kronstadt to the open gulf had
been a joy to him ; and this siidden
appearance of a warship on the horizon
did not terrify him at all. The yacht had
the heels of her ; and if they were taken,
the English consul at Kronstadt would
shake his fist in the face of the governor,
and that would be the end of it.

Paul shared nothing of such stolid
optimism. The very darkness of the seas
about him caused the great whitejight to
stand out like some uncanny beacon set
up to remind him that he was still in
Russian waters ; that Kronstadt knew of
his flight and of his purpose.

"She is running to the south, John,"
he said gloomily ; " but it will not be
for long. For the matter of that, she is
going about now. "

John touched the little wheel and spat
emphatically.

" That s true, by thunder ! " he cried ;
" but what of it, sir? It ll be a steady
hand that picks us off in this light, and
we ve the heels of her, all said and done
you take my word for it. If they re
waiting to take us afore they turn in,
they won t finish this watch until the
Day of Judgment. "

Paul smiled.

"You English have a pleasant way of
looking at things ; we Russians are not
so ready. "

Which is your misfortune, sir, a beg
ging your pardon. It don t do to be a
Rooshian in these days leastwise, not
when you can sail under a skipper who
reads the noosepapers.

He touched the wheel again, and the
little yacht rose on the crest of a great
wave before plunging into the shining
darkness of the hollow. The arc ceased
to shine while the great ship went about,
and the curtain of the cloud was unlifted
save at one spot, low upon the horizon,
where a little gate of light, like a wicket
gate to the heaven beyond the envelope,
gave promise of a clear sky before the
morning. For ten minutes the yacht
raced in darkness toward the distant seas
of refuge ; then the mighty beams shone
out again, and their glory, surpassing
the glory of day, fell once more upon the
waters. Rippling as with a ripple of
molten gold, the wave of radiance flowed
on. It made jewels of the wind tossed
spoondrift ; it focused upon the black
sails of a fishing boat, and showed her
laboring and sagging in the trough of the
seas ; it struck upon the dark hull of a
distant steamer, and she stood out in it
so that the very men upon her decks were
to be counted. And at last it rested
upon the Esmeralda, gathering her into
its aureola, feeling her as with fingers of
light, which touched prey and would tor
ture it.

No man spoke. The hand of old John
was still upon the spokes of the wheel ;
Paul leaned spellbound against the
shrouds, and watched the quivering
beams ; Reuben showed his head above
the engine room hatchway with the grin
still clinging to his countenance. Min
utes passed and the enchantment was not
broken. Full upon them the light rested,
discovering every shroud and rope. And
the men had no answer to it none save
the answer of the Esmeralda, which
rushed onward toward her goal as though
the race were a joy to her, a race from
which she would yet reap victory.

Reuben was the first to find his
tongue.

"She s the Peter Veliky, of Reval, "
he said quietly. "I could pick her out
of a thousand. She carries four twelve
inch, and her speed s fourteen in the
books. "

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

" To hell with the books ! " said John
Hook; "the question is, what s her
speed here, and when is she going to
show it ?"

Reuben s grin was yet broader.

" She is going to show it now, John ;
and if you want to dance, there s the
music. "

A gun boomed out above the moaning
of the wind, and its smoke hung for an
instant like a balloon of vapor above the
decks of the Peter Veliky. Then a wo
man s voice was heard, and Paul turned
quickly to find Marian standing at his
side.

"I could not stay below 7 , " she said;
"it suffocates me and I saw the light,
Paul."

She slipped her hand into his, and
stood with him. She feared no longer for
herself, but for him who had risked life
and honor that she might be free.

" You will never make a sailor,
Marian," Paul answered; "you do not
know how to obey. "

" I have come here to learn, dearest ; I
could not stay down there with yester
day for my friend. "

Paul pointed to the distant ship, whose
blinding lantern moved slowly across the
spuming sea.

"There is our tomorrow," he said
grimly. " I did not wish you to know
that. I thought that you would sleep,
and wake where no one could harm you ;
but now we shall dance, as Reuben
says.

She laughed to conceal her excitement.

Who can harm me here, when you
are with me? " she asked ; and then, less
heroically: "Did you not .say that the
Esmeralda was the fastest yacht in the
Baltic? "

Paul took her face between his hands
and kissed it.

"Little woman," he said, "if I had
your heart ! You give me courage al
ways. Indeed, you bring us good luck,
Marian ; we are leaving them already. "

The ships were abreast now, a mile of
sparkling sea between them. But the
Peter Veliky was no match for the yacht
which Yarrow had built. The Esmeralda
forged ahead from the first. She held
her course unflinchingly even when the
gun shot flamed again across the water

and a shell fell hissing into the waves
behind her. She steamed on into the
envelope of night, seeking to shake the
light from her as quarry might shake a
dog.

"To hell with the books! "cried old
John Hook, in the fervor of the moment.
"There ain t a ship in Roosher which is
going to catch her this night abeggin
your pardon for the expression, miss."

"Oh, it is true, it is true!" cried
Marian, clasping her hands joyfully.
"Tomorrow we shall be at Stockholm.
What a thing to tell little Dick ! "

Her eyes blazed, for the magic of com
bat that inexplicable fever which gives
scorn of death had touched them. She
stood entranced, a slim little figure upon
which the white beams fell picturesquely.
When the man looked upon her he for
got all else but the morrow which should
put her in his arms and dower him with
her love while life was.

" We will tell the story together, little
girl, "he said; "but there is something
else to say before then, and the music
has not finished."

A second shell hissed above the sea,
and was swallowed up in a fountain of
foam which rose up so close to the
Esmeralda that the faces of her crew were
wetted as by driven rain. It drew a curse
from old John ; but the girl laughed fear
lessly. _She could not realize the mean
ing of the tragedy which was being
played. To her it was no more than
some great set scene in a theater, where
wondrous lights colored the enchanted
waters, and demons danced impotently be
fore the gates of the house impregnable.
She did not believe that anything on
earth coiild harm a ship manned by
English sailors and built in London city.
And she had an abounding confidence in
her lover. He would save her that had
been her thought from the beginning of
the terrible days.

"Paul." she asked, turning to him
with a gesture of love, "when shall we
be iii London ?

" In four days, little one."

" And then ? "

"And then, it will be your turn to
command. I have no plans ; I have not
thought of it "

"There is no need to think, dearest;

8 4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

I shall make England a home to you, in
deed. We will live for that. We will
talk of tonight often. Yon shall tell
Dick how they fired at us. He will not
believe, but it will be good to remember.
You do not regret, Paul ?

" Regret with you at my side, and
the day to dawn, and the little yacht to
carry me how could I regret ? It is a
drink of the wine of life to look into your
eyes, Marian. "

She laughed coquettishly.

And yet you do not put the cup to
your lips," she whispered.

" I wait for the darkness, little wife. "

He spoke with greater confidence, and,
leading her to the poop, they watched the
wake of water behind them aglow with
phosphorescent brilliance and the jeweled
spray of the white capped waves. For a
moment the danger seemed to be passing.
The ships were no longer abreast ; the
great aureola scarce touched them. Si
lence fell upon the sea, and the guns of
the Peter Veliky ceased to speak. Anon
the yacht plunged into the welcome
shadow, and all the pent up gladness of
those who had waged the fight so daunt-
lessly broke out, and was not to be re
strained. A great cheer, an English
cheer, went ringing across the sea. It
was the answer of the four to the four
hundred aboard the Peter Veliky.

Outsteamed, by God ! cried old
John Hook. " I said there warn t no
Rooshian as could touch her."

But Paul cried, " Viva the Esmer-
alda ! " and that shout was taken up
recklessly by men nerved now to any
thing, but conscious above all things that
they had worsted the fellow countrymen
of him who was their master.

XIII.

THE echo of the cheer which rose up
from the decks of the Esmeralda still lin
gered upon the sea when the Russian
answer to it was forthcoming. Even as
the crew of the little yacht said that the
danger was done with, and that an open
sea now lay before them, a voice out of the
darkness gave them the lie. So swift
was it to come, so surprising, that the
men stood mute and wondering and help
less. It was as though the avenger had

risen from the depths before them a
phantom ship conjured up by the powers
of evil to reckon with them. They
thought themselves without consort in
the heart of the gulf, and in the act of
thought the strange ship appeared. Her
light shone full upon them from a point
not two hundred yards distant. They
could count the men upon her decks ;
could see the figure of her commander
outstanding upon the bridge ; could fol
low the delicate contour of the great hull
which towered above them.

The strange ship lay motionless, for
she had been awaiting the signal of the
Peter Veliky, and so stood toward the
center of the gulf, that she might com
mand it. It is possible that the Esmeralda
would have slipped by her in the dark
but for the cheer of victory raised so fool
ishly. That triumphant cry was as the
gun of a sentinel to those on board the
Russian ship. Her lantern blazed out ;
voices of warning were raised on her
decks ; men roared to one another that
the quarry had run into the snare, that
the hunt was done. The beams of the
great light fell upon the yacht and upon
her crew, and the cheer froze upon the
lips of those who had raised it. Her men
stood powerless to think or act.

A man who wore the uniform of a
naval lieutenant stood in the bows of the
cruiser, and was the first to hail the Es
meralda. His voice was like the roar of
a bull, and the wind carried his words so
that none of them was lost. Already
Reuben had shut off steam niechanicallj ,
so that the two ships lay rolling to the
swell like swimmers who seek breath
after the travail of a race ; but no one
gave answer to the hail of the lieutenant.
Stupor possessed the crew of the yacht.
The blow had been so swift to come ; the
shadow of the prison already lay upon the
men.

"What ship? " roared the lieutenant,
putting the question for the third time.

"She s the Kremi, of Helsingfors,"
announced Reuben, in a giant s whisper.

" An old ship," said John Hook. "She
might catch a hearse leastwise, I d ven
ture on it. "

" Nine knots in the books, John. "

" To hell with the books ! She carries
her gruns forward "

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

" Then, they cannot fire at us if we pass
them, " exclaimed the girl excitedly.

Old John added to the wealth of the sea
by a mouthful of tobacco juice.

" By James, the young lady s right ! "
cried he. " If we drift past em, they ll
want five minutes to get her about ; and
where shall we be in those five minutes,
mates ? "

Reuben ceased to grin. Paul could not
take his eyes off the cruiser. They had
drifted so close to her that they could see
the faces of those who trod the great
decks above them. There was not a man
on board the Esmeralda whose heart did
not beat high ; not one who did not tell
himself that this was the hour of reckon
ing.

"Oestfini," Paul exclaimed, drawing
the girl into his embrace ; " there is our
tomorrow, little Marian. But I have
done my best, God knows."

She nestled close to him, and that was
her answer.

Many men had come together upon the
port bow of the Kremi, and they stood
gaping at the stranger and at her crew.
The lieutenant who had first cried out now
gave orders that a gangway should be
lowered ; he did not doubt that it was
the intention of the pursued to surrender
without further effort. But those on
board the Esmeralda were of one mind
and purpose again. The grin broadened
upon the face of Reuben ; old John lighted
his pipe with the deliberation of a man at
his own fireside. Silently they waited
while the crew of the Kremi were busy at
the gangway, encouraged by the shrill,
fifelike voice of a commandei who fed
already upon the fruits of victory. It re
mained now, the Russian thought, but to
grapple with the impudent and perky
cockleshell which had defied so vain-
gloriously the might of his country. lie
gave the order triumphantly. He came
to the very edge of the bridge to watch
the irons slipped upon the hands of Zas-
sulic the spy, and of the woman who had
tempted him. When the Esmeralda did
not stop at the gangway, but drifted on,
he thought for the moment that it was
clumsy seamanship ; but when, with
dramatic suddenness, she began to forge
rapidly ahead, his anger was not to be
controlled.

"Stand by to clear the guns!" he
roared. "Are you going to lose her?
She will cheat us yet. "

He foamed and raged like a madman,
for the yacht had shot into the darkness
like a shell from a gun. The terrible mo
ment of waiting had passed. Inch by
inch the little ship had drifted, carrying
men whose hearts quivered with excite
ment, but whose spirit was unbroken.
The terror of waiting was upon them no
more. They had been within a boat s
length of the ladder when John cried,
"Let her go ! " and from that instant the
courage of despair fired them. As a
horse champing at his bit, so was the
Esmeralda sagging there in the trough of
the sea. The rush of steam into her
cylinders was as the touch of the spur.
She bounded forward into the heart of the
breakers, and a cloud of spray hid her
from the enemy s sight.

"Below, below for your lives !" roared
old John. "Thejr re manning the ma
chine guns. "

"We cannot leave you here," cried
Paul, ashamed for the moment that it was
not a fellow countryman who spoke.

Then, 3-011 stand to your death !
cried John Hook. " There ain t a gun in
Roosher which I care a cuss for, the Lord
be my witness ! Down there, sir, as you
vally your life ! "

The rattle of musketry and a sputter of
bullets cut short his honest bravado.
Needing no other argument, Paul dragged
Marian into the shelter of the scantling ;
and the yacht, seesawing in her course,
that she might avoid the hail of bullets,
appeared to rush into the very bowels of
the sea. Onward she flew, the foam
frothing at her bows, the spray reekin;;-
upon her funnel, a great wake of quiver
ing water behind her. Bullets struck her
decks and sent chips of wood flying as
though an adz cleft them ; the search
light followed her path as the light upon
a stage follows the step of the dancer.
Every minute was an eternity of sus
pense. The hearts of the men seemed to
stand still. When at last the guns
ceased, there were tears upon the faces
of the crew ; but they were tears of joy.

"Outsailed again! " roared old John,
who rolled with excitement. " Outsailed
again, and the young lady thought of it !

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Gawd send a rock to sink every bully
lubber in Roosher. "

He shook his fist defiantly at the dis
tant light, for he knew that the hour of
deliverance was at hand. The lumbering
Kremi, which rarely ventured from her
moorings in Helsingfors, was marked in
the books as a ship which could steam
at nine knots ; but that was a fiction be
loved of officials. Put to it now in the
heavy swell of a fresh night, she strained
and groaned like a derelict of the deep ;
she lurched over the seas, and smothered
herself in them. The yacht ran from her
as a hare from a bull. She fired her great
gun again and again, but the shells found
no other billet than the rolling breakers.
And when thirty minutes had passed she
abandoned the pursuit, and headed once
more for the harbor. But first she shot a
rocket high into the darkness, which was
answered by other rockets, blue and
flaming on the far horizon. And at this
sight old John ceased to laugh, and fore
boding fell again upon the crew of the
Esmeralda.

You saw that, Reuben ? cried John
Hook, pointing upward with his bony
finger. s

" I saw it, John."

"Then, there ain t no need for me to
speak."

"Speak or silent, it don t make no dif
ference.

"If I ve eyes in my head, that s the
Baltic fleet coming up the gulf. "

" It is so, John."

The Baltic fleet ! exclaimed Paul.
"Then, God help us! we shall never
run by them. "

"You speak Gospel truth, sir."

The master of the Esmeralda began to
.stride the deck impatiently. He had
persuaded Marian to lie down in her
cabin as soon as the Kremi ceased to fire.
She slept and dreamed of England ; but
for him there was no sleep. These recur
ring difficulties were to him as a sign
from God rebuking his work. It had
seemed so simple when he planned it at
Kronstadt the quick rush in the dark
ness ; the friendship of surprise ; the
possibility of escape before the news was
known. But now he saw it in a new
light. The flaming rockets .spoke of a
girdle put about him by the avenger. He

realized what a task was that which a
man set himself when he sought to pit
his cunning against the might of Russia.
His enemies would crush him as they
would crush a worm. They would drag him
from the woman whose lips he had kissed,
whose love was all that remained to him
in life.

" You think there is no hope for us,
Reuben? " he asked, suddenly stopping
in his walk and facing the silent group.

No hope out j r onder, sir not to
night.

"You have no plan in your mind ? "

" None, unless you should run north,
sir. There are always the islands."

"I had not thought of them, " said
Paul.

"I thought of them from the first,"
continued Reuben. There are a hundred
creeks which might hide us until the
hunt is over ; and we ve the land behind
us, sir, if it should come to the worst.

" Then to the islands let it be and
God help us if they know that we are
still in the gulf ! "

"Aye, aye, to that," said old John;
and so the little ship went about, and,
heading straight for the coast of Finland,
began to race anew. But the hearts of
the men were heavy, for it was as though
they turned her toward the gates of that
prison which their minds had built for
them during the hours of the terrible
night.

XIV.

IT was the afternoon of the day, and
the Esme;alda lay at anchor under the
lee of one of the rocky islets which abound
upon the southern shores of Finland.
They had warped her to the sheer rock, so
that she lay snug and hidden and shel
tered from the wind driven tide which
raced between the island and its neigh
bor. A loom of haze above her funnel
alone spoke of life within her. Her crew
had gone ashore to stretch their legs, and
were to be discovered upon the beach in
all those attitudes of repose which sea
men court. The sun fell upon the barren
rock and upon their faces, but did not
wake them. They had kept the long
vigil, and this was the season of compen
sation.

Tl-IK WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

The day had been one of tempest .since
the dawn, and though it was now late in
the afternoon and the rain had ceased to
fall, there was a thunder of surf upon the
outer islands of the archipelago, and the
open water frothed white with foam ; but
the creek into which they had moored
the Esrueralda was sheltered both from
the wind and the seas. Sheer walls of
granite towered above the decks of the
yacht ; a girdle of tiny islets, stretching
far out to the gulf or back to the distant
shore of Finland, was her defense against
the breakers. She rode proudly at her
moorings, as though conscious of the vic
tory which the night had given her.

This haven had been made at the dawn
of the day by men who knew every chan
nel and landmark in the gulf. They had
welcomed it, for therein they could think
of food and sleep, and forget that the
Russian was at their heels. Though the
truce might prove but a truce of hours, it
was a gift of God to those whose eyes
ached with watching, whose limbs were
cold w r ith wet, whose tongues were parched
with thirst. The gale which sprang up
with the coming of the light was a be
friending gale to them. No ship of war
would venture near them while the surf
thundered, and the mist of spray made
clouds above the land, and the west wind
screamed in the gulf. And so they slept,
and the sunshine of the later day was a
balm of light to their eyes, and welcome
warmth suffused bodies that had long
been stiff and cramped with the bitter
cold of the Baltic night.

Though Paul had gone ashore with his
crew, it was not to sleep. The brief rest
he had snatched in the earlier hours of the
day sufficed for him. He, perhaps of all
the little company, understood most truly
the malevolence of fate in casting him
back to the shelter of the islands at an
hour when he should have been in the
great sea road of the Baltic. The land of
the west, wherein liberty lay, seemed to
have become a land beyond the horizon
of his dreams. He looked out from the
island upon the rolling billows, and re
membered that Russian ships, sent in
pursuit of him, were watching and wait
ing in the channel of the gulf. The dis
tant shore, high and rock} and barren,
spoke of coast patrols, and Finns who

soon must learn that a strange yacht lay
in the harbor of the islands ; of peasants
who would run to carry the news to Hel-
singfors that a few kopecks might be
thrown to them. Scheme as he would,
he could contrive no plan whereby the
peril, wrought of the gale, might be
turned. He must wait for a smoother sea
and a fairer wind. And waiting was an
agony of doubt scarce to be supported.

All this was in his mind when Marian
awoke at midday, and was rowed by old
John Hook to the little patch of beach
which permitted them to land upon the
nameless island. He met her at the
water side and lifted her from the boat ;
but he would tell her nothing of his
thoughts, for he saw that the color had
come into her face again, and that the
great rings beneath her eyes had been
washed out by the waters of sleep. She
was, indeed, almost the light hearted,
pretty creature who had won his love at
the governor s house, and when he looked
into her brightening eyes and heard her
girlish laughter, love came surging up to
compel forgetfulness of all else.

" I have been waiting for you, "he said
tenderly. " The hours were long. "

"They will race now," she answered,
as she locked her hand in his. " \Ye
shall see each other growing old, Paul.
Oh, is it not good to breathe again ? I
could run, run run to the world s end ! "

She dragged him on, hastening with
joy of her freedom, telling him a hundred
things at once; asking unfinished ques
tions, and waiting for 110 answer. When
they had come to the high place of the
rock she curled herself up on the ground,
and there she feasted her eyes on the
panorama of whitened sea and whirling
gull and desolate island. The man lay
beside her, content that he had won her
this hour of happiness.

" I cannot believe it," she said, while
the spoondrift freshened her face and the
wind swept the curls from her little ears
"I cannot believe that we are here.
How should a day make such a difference
how should our lives run so evenly
through long years and then turn so
swiftly, carrj ing us away from everything
we have ever known to things we never
dreamed of? A month ago 1 was a gov
erness in the house at Kronstadt, I taught

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the twins to grow up in the way they did
not want to go ; today, where am I, what
am I ? Why are these things hidden
from us? And if it is so strange today,
what will it be next year, the year after ?
Oh, if one could look even for a moment
into the glass of life ? "

" But you cannot, " said Paul stolidly ;
there is no glass except the glass of
your mind and conscience. We cannot
look ; we can only act, petite. And that
is what we have been doing you and I ;
though God knows what kind of a story
we have written or where it will end. At
this moment we are on an island near
Hango, and we wait there until the wind
and the sea go down. When that happens
we shall go aboard the Esmeralda again,
and tomorrow we shall reach Stock
holm. "

She clapped her hands, and then, re
garding her environment wistfully,
cried :

It is a world of islands a world
without life. There can be no spot on all
the earth as lonely as this. And yet it is
a city to me now ; I could people it with
the birds ; the rocks should be churches
and buildings for me. Paradise lies on
the broad road when one has been a
month and has not seen the sun. "

He stroked her face, encouraging her
to forget that her freedom might depend
upon the whim of the wind.

"You are glad to be free, Marian, as
glad as I am. Some day, perhaps, we
shall remember this day, and speak of it
as the morning of our love. I do not
think that they will follow us. There
are few that can sail these seas. Even
the fishermen come here reluctantly. It
is a grave for sailors, as many a good
fellow knows. "

And y et you come here ?

It was the one thing left to do. We
could not pass the ships they had sent
out yonder ; we could not go back. This
was our only haven. "

She shuddered and drew close to him.

" We shall never go back, dearest you
think that? "

He began to pick at the rocky stones
and to throw them into the froth of the
breaking waves.

" I do not know, " he said, after a long
pause. "Who can say what the futnre

will bring ? But I am a Russian no
more I have no country now it does
not concern me. "

The infinite pathos of his words was
not to be concealed from her. Never
since he had carried her from the cell at
Alexander had she understood so well the
price he had paid.

"Oh, Paul, Paul," she exclaimed bit
terly, "what have I done what crime
have I committed that I should bring this
upon you? Let me go back to Kron-
stadt ; I am not worth your sacrifice. I
can never repay there is time yet "

The man laughed at her distress, and,
blaming himself because he had spoken,
answered by taking her face into his
hands and looking into her tear stained
ej^es.

" The crime you have committed, " he
said, "is to be the sweetest woman on
earth ; the wrong which you have done
is to make me love you so that without
you there is no world for me. Why talk
of repaying ? Is there to be a reckoning
between those who love ? Have they not
all things in common ? Who hurts you
hurts me. When you are content, I am
content. I lose a country to gain the
whole world. If I am no longer a Russian,
shall I not be the husband of Marian ?
Let us not talk of these things ; it is in
gratitude while we have the bread of life
so abundantly. When that bread fails,
we will complain. Tomorrow, if the
wind goes down, we shall be at Stock
holm. I shall leave the yacht there and
take an English steamer for London. It
will then be your turn to forget that you
are an Englishwoman ; you will be the
wife of Zassulic, the friend of Russia.
All that you have learned at Kronstadt
will be forgotten ; the friends who
tempted you will be strangers to you
henceforth. We shall begin life again,
pilgrims in a strange country. But we
shall walk the way of life together, and
so the journey will be easy."

The shadow of regret passed from his
face while he went on to speak of all he
would do in London ; how much he hoped
from his kinsman and from his own train
ing as an engineer. Marian, in her turn,
listened with smiling face, though she
was telling herself all the time that she
must prevent the sacrifice, must compel

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

him to return to his work and his coun
try ; if possible, to return not as one dis
graced, but as a man who had wrestled
with a great temptation and had van
quished it. As for herself, she did not
doubt that her wits would find a way
whereby she might reach her own coun
try. The present danger she was in, the
peril of almost immediate discovery by
the Russian ships, was not real to her.
She could run again, and see the sky, and
breathe the fresh air. She felt herself
adrift upon the ocean of circumstance,
and the voyage was not without its
measure of excitement.

" You must go back, dearest, " she said
firmly, when he had done speaking.
" We must find a way and an ex
cuse "

"A way, petite, when you have been
seen on my yacht, and the sergeant has
told them that I took you from the fort ?
Oh, yes, that would be easy ; they are
such simpletons at Kronstadt that they
will believe me when I say, The prisoner
escaped ; it was all an accident ; they
will also reward me with a file of soldiers
and lead for medicine. The day when I
can return to Russia will be the day when
stars fall at our feet, and there is no
longer any sun in the sky. It is foolish
to talk of it. Henceforth you shall make
a country for me ; it shall be a country
of the heart ; the house will be the house
of our affections. We shall laugh, then,
to remember of what little worth are all
those material things which at one time
seemed so much to us. We shall laugh
at today, and tell how we cheated old
Bonzo after all "

It was a brave effort to conceal from her
the apprehension he felt ; but the wo
man s instinct rightly interpreted the
words, and when next he looked into her
face she was gazing over the storm tossed
waste to the distant field of the open sea,
where the west wind still blew with hur
ricane force, and banks of gathering
cloud were the gloomy heralds of the
night to come.

"The wind befriends us," she said
thoughtfully; "but the wind will die
away presently, and then "

" And then the darkness will take its
place, little woman. Even if they think
that we are here among the islands, they

must spend days before they discover
upon which island we are. While they
are looking for us we shall be snug in the
harbor at Stockholm. We must steal
from harbor to harbor until we see that
no ships follow, and then the little yacht
will do the rest. There is no ship in
Russia that can outsteam her with a clear
sea before us ; we shall wait for the clear
sea, and all will be well."

They had left the grassy knoll, and
had come up to the headland wherefrom
they could overlook the strange haven
into which destiny had cast them. Marian
beheld again the world of islands, vast,
interminable, stretching as far as the eye
could see away toward the Baltic, or back
to the Russia they had left. The gloom
of water and sky, the cold gray light, the
haunting solitude, the wash of the waves,
the shrill note of the gull, oppressed her
anew with a vast sense of her own loneli
ness. She thought that she was an out
cast from the world. She pictured herself
flying from man to the desolate places of
the earth. A hundred years of time
seemed to lie between her and the life she
had lived. She reproached herself bit
terly that she had rewarded so great a
love with so terrible a gift the gift of
men s slander and the insult of evil
tongues, the brand of dishonor and the
exile s lot.

And the thought that she must save
Paul from himself, and go alone upon the
way to which her exceeding folly had
carried her, grew upon her.

XV.

THE westerly gale held throughout the
day, and was still at its height when the
men of the Esmeralda turned in to their
bunks. They had watched unceasingly
during the afternoon for any sign of a
ship upon the horizon, or for a token of life
on the neighboring shore of Finland.
But the sea continued to run mountains
high in the broad of the gulf, and there
was a haze of mist and spray over the
land which served them well in those
anxious moments of waiting. They
argued that the Baltic fleet would not
attempt to Weather such a gale, but
would be already snug and sheltered at
Helsingfors or at Reval. As for the fish-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ermen of the neighboring isles, the cir
cumstance of the day accounted for them
and for their ships. No little craft could
live in such a gale ; no peasants would
patrol the shores while the west wind
swept up the gulf and the breakers thun
dered upon the outer reef. Tomorrow the
wind would fall away and the calm would
come. Tomorrow they would begin to
live again.

The night fell dark and misty and
threatening, so that there was no need of
any watch upon the decks of the little
ship. Guarded by the breakers without,
and the towering crags for sentinels
within, the haven befriended her beyond
hopes. No light shone from the ports of
the Esmeralda upon the swirling waters
of the channel. Her men went to and
fro silently, as though afraid to speak.
They welcomed the hours of truce, for
therein they could sleep and rest. Marian
alone kept a vigil of the night. For her,
.^leep had become a fitful friend. There
were terrors of her dreams which no
waking argument could shake off. She
slept to imagine herself once more in the
cell at Alexander ; she awoke to ask her
self if she would ever come to England
again ? She remembered that she was
an outcast, and had struck at the honor
of the man she loved in her fall.

Old John Hook and Reuben, the
engineer, went ashore several times dur
ing the night to see if there was any
itbatement of wind or sea ; but when, at
umr o clock, they found the gale still
blowing, it was evident to them that the
necessity for watchfulness existed no
longer at least until the day dawned.
They were sound asleep in their bunks
when Marian dressed herself in the dark
ness and left the cabin wherein sleep had
brought her so man} terrible dreams.
She had no set purpose in quitting her
bed other than the desire to breathe the
fresh air of morning. The gray beams of
light shining behind banks of sullen
cloud were welcome to her after the dark
ness and confinement of her little cabin.
Silent^, she trod the steps of the com
panion, and ran to the bow of the yacht,
to stand there and hear the water lapping
monotonously upon the face of the cliff.
The nameless islands around began
slowly to shape themselves in a vista of

spray and haze. Strange birds went
screaming from crag to crag ; but of
human life there was no sight or sound.

It had been an impulse which brought
her to the deck, but this was to prove a
morning of impulses. Ever present
through the weary night of waiting had
been the desire to save the man she loved
from the consequences of her folly. Just
as at Kronstadt in the hour of her neces
sity, a woman s weakness had cast her
upon his pity and devotion, so now was
she convinced that she must rely upon
his pity and devotion no longer. She
told herself, but with the vaguest notions
of reasoning, that if Paul were alone it
would be easy for him to return to his
own country with some story that woiild
convince Bonzo and old Stefanovic of his
fidelit} . And she must not deny him
that opportunity. He had given all ; her
gift should not be less.

"I will save him from himself," she
said again and again. " They shall not
find me upon his yacht. He will go back
to Russia and forget. I have been alone
so many years, it is nothing that I am
alone until the end. "

She repeated the words while she
stood at the bow of the Esmeralda and
watched the sea racing in the narrow of
the channel. To save the man who had
lost all for her, to give him back country,
friends, honor she cared not at what
cost that must be her purpose. All the
happiness of his love which had conn-
into her life must wither and die. If
God willed, she would still have the love
of the child. Her unbroken courage sug
gested that she would find the way to
England when once she was alone. Half
formed schemes of a place of hiding in
the hut of a peasant, or of flight in a fish
erman s boat, helped her resolutions.
She remembered that she had rowed a
boat often upon the river Dart, and that a
month of imprisonment had still left
much of her girlish strength. And so
the great idea took finite shape and was
resolved upon.

Quickly, silently, with deft hands, she
drew the yacht s boat, then lying at the
stern of the ship, to the gangway, which
had been left down during the night. A
feverish haste characterized all her move
ments. She was afraid that day would

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

come and rob her of success ; she feared
that some one would awake to prevent her
emprise. Her great love for Paul that
surged up in her heart but quickened her
steps. A rebellious anger urged her on
to a war against circumstance, a war she
must wage alone and without friends.

Stealthily the little gray clad figure
moved in the morning light. Hither and
thither, pitiful in the agony of a farewell
she could not speak, tears falling upon
her cold hands, anger she knew not
why in her heart, the girl bent down to
kiss the deck beneath which her lover
was sleeping.

"God bless you, Paul, my love; God
bless you for your love of me. "

And so the voyage began, and the pil
grim was alone again, and the curtain of
the mist shut the yacht from her sight.
* * * *

They awoke the master of the Esmer-
alda, and told him that she was gone.
He did not answer them, but stood long
peering into the mists which enveloped
the island seas. When Reuben spoke to
him at last, he turned quickly and fell
senseless upon the deck of the silent ship.

XVI.

THERE were oars in the yacht s boat,
but the current ran so swiftly that Marian
was unable to fix them in the rowlocks
before the tide caught the little ship in
its embrace and swept it out toward the
open sea. So rapid was the race that the
panorama of crag and headland about her
seemed to be hidden in a moment from
her sight. Turn where she would, she
espied a horizon of fog and vapor. The
searching white mists of morning lay
upon the sea in billows of chilling cloud.
No breath of wind stirred to sweep the
gulf and roll up this veil which hid the
world from her sight. Calm, the calm
that those upon the Esmeralda had
wished for, had come at last ; but the
very silence of it was a terror to the help
less girl cast adrift at the whim of im
pulse, the martyr to a woman s logic and
a woman s love.

Swiftly the current ran, but silently,
so that no sound broke the stillness save
the lap of the waves upon the prow.
Minutes were numbered, but were hours

for her. She heard bells ringing strangely
through the curtain of the fog, and won
dered if they were the bells of a town.
Anon, the sound of waves breaking upon
some strand spoke either of the coast of
Finland or of the shore of a neighboring
island ; but she could make out no land
looming through the haze, and though
she tried to row the boat in the direction
of the bells, the current prevailed against
her, and she was borne on she knew not
whither. It seemed to her that fate was
carrying her out to the death of the veiled
sea. While the mist benumbed her
hands and drenched her clothes, and the
spray sparkled upon her face, an anger
of impulse still drove her on, she cared
not to what end if her lover might thereby
be saved. He had suffered that she
might be free ; she would suffer that his
country might be given back to him.

" I will save him, " was her cry, oft re
peated, while she used her oars desperately
and shut her little lips as though to help
the resolution. "They will find him
alone, and he will be able to make some
excuse he will say that I am dead."

At other times she would laugh aloxid,
asking herself what she must look like
with her hair drenched and dank, and her
face white and pinched, and her gown
bedraggled. She said that old Stefanovic
would make love to her no more if he
could see her at such a moment. She
ceased to row a little while that she might
recall all his leers and amorous antics
how long ago it was since they had been
a part of her daily life ! Or she would
gaze wistfully at the barrier of fog as
though seeking beyond it a lamp of des
tiny which would show her the path.
Death itself must be like this solitude
the stillness of the grave could bring no
greater terror than the terror of one
drifting in the loom of mists far from
friends and from men.

"I must not think, " she said, begin
ning to row again with new energy.
" There will be sunshine presently, and
then it will be different. I shall put
ashore on some island, and the fishermen
will give me food and take me across to
Sweden."

She longed for sunshine as the sick
long after the vigil of a night of waking.
The folly of putting out to sea in a boat

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

which carried neither food nor drink be
came more apparent to her every hour ;
there were moments of regret when she
began to wonder if Paul would follow
her, when she hated the obscurity of day
which was her shield against pursuit.
Hunger now began to forewarn her of
added suffering to come. The biting air
of morning and the labor of the oar were
foes to the little reserve of strength which
had nerved her to flight. She said none
but a woman would have done so foolish
a thing, and laughed at herself be
cause she had done it ; but when she
found herself able to row no more than a
dozen strokes at a spell, when her head
began to swim and all nature cried out for
food, she laughed no more, but bit her
lips again and remembered that it was
for her lover s life. And so day came up
at last out of the sea, and the curtain of
the mist was rolled back.

Gradually, as though a hand from the
ether was stretched out to fold it, the fog
lifted. A golden sea shone beneath, rip
pling, sparkling with jewels of light.
Further back and yet further, showing
new glories of the mirror of waters, the
curtain was drawn. Marian beheld the
red disk of the sun like a mighty globe
hanging in the east ; she saw a new world
rise up out of the dissolving fog. Jagged
crags of rock stood suddenly in the path
of the current. Shapes as of cliffs and
domes of granite were formed against the
white background. A new warmth suf
fused the whole air softly ; the outposts
of the night were rolled back until day
triumphed, and all the sea was glorious
with its radiance.

For some time the girl sat entranced
with the spectacle. The current which
had borne her vessel to this new scene no
longer raced toward the open sea. The
tide was on the turn, and the boat rested
in the slack of the water. Far away, be
yond many a reef and boulder, lay the
greater waters of the gulf. She spied out
the shape of a vessel lying at anchor
there, and her first thought was that a
Russian ship had come to the islands in
pursuit of the Esmeralda. She said that
at least they would find Paul alone. As
for herself, there was no longer need to
fear. Islands lay all about her ; here

and there she perceived smoke rising from
some cot or village. The friendly sea had
brought her almost to the very beach of
an islet green and ripe with spring
grasses. She rowed to its sandy shore,
and dragging the boat up on a ridge of
shingle as far as her strength would per
mit, she set out to discover upon what
kind of a haven she had fallen. Never
did woman set foot upon land more
gladly. Wet and cold and miserable,
knowing well that she stood alone in the
world, conscious that the Russian guarded
the gate by which she must pass to Eng
land, nevertheless the sunshine was as
wine to her, the warmth of morning as a
gift of God. Impulsively, with a child s
joy, she ran to the higher places of the
island ; she wrung her wet clothes and
bound her unkempt hair again. There
would be fishermen s huts upon the other
side of it, she said ; they would give her
food for charity s sake ; she would make
them understand it would be fun to do
so. But when she stood upon the high
est spot of her little kingdom she found
that it was desolate as the other isles
had been. No hut or cottage spoke of
life awaking, or of men still at their sleep.
The shrill note of the whirling birds, the
splash of the sea upon the golden sands,
were the voices of the sanctuary. Marian
listened to them a little while as one who
hears tidings of surpassing ill. Then,
with a bitter cry of woe, she ran down to
the beach again.

She had thought to find her boat where
she had left it, washed by the lips of the
waves ; but the tide had ebbed back so
that the little ship lay high and dry upon
a bed of oozy sand. Nor could all her
strength move it again, even so much as
a foot, from its resting place. And when
she was sure of this, when she knew that
she was alone upon that desolate isle, her
courage forsook her for the first time
since she had left Kronstadt, and she
sank flpon the sands weeping bitterly.

" Paul, Paul, " she cried, " come to me
do not leave me here alone ! "

So she cried for her lover. A gull,
screaming above her head, answered with
a mocking laugh. Only the lifegiving
sunshine befriended one whom all the
world seemed to have forsaken.

(To be continued.}

FOR THE LIVERPOOL ORPHANS.

BY ANNE O HAGAN.

An episode of real life on an Atlantic liner How the Violinist planned to
rescue the Stowaway, and why her charity missed its mark.

Be patient with the gods ; nay, when
through the mists that veil Olympus thou seest
them, floating haired and roseate garbed, at
ease reclining or gliding to the rhythmic sound of
harp and flute, be not sure that they have utterly
forgotten thee, that thy groans are naught to
them, or that their harpist plays for thy destruc
tion. Sometimes it may chance that in the idle
seeming dancing of the deities, the destinies of
men are wisely wrought, and kindly shapen.
Therefore be patient. From the unpublished
" Olympic Philosophy," by Professor Wendell
Hemenway, of Boston, U. S. A.

f I ^HK Stowaway sat on the lower deck,
JL among the cattlemen. His elbows
were on his knees ; his chin was buried
in his hands. With eyes of dull dislike
he watched the summer sea, coquetting
with the stin and wind. The breeze blew
to him a gay melody from the upper
deck, where the Violinist amused her
little crowd of fellow passengers. The
Stowaway disliked the music. It was
too insistent. He was filled with gloom
and dread. Yet in some compelling
way, which he could not understand, the
violin made all the world move to its
time ; springing spray from the waves,
throbbing engines, the very heart in his
bosom, and the thoughts that labored
through his mind in hot, useless, endless
rotation.

It had been only a day since he, a
gaunt, wide eyed lad, with high cheek
bones and lips that would not quite close
above his awkward teeth, had been led,
staggering from long cramp and blind
from long darkness, up companiomvays
and over decks to the awful presence of
the captain.

Had the quiet voiced, pelf contained
gentleman who commanded the Ethel-
berta, of the Howland Line, been less
quiet and less self contained he would
have frightened the Stowaway much
less. But there was something very dis

turbing to the simple mind of Mike
Lannehan in the man whose power was
so great, whose will was so final, that he
did not need even to raise his voice when
he wished his purposes executed. A sort
of panic seized the boy, though he an
swered questions with as much assurance
as he could muster. The captain s ques
tions were searching.

What was the Stowaway s name?

"Mike Lannehan, sorr, " replied the
Stowaway.

Where are you from ?

Oi come from Kilkoyne last Thurs
day, sorr."

How did you get to Liverpool ?

" Oi hed a little money then, sorr ;
half a sovereign.

What here the captain s eyes
had the gleam of one who would have
enjoyed interjecting a picturesque exple
tive " what made you think of hiding
away on this boat ?

"Sure Oi was loafin about the docks,
thryin to see which wan of the boats
would be most like to tak me safe over,
an wan day, whin no wan was lookin ,
Oi found the little tin cover to the hole
there. An whin Oi lift ut up Oi see
there s a big place in under where Oi can
hoide. So whin Oi hear ye sail of a
Sunday airly, an that the passengers
must be aboord Satiddy night, Oi come
aboord mesilf thin. An Oi get in under
the tin cover. Thin Oi say a few prayers
to the Blessid Virgin to kape all of ye
away until we re fair started. An she
did, " wound up the Stowaway with a
confident look out over the unending
tract of water.

Unmoved by this evidence of faith, the
captain had continued.

Had the Stowaway friends in America ?
No ; he had had an uncle, but that relative

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

had died many years previously, and his
widow had not written to the kinsfolk at
Kilkoyne.

"But she had the right of that," the
Stowaway volunteered. She d the right
to be proud, fur me uncle done well
whilst he lived. He sint me grandfather
this watch wanst, an whin me grand
father died me father had ut, an now
that they re all gone, God rist them, ut s
moine. "

" Good," said the captain amiably and
judicially, as he took the battered silver
timepiece. "This will reimburse the
company for part of the loss it sustains
at your hands. "

"Sure ye re not tekin ut for good an
all?" cried the Stowaway anxiously.
"Oi ll be bound there s not wan of yer
company but has a better wan. An
what cud they want of me grandfather s
watch? "

"See here, sir," said the captain
patiently. "You don t seem to realize
that you re a thief, stealing transpor
tation to America on a Rowland Line
steamer. But 3 ou are. You say you
have no money. I ll have you searched
to see if that is so. If it is, I take the
only valuable you possess to repay the
company in part for what it loses on you.
You don t seem to realize, sir, that it s
not only your passage out but your pas
sage back that the company will have to
pay."

" But Oi in not comin back," said the
Stowaway, "an as soon as Oi ni airnin
a bit Oi ll pay the company."

" Do you think the United States wants
a lot of stowaway paupers dumped on her
shores? " inquired the captain blandly.
"Well, she doesn t. She will not have
you. She ll not let you land unless you
have thirty dollars. And if I should let
you escape she would fine my company a
hundred. It is not wholly a desire for
your society," ended he, wasting his
satire, "that will make me cany you
back. "

The Stowaway was dazed at this patient
explanation. He blinked, and his vague
mouth opened more widely and more
vaguely ; but before his slow lips could
frame a question, the captain had ordered
him taken away.

"Throw him in with the cattlemen,"

he said. "And don t forget to lock him
up when we sight Boston light. We
don t want any fines this voyage. And,
Harris there s no need to underfeed
him. He s a harmless looking creature,
damn him ! "

With which mild infringement of the
company s rule against profanity on the
part of its officers, the captain s profes
sional annoyance departed, and his natural
cool kindliness resumed its sway. Still,
the Stowaway was scarcely to be blamed
for having no great opinion of his good
nature when finally he found himself
among the cattlemen, with only his re
membrances and his observations to cheer
his voyage.

His remembrances were rather pathetic
ones of a poor little Irish settlement
lying in the shelter of a hill that sloped
down to a green valley on one side and to
the sea on the other ; of cabins that
looked out upon one another in a sort of
melancholy isolation ; of footpaths that
wavered up to the brow of the steep and
down again to the sea the sea that
called insistently ; the sea that the gulls
might fly across, and that the weekly
steamer clove so straight and proud ; the
sea that allured and invited with a
promise of golden fullness beyond it.
But now the boy, hearing it rush along
the side of the vessel, longed to hear in
stead the tinkle of a Siinday bell ; and
seeing only sapphire immensity before
him, yearned for hills that hedged him
in and for paths where his feet might
walk securely.

Yet his heart was dully rebellions
against the thought of return. Through
the thick haze that hung over his mind,
the idea of a blossoming land of promise
had struck. He wanted America that
the sea had promised him, that the gulls
perchance flew to, that the steamers
sought, that had been bountiful and
blessed to one of his people. And America
wanted none of him !

While he debated this hard problem in
his mind, watching meanwhile the upper
deck, where well dressed, indolent people
strolled and played their hours away, the
cattlemen told him stories of his probable
reception in America. Having no cattle
to tend, they had plenty of leisure, and
the salt air sharpened their imaginations.

FOR THE LIVERPOOL ORPHANS.

The inquisition offered few such tortures
as the} assured him would fall to his
lot during the few da) s before the re
turn of the steamer. Prison doors yawned
for him ; for him stock and pillory and
ducking stool were to be revived. The
relentless fury that pursued those who
would have attempted not only to de
fraud a steamship company, but to im
pose upon the United States government
as well, was vividly pictured.

Mike Lannehan, listening with fear in
the wide set eyes and the mouth that fell
vacuously open, grew confusedly to dread
the land that had beckoned him. And
somehow all the disappointment and the
apprehension centered in a dislike for the
bright creature who caressed a dark fiddle
with her cheek and mysteriously ruled
the spirits of the little crowd above with
the movements of her bow. He dimly
felt that these were the representatives
of the other order of things the order
of torture and banishment. And she,
with her shining hair and her insolent
music, was the very embodiment of the
hostility that crushed him unknowingly
and uncaringly.

Meantime the Violinist, who had a
fondness for picturesque philanthropy,
revolved in her youthfully generous
mind a little plan for his betterment. She
had played her way so successfully into
the captain s confidence that she knew of
the Stowaway s plight almost from the
time of his discovery. On the day be
fore the Ethelberta was to land she
whispered to the captain, who was pic
turesquely disporting himself among his
passengers :

Tell them about the Stowaway, and
I ll get my fiddle and will play you any
thing you want."

The captain shrugged his shoulders,
but told the story, as movingly as seemed
to him consistent with official dignity.
His hearers were only languidly inter
ested in the matter when the trays ap
peared with afternoon tea. Then the
Stowawa} , sitting below and biting his
fingers to the flesh because of the clamim-
fear of unknown horror that was upon him,
was forgotten. One young lady, to be
sure, was vivaciously anxious to see him,
and proposed an expedition to go below
and look at him. But her sandwich was

too thickly buttered, and she quickly be
came absorbed in that grievance.

"Did you tell them ?" asked the Vio
linist softly of the captain when she came
back.

"Yes," replied the captain, smiling
cynically at her eagerness.

Did they care ?

" Not a-tuppence, " replied the captain
bluntly.

"They shall care !" said the Violinist,
snapping her lips and sliding her violin
lovingly beneath her chin. " They shall
care. Watch me make them ! "

Then she began to play very softly. It
was a glad, childlike little tune, and it
combined with the tea and the sandwiches
to make the passengers gently disposed
toward all that part of the universe not
sharing their joys. Mild pity even for
misguided stowaways was included in the
feeling of comfortable benevolence it in
spired. It gave place to something pas-
torally sweet like lanes with hawthorn
blossoms starring the hedges, and stars
powdering the sky, and young lovers
walking stilly hand in hand. Then there
came a little undertone of melancholy ;
something was lost ; was it a star from
the sky, a blossom from the hedge ?
Surely not enough to spoil the sweetness
of the strain ; no, for there was the strain
again ; yet, yes for there the wail was ;
and now it was the insistent note ; it
dominated ; turbulent notes crowded upon
one another ; then, gradually, harmony
once more not the sweet melody of lilac
blooms and walks at evenfall, but steady
harmony, like that of the spheres revolv
ing to the music of nature s law ; trium
phant harmony, with here an echo of the
old childlike merriment, and there a note
of youthful sweetness, and there again a
sotind of a sob but all brought into one.
swinging magnificently along. As the}
heard it, people s eyes grew moist ; their
breath came quickly ; now they remem
bered what it had been to hope and to
trust and to lose, and all their hearts were
.stirred to keep away the bitter knowledge
from any one who had still a spring-like
confidence left. Now they were pitiful
toward young things and toward illu
sions.

"I said I d never play it, " remarked
the Violinist casually when she paused,

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" until I made my first appearance in
America. My master wrote it for me.
You ll have to pay oh, such a sum ! to
hear me do that in New York next winter.
And you ve got to pay me now. Ladies
and gentlemen ! This is not for those
Liverpool orphans. Every other ship
that plies the Atlantic has done its duty
by them. They ve had concerts innumer
able. But we have a waif of our own.
This is for the Stowawaj\ What will
you give for the Stowaway ? For he shall
not go back, shall he?"

Her cap was off her sunny head, and
she was standing with it outstretched.
Into it coin and bills fell fast. It was
quite full when she sat down with it to
count her spoil, laughing and crying
together.

" Ninety dollars ! she called out glee
fully. " And forty cents ! And oh, listen,
people, listen ! Professor Hemenway s
address is here, and Mike Lannehan is to
call on him for work. Oh !"

"I thought my gardener might need
an assistant, " said the professor, blushing
as at detected crime.

" We ll have him up for inspection to
morrow morning while we re waiting for
the doctor to come aboard, Miss White,"
said the captain beamingly. " You shall
give the money to him j ourself. And
now I propose three cheers for the Vio
linist !"

They re having a good time up there,
ain t they ?" said one of the cattlemen to
the Stowaway.

" Yis, " he answered monosyllabically.

But you should hear them cheer at a
bull fight, " pursued the cheerful cattle
man. "I ve told you about our bull
fights, haven t I ?"

" Yis, " said Mike.

You want to pray to your Virgin and
to all 3 our saints that they won t take
that way of punishing yon for stealing
this ride and trying to cheat the United
States government. Being gored by a.
bull is awful. Now don t you think it
would be ?"

" Yis," said Mike. Before his mental
vision brutal heads and cruel faces
rowded , fierce animals bore down upon
him. The yellow haired Violinist fiddled,
pressing her round chin upon her instru
ment. Then there slipped into place a fleet

ing sight of the sea from Kilkoyne ; of an
ivied ruin in the solemn distance, and of
lonely, kindly little huts upon the hills.
Mechanically he felt for his talisman, the
old silver watch. He could not remem
ber that he did not have it. And he
groaned in his misery and slipped a\\ay
from the jocular cattlemen, to lie all
night at the steamer s stern, and to press
his hands confusedly upon his hot fore
head.

They lay outside Boston harbor next
morning. There was a thick fog, and
they waited to let the sun burn it awa\-.
The shrill, shuddering fog horn of the
steanier and that on the lighthouse called
to each other thickty through the mist.
The passengers were impatient.

"Let s have the Stowaway up now to
while away the time," suggested the
vivacious young lady.

" Not yet," said the Violinist, who was
crossly decisive, being annoyed at the
delay. " Wait until the sun clears this
dreadful veil away and the poor boy c&a
see to what he has come. "

Down below the cattlemen were happily
engaged in putting some finishing touches
to their stories. The Stowaway was
highly amusing when in a panic. His
parted lips were dry, but his red hair
hung damply to his forehead. He was a
comical figure.

He tried to pierce the thick pall with
his eyes. He tried to shut out of his
ears the calling of the fog horns. He
tried to remember what he had once
dreamed of his landing, but only a vision
of a bull fight, with the Violinist pla\ - ing
for his destruction, would come to his
mind. Then, suddenly, with great clear
ness, he saw the hill at home with the
wavering paths leading across it ; he saw
the gulls flying, and heard the one sweet
note of the Sunday bell.

Hearing that, he closed his uncertain
eyes and his mouth grew firm with sud
den decision ; and before the monotone
of the church bell had died away, or his
vague lips had parted uncertainly again,
lie had sprung over out into the gray
mist and down into the grav water.
#**

So in spite of herself, the proceeds of
the Violinist s first concert went to the
Liverpool orphans.

THESE are the Easter bells
Ah, goldeniy, ah, silverly they ring!

Across the hilltops, down the darkling dells,
The resurrection chime of each fair spring.

Along the garden ways v

There comes the golden jonquils trumpet call :

"Oh, Easter bells, ring in the glad new days!
God s smile, the sunshine, lieth over all!"

Martini McCulloch- Williams.

DOWNMAN AND HIS PORTRAITS.

A Devonshire artist of a hundred years ago whose hasty pencil sketches of women and children
are treasured as heirlooms in many English families.

IX the beautiful west of England shire
of Devon people say that their count}-
has produced more artists than any other
part of Britain. Certainly, in its ever
changing atmospheric effects, its inex

haustible variety of scenery, an artist
should find inspiration ; and more than
thirty painters who have become known
to fame have been born in Devonshire.
In some of the fine old homes of the

MRS. JAMES BUTTEKL
From a pencil portrait by John

DOWNMAN AND HIS PORTRAITS.

county families there are carefully
preserved heirlooms which are art
treasures. One of the most highl}*
prized possessions that a Devonshire
house can boast is a portfolio of draw
ings by John Downman. Downman
was a Devonshire bo} r , who went up
to London with his pencil in his hand
as his only introduction to the great
world there, and became the pupil
of Benjamin West, then president of
the Royal Academy. West took a
great interest in the young drafts
man s work, and kept this up after
Downman left him to go into the
Royal Academy schools.

In 1777 Downman went to Cam
bridge to live, and then it was that,
quite by accident, he began making
in his sketch book those miniature
drawings which have since become
so famous. He was a favorite
wherever he went, and was a guest
at many of the great houses. He was
like a musician who cannot keep his
fingers from the piano. Wherever
he was, Downman could not lav aside

MISS HARRIS ( 1780).
a pencil porti-ait by John Doivninan,

LADY LEWISHAM.
From a feudl portrait by John Dcnvninan.

his pencil. Every turn of a
pretty woman s head, every un
conscious poise of a child s
figure, fascinated him, and he
was restless unless he was able
to record it. After his sketches
were made, he appears to have
cared little for them ; and when
he was staying in a house, and
had put all the people about
him upon scraps of paper, he
left them to his host, or to any
one who cared enough for them
to collect them.

He would sometimes fancy a
face enough to begin to tint it,
and then some new idea would
enter his mind. He doubtless
considered, like Whistler, that
whatever he did was finished
from the beginning. He was
an indefatigable worker, and
after his return to London in
1778 he contributed regularly
to the exhibitions. Seven years
later he was made an Associate
of the Royal Academy. At this
time he had a home in Leicester

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MISS BRANSBY COOPER (NORFOLK, 1796).
From a pencil portrait by John Downinan.

Square, which was frequented by all the
smart and clever people of the day. In
1806 he visited his native county, sta3 - ing
at Plymouth, and during 1807 and 1808
he was in Exeter. Everywhere he went
he seems to have left a trail of draw
ings behind him, on almost all of which
he wrote some descriptive legend and
a date. From Exeter he went back to
London, and then, in 1818, he settled in
Chester.

It is impossible to give anything like a
list of the works of Downman. Between
1769 and 1819 he exhibited at the Royal

Academy a hundred and fort} eight pic
tures, chiefly portraits. Many of these
were small works in oil. But Downman s
most distinctive talent was shown in his
miniature drawings, of which he himself
appears to have thought so little. In
1884 the British Museum purchased a
volume containing a great number of his
tinted drawings, among them several
which have now been separately mounted,
and are among the most valued of the
drawings owned there. One of these is
the portrait of Miss Butteel, whose child
portrait is printed here. A portrait of

DOWNMAN AND HIS PORTRAITS.

101

Mrs. Downman was engraved b}- John hands of man}- collectors. There are

Landseer in 1805. famous collections of his miniature draw-

At Burleigh Court there are three or ings at Sir George Duntze s residence,

four volumes of Downman s portraits.
In 1865 Ralph Neville Grenville made a
private catalogue of these drawings,
which are wonderfully executed in black
and white chalks. It was privately
printed at Taunton, and is now in the

Exeleigh, and at Escot, the seat of Sir
John H. Kennaway, member of Parlia
ment for Honiton, Devonshire.

In 1780, Bartolozzi engraved a portrait
of Mrs. Montague, in profile, after Down-
man, and a little later, Downman s por-

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MUNSEY- S MAGAZINE.

THIi HO^. MRS. PKTRU.

From a pencil portrait by John Downinan.

trait of the Duchess of Devonshire \v;us
engraved by the celebrated Italian artist.
Another of his best drawings \vas his
portrait of Sarah Kemble, v afterwards
famous as Mrs. Siddons, which was en
graved by J. Jones in 1784.

There is in all these drawings, and es

pecially in the tinted ones, a delicate
beaut}- which is indescribable. Down-
man put a vivacity, a coquetry, into the
shading of a lip, the shadow- under an
eye, or into a light touch of the chalk
which became a dimple. He loved a
slightly protruding under lip, and his

DOWNMAN AND HIS PORTRAITS.

103

Lady Maria Waldegrave
and Lady Francis Finch
look like sisters because
he could not resist the
temptation to picture them
both with a playful pout.
The women he drew arc-
not the artificial court
beauties. Even when they
are ladies of great names
and manners they become,
in these miniatures of his,
simply women of moods,
and more human and full
of temperament than in all
the glory of splendid col
ors which were given to
them by greater artists.
Here we see the woman as
a novelist, a dissector of
character, might have seen
her ; only with Downman
she is always lovely and
full of good humored
charm. His children are
the most delightful in the
world, and it was noth
ing short of genius with

MRS. DYNIC (,1779).
From a pencil portrait by John Downntai,

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE

MASTER BUTTEEL (,1796).
/ rain a pencil portrait by John Dawninau.

which he caught their childish softness, for the past century. Some of them bear

their innocence and diffidence, with a few dates nearly twenty years apart, testify-

turns of a point of black chalk. ing to more than one of Downman s

The drawings we show are from the visits, but there is a remarkable identity

private collection of an old Devonshire of style between the earliest and the

family, where they have been treasured latest.

Tl)e NeioYorK NavyWd

THE CAPTURED GUNS AND THE CAPTAIN S OFFICE.

Our chief naval workshop and dockyard, its historical associations, its trophies of American
victories at sea, its costly mechanical equipment, and its important share in the building
and maintenance of our new navy.

OVER on the Long Island side of the
East River, between the Brooklyn
Bridge and the Williamsburgh ferries
Avhere a second great bridge is soon to
span the stream there lies one of the
most historic, important, and interesting
spots in Greater New York. Yet it is
safe to say that the great majority of the
dwellers of the metropolis have never
visited the navy yard ; that thousands of
them do not even know that the chief
American naval station is so close within
their doors. At a time like the present,
when rumors of war are in the air, when
our decks, literally or metaphorically,
are cleared for action, and when at almost
any moment a spark of provocation may
ignite our powder and set the cannons
booming, a glimpse at our great marine
workshop may well have a special
interest.

The most memorable historical associ
ation of the place is a sad one. In "\Yal-
labout Bay the old Dutch name for this
inlet of the East River were anchored
the terrible British prison ships of the
Revolutionary war. Most famous of
these, or most infamous, was the Jersey,
the hulk of an old sixty four gun vessel,
in which more than a thousand captured
patriots were sometimes confined at one
time. Prisoners of war do not fare sump
tuously today, but a hundred and twenty
years ago their sufferings were horrible.
Scantily fed, and herded together as slaves
never were, they were scourged, in their
cramped and filthy quarters, by dysentery,
prison fever, and smallpox. "Down,
rebels, down ! " was their guards order
at night, and in the morning : "Rebels,
turn out your dead! " The dead were
taken ashore, sewed up in blankets, and

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

WASH DAY ABOARD THE MAINE, OX HER LAST VISIT TO THE NEW YORK NAVY YARD.
From a photograph by IMulhr, Brooklyn.

buried in shallow graves in the sand. It
is said that from the Jersey alone there
were taken, during the war, eleven
thousand bodies. In 1808 the bones of
these martyrs were gathered by the Tam
many Society, and placed in a vault near
the main entrance of the navy yard ; and
some years ago a monument to their
memory was erected in Trinity Church
yard.

Today the scene is a very different
one. As we enter the ponderous gates
at Sands Street, a senhy challenges, and
demands a pass before admitting the
visitor. Inside, one of the first sights is
a park of guns captured by American
men of war, and among them we note a
long cannon bearing the British arms
and the initials "G. R.," telling of vic
tory over one of George Ill s frigates.

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE BATTLESHIP TEXAS.
From a photograph by Midler, Brooklyn.

There are Mexican mortars, Confederate spicuously in their staring hue of go vern-

howitzers, and other trophies that testifj- ment }-ellow. The surroundings are

to the prowess of our sailors. About us strangely quiet. Our footsteps echo

are vistas of wide and well shaded streets, about the buildings, and a hunying

Offices and storehouses stand out con- orderl}- seems out of place here, where

THE COMMANDANT S RESIDENCE.
From a photograpli by Afiiller, Brooklyn.

i I

I IO

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

OF VICTORY PRESENTED TO THE MASSACHUSETTS BY

STATE OF MASSACHUSETTS.
From a photograph by Mulhr, Brooklyn.

memories of the past alone
live.

But as we near the water
front, the impression of
quietude, of leisurely offi
cialdom, disappears. From
the almost deserted streets
we approach sights and
sounds more familiar to
the city bred individual.
Here everything is bustle
and noise. Mills and shops
are humming with life and
orderly confusion. The
sounds of Wagnerian
music that issue from
.one of the large buildings
tell unmistakably of the
making of boilers. We
begin to realize that this
is the home station of the
North Atlantic Squadron.

At the time of our visit
we find a great part of the
fleet at home, and there is
always much repairing to
be done to keep the intri
cate and costly machinery
of guns and engines in
the pink of condition de
manded by an efficient

THE BATTLESHIP IOWA, THE FIRST SHIP IN DRY DOCK NO. 3.
From a photograph by Muller, Brooklyn.

THK NEW YORK NAVY YARD.

ii i

THE ARMORED CRUISER NEW YORK.

TEN INCH GUNS ON THE MONITOR AMPHITRITE.
From photographs by Muller, Brooklyn.

112

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Navy Department. Sometimes Uncle Sam
becomes his own .shipbuilder, and con
structs in these workshops such vessels as
the Maine and the Texas both of them
fine specimens of marine architecture, al
though the former met so terrible a fate

best appointed in the matter of dry docks,
repair shops, and coaling facilities, and
most of our men of war are periodically
ordered here for the overhauling they in
evitably require.

The most attractive an&lt;J imposing sight

DECK OF THE BATTLESHIP INDIANA.
From a photograph by Mullcr, Brooklyn.

in Havana harbor, and the latter has not
been a very lucky ship. It may be noted
that the two pictures of the battleship
Maine presented here are from photo
graphs obtained when she was home for
the last time at the nav}- yard, before her
fatal cruise to Cuban waters. There are
no ships under construction at present,
but a great deal of important work is in
hand in the line of refitting and equip
ping, and the dangers of the political situa
tion have brought about a call for haste.
Of all the government j-ards, this is the

at the navy yard is its group of warships
looming up in formidable grandeur at the
water s edge. From the ten thousand
ton battleship to the diminutive torpedo
boat we have presented to us almost
ever} type of vessel in our new navy.
By grace of an acquaintance with an
officer on board, we may walk up the
steep gang plank, and find ourselves on
the deck of the Indiana, one of our
newest and finest battleships. While of
smaller displacement than some vessels
of foreign navies, naval experts claim for

THE NEW YORK NAVY YARD.

this class, to which the
Massachusetts and Oregon
also belong, an all around
superiority&lt;pKier nearly if
not quite any other ship of
heavy armament, so skilful
is the disposition of batteries
and armor. A glance at the
picture of the deck of the
Indiana, on page 112, will
give an idea of the tremen
dous size of her great guns.
There are four of these
thirteen inch rifles on the
ship, capable of throwing a
projectile weighing more
than half a ton to a dis
tance of eleven miles. Count
ing all the guns of her first
and secondary batteries, the
Indiana can hurl the stu
pendous weight of nine
tons of solid steel projectiles
at one discharge. So much
for the offensive powers of
this class of ship ; and for
the toughness of the nickel
steel envelope that protects
their vitals the following
incident will vouch. When
the bronze figure of Vic
tor} , which was presented
by the State of Massachu
setts to the ship bearing its
name, was to be fastened to
the forward turret, it was
found necessary to send to
the Cramps yard, in Phil
adelphia, to obtain the only
tool capable of drilling a
hole in the almost impen
etrable metal that clothes the
vessel.

Of the other types repre
sented in the North Atlantic
squadron the New York and
the Brooklyn are magnifi
cent specimens of our ar
mored cruisers, possessing
heavy armament and great
speed at the same time.
At Queen Victoria s jubilee
naval pageant, this country
was represented by the
Brooklyn, and the ship that
bore the Stars and Stripes

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE ALLIANCE, AN OLD WOODEN MAN O) WAR, N()\V USED Ai
From a photcgraph ly Mitflcr, Brooklyn.

attracted more attention and more un
stinted praise than any other foreign
visitor in the great display.

Turning to the smaller craft, the gun
boat Newport, with her tapering mast
and delicate lines, looks more like a yacht
than a man of war. Six four inch guns

protruding from her open ports tell
another story, and a closer inspection
of this trim little cruiser shows her real
strength. The possession of both sail
and steam power, in this class of ship,
renders possible a long absence from a
coaling station an important point in

.iin iim .un.: ,\ i is mum

DRY DOCK NO. 3, THE TWO MILLION DOLLAR DOCK THAT PROVED DEFECTIVE.

From a photograph by A/tiller, Brooklyn.

THE GUNBOAT NEWPORT, DRYING HER SAILS.
From a photograph by Midler, Brooklyn.

MAGAZINE.

IK MONITOR PURITAN, WITH UJCCK CLKAKKD
From a photograph by Mn ler, Brooklyi

the service on the China station, for
which it was specially designed.

The Navy Department did not make
a feature of torpedo boats in its first
plans for the new navy. But lately our
marine architects have been turning their
ingenuity to the designing of those swift
little vessels with the same success that
has been theirs in larger types. The

Dupont, which is shown on page 109 as
she appeared in dry dock, can steam
twenty seven knots an hour, equivalent
to about thirty land miles. A boat of
this kind depends wholly on her speed.
vShe has no protection. It is her duty to
steal upon an enemy, launch her formid
able eighteen inch Whitehead torpedo,
and then retreat if she can. But should

MUNSEY S MAGAZINK.

THE DECK OF THE ALLIANCE.
From a photograph by ^fuller, Brooklyn.

she meet a hostile boat of her own type,
or a torpedo destroyer, the Dupont can
defend herself adequately with her four
rapid fire guns.

Our naval power is not yet anything to
brag of to the rest of the world, for we
stand as far down as fifth in the list of
maritime nations. But we may feel a
very stanch pride in it among ourselves,
remembering its history and foreseeing
its future. Fifteen years ago our navy
was the laughing stock of all the other
powers, and justly, for a more discourag
ing set of antique wooden tubs never
tried to be a fleet. Remembering that, we
can afford to have a little private pride
about what the Navy Department has
accomplished in the short interval be
tween President Arthur s administration
and President McKinley s.

During the last year there has been
something of a halt in the government s

plans for naval extension, no new ships
having been laid down. It is certain,
however, that an active policy of con
struction will be resumed at once, as one
of the results of the present crisis in our
foreign relations. Meanwhile, the month
of March was made memorable in our
maritime annals by the launching of two
great battleships, the Kearsage and Ken
tucky, each of more than eleven thou
sand tons displacement.

Every year sees important advances
made in the American navy. We have
already nearly twenty armored vessels.
As yet we can boast of only fifteen
cruisers, but almost every one of them is
in the foremost rank of its class. There
is an equal number of gunboats and tor
pedo vessels, all of the best design and
equipment. Our sea power has achieved
dignity in the eyes of the world, and is
on its way to something better. Of

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE MAINE IN DRY DOCK BEFORE HER FATAL CRUISE TO HAVANA.
From a photograph by Muller, Brooklyn.

course, our might is still theoretical, like
that of a pugilist who has encountered
nothing more formidable than a punching
bag, but, like him, we have something
to fight with when the need comes. No
doubt our occasional clamor for war
comes partly from a public desire to try

these new muscles and see how they
work.

Visitors are always welcome to the
Navy Yard during the daytime, and those
who are interested in the country s growth
will find no department of its service
more interesting.

LIFE.
LIFE, like one vapory spherule of the tear

A homeless orphan sheds at midnight lone,
Is seized in silence by the winds austere

And whirled away into the dark unknown.

But not more surely, after rounds of change,

Shall that lost wanderer reach once more the main,

Than shall the soul, how far soe er it range,
Be merged into its native sea again.

Hen ry Jerome Stock a rd.

A THEATRICAL FIRST NIGHT.

BY JAMES L. FORD.

Before and behind the scenes at the opening of a new theatrical venture The
manager and the star, the claque and the critics, the press agent and the electrician,
and the part that each plays in the drama of a New York "first night."

\ BRACING winter night in New
\. York, the heavens bright with a
myriad stars, the city aglow with electric
lights ; a night of deep significance to
those employed at the Jollity Theater,
whose front is illumined with a huge elec
tric sign announcing the first perform
ance of a new play, with a new star in
the person of a young woman who has
been before the public in minor roles for
the past half dozen years. It is an im
portant night for her, as well as for the
manager who first discovered her talent,
and who has staked nearly everything he
owns on her success.

Behind the curtain the stage carpenters
are busy with some final alterations or
dered at the rehearsal in the morning, the
property man is going carefully over the
list of "props," and the stage manager
is moving about everywhere, satisfying
himself that everything and everybody
concerned in the performance is on hand.

In her dressing room the star dress
ing room now, mind you, and not one of
the little ones up stairs the new star is
biisy with her maid, in nervous prepara
tion for her first appearance before a
metropolitan audience. She can look
back over six years of hard, consci
entious work, varied by periods of en
forced idleness, sickness, poverty, and
despair ; but she has in her something of
the fiber that triumphs over difficulties.
Now that one of the crucial moments of
her career is at hand, she tries bravely,
but almost hopelessly, to face the ordeal
in a calm spirit, and to drive out of her
brain the awful feelings of despair that
come over her at the mere thought of
possible failure.

It still lacks a quarter of an hour of the
time to "ring up." She has plenty of
time before her, and yet, when the maid

carelessly breaks a string, she barely es
capes a fit of hysterical weeping. The
dresser, however, has had experience
with dramatic stars, and she quickly and
quietly repairs the damage without ap
pearing to notice the excited outcries of
her mistress. It is this very serenity on
the part of the serving woman that re
stores the confidence of the actress, and
induces a mood more fitting for the work
that lies before her this evening.

She will make a gallant fight tonight,
this slender woman with the pale face,
the great lustrous eyes, the moving
voice, and, behind all these, and perhaps
best of all, the true artistic temperament.
It is indeed a fight that lies before her,
and one well worthy of all the tempera
ment and personality she can summon to
her aid. It is not a fight for mere noto
riety, for columns of newspaper praise,
for the right to have her pictures on the
dead walls and in the shop windows. No,
her fight is to reach the human hearts that
lie beyond the footlights, to bring tears to
the eyes and smiles to the lips. That is
the hope that is uppermost in her mind
in the moments when she can collect
her disordered fancies and compose her
self to rational thinking.

It is in these moments that the thought
of the critics comes upon her with crush
ing and disheartening force not of the
men who have written essays on her
beauty and talent, or lack of both, whtn
she played before them in provincial
towns, but the blase satirists who for
years have sat in the same seats in New
York playhouses, and before whom a long
procession of players Salvini, Bernhardt,
Duse, Rejane, Coquelin, Booth, Jefferson,
and all have passed in review, to be
weighed in the balance, and perhaps
found wanting in artistic finish. They

122

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

will all be here tonight, the leading repre
sentatives of the profession of dramatic
criticism if there be such a profession in
this country because the Jollity s open
ing is the most important one of the
night. She rejoiced when her manager
first made this fact known to her, but now
she wishes that there were other plays
and other stars to draw some of the fire
from her.

To satisfy the mysterious power that
they wield she can offer nothing but her
art which is, after all, the full expres
sion of her whole soul and being. There
are not many to be found with the abso
lute sincerity and fine temperament of
this pale woman with the speaking eyes.
It was these qualities which first attracted
the attention, and afterwards won the un
bounded confidence, of the shrewd man
ager who trusts in her and has staked
everything on her success.

He is in his box office now, this rare
one of his kind who believes in art. His
house will be filled tonight, for it is the
first performance of a much talked of play,
and the star has long enjoyed a certain
popularity as a delineator of character
parts, who gave promise of great things.
He knows that if she succeeds her triumph
WJ! 1 be a great one, and that if she fails
the next salary day will find him a ruined
man. Nevertheless, there is a smile on
his face as he strolls out into the lobby,
to see the doors thrown open, and to note
the first man to pass through them for
he is superstitious, this courageous, far
seeing speculator, and firmly believes that
he can read in the face of the earliest ar
rival a prophecy of success or failure.

The first comer looks like a prosperous
business man, and as he marches straight
to the box office and, buys an orchestra
chair, the manager is inclined to see in
his presence an omen of good fortune.
Of course he may be a swindler or a bank
burglar, but he does not look it. Besides,
the fact that he bought his ticket as if he
were in the habit of paying for such
luxuries, and made no attempt to get in
for nothing, materially raises him in the
manager s estimation.

The minutes roll on, and the people be
gin to drop in, one after another, or in
couples and groups of three or half a
dozen. It is not until nearly eight o clock,

however, that what are termed the regu
lar first nighters are seen passing
through the door. The manager who be
lieves in art has no faith in these impor
tant looking men ; but through long
years of usage they have acquired the
right of admittance on first nights, and
the proprietor of the theater does not dare
to dispute it with them, because he has a
vague idea that they can bring him ill
hick. It would be impossible for even
the oldest and wisest member of the
theatrical profession to explain why these
" first nighters " are thus honored, or to
tell exactly when the privileges they now
enjoy were first accorded to them. It is
enough to say that there are very few
theaters in town that they cannot enter
by merely nodding pleasantly to the
doorkeeper ; and this is all the more to
be wondered at when we consider the fact
that they are of no use to the management
or star, and that their opinions are abso
lutely valueless.

Among the regular first nighters are
the dramatic critics, who are all in eve
ning dress, and who give no indication in
their faces that they are looking forward
to anything very enjoyable. One of them,
who has grown old and gray in the ser
vice of his paper, permits his head to fall
forward on his breast, and almost imme
diately falls into a profound sleep.
Towards the close of the first act he sud
denly awakes, and, sitting bolt upright
in his chair, gazes severety at the stage,
and rapidly makes a few notes on the back
of an envelope. He has seen so many plays
that he knows, or thinks he knows, every
situation within the range of dramatic
literature, and he finds it a dreadful bore to
see these old familiar scenes compelled
to do duty again and again in pla3^s that
are announced as " absolutely new."

Another critic is a young man who
wears his hair over his forehead, and
takes a serious view of himself and his
responsibility to the public. He has been
a dramatic critic for only three months,
but somehow, before the evening is over,
he has contrived to make his importance
known to nearly every one who sits with
in hearing distance of him. He is ac
companied by a fair young girl with
great, trusting blue eyes, who looks up
at him in wonder and admiration as he

A THEATRICAL FIRST NIGHT.

123

tells her about the different actors and
actresses, and what they are like when
you meet them "off the stage." He
himself is very particular, he assures her,
in regard to his theatrical associates, be
cause he cannot afford to have his critical
opinions influenced by feelings of per
sonal friendship.

As a matter of fact, this young man is
stage struck in the very worst sort of
way, and would go any distance for the
purpose of making the acquaintance of
an actor or an actress. He is even think
ing about writing a play, and is confident
that his work as a dramatic critic will
enable him to dispose of it. He would
give his eye teeth to be admitted on
terms of familiar intimacy behind the
scenes of any theater.

Directly in front of him sits a tall, thin
young man, who seems to be well known
to a large part of the audience, for there
are many who nvrdge their companions as
he comes down the aisle, and point him
out as one of the minor celebrities of the
town. As he passes the doorkeeper, the
manager salutes him with the utmost
cordiality and deference, but says under
his breath, as soon as the young man s
back is turned : " I almost wish there was
something opening against us tonight
that would take him away. He s here to
roast, and for nothing else. "

No wonder the manager greets him
cordially and wishes that he was some
where el,se, for he is the witty critic who
must make a funny article no matter who
may suffer. The public expects something
sarcastic from his pen, his editor demands
it, and he himself is afraid to speak
favorably of anybody or anything, for
fear that the readers of his paper will
either yawn over his criticism, and declare
that he is becoming weak and tiresome,
or else insinuate that he has taken a bribe.
There is nothing open for him except to
scoff, and he will go on scoffing and ridi
culing and sneering until the end of the
chapter.

Not until long after the curtain has
risen on the first act are all these critics
in their places. The last one to arrive
and one of the most important, if one may
judge by the deference with which he is
received by the manager does not sit
down at all, but simply scans the house

with sharp, far seeing eyes, and makes
notes of the occupants of the boxes. Then
the manager leads him away to his own
den behind the box office, and hands him
a list which he has prepared himself, at
the same time offering him a cigar and a
glass of whisky.

"They re all here, Charlie, you may be
sure of that, " continues the manager in
confident tones, as the other runs a
doubting eye down the paper. " I took
their names down myself as they came in.
It isn t a case of copying from the Social
Register. There s Mrs. Blitherton Dives
in the lower right hand box, and the
Duncan-Smythes with their party right
next them. On the other side are

Yes, I saw them all there, rejoins the
other, " and I notice also that the names
are not arranged alphabetically, as they
are when they take them out of the Reg
ister. Any way, they ll go tonight;"
and with these words he writes, " Among
those present were " at the head of the
list, puts it in his pocket, and hastily de
parts.

Having shaken hands with the society
reporter, whose importance as a factor of
success on a first night the manager fully
appreciates, he .steals quietly into the
auditorium, and tiptoes down the side
aisle to his own box, in which are seated
his wife and two or three theatrical friends.
For a few minutes he remains there, an
attentive watcher, not of the stage, but
of the audience. He never looks at the
stage on a first night, but simply watches
the faces of the spectators, to see at what
points the interest flags, and where it be
comes intense.

He catches the eye of one of his
faithful henchmen, who has been
stationed in an orchestra chair to
give the signals for applause to the half
dozen confederates who are scattered about
the theater. They have nothing to do
but start it, for there are whole rows of
seats filled with the friends and well
wishers of the star, who may be de
pended on to make the theater ring with
their plaudits the very moment the sig
nal is given. ^

The claque as it exists in Paris is un
known in New York ; nor is there any
need for such an institution, so long as
actors and managers possess personal

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

friends to do the work for nothing. To
night, led by the discerning henchman,
taken up instantly by the cohorts of ad
miring friends, and carried on by the
great army of simple minded people who
follow their leaders with the docility of a
flock of sheep, the enthusiasm grows in
volume to a point that causes the mana
ger s brow to wrinkle anxiously, for no one
knows better than he the danger of over
doing it. He shakes his head at his
henchman, and the other nods under-
standingly.

As the curtain falls, the manager darts
through the door in the back of his box,
and goes into the prompt entrance, where
the electrician is standing with his hand on
the lever that regulates the lights. There
is a loud call for the star, but .she must
not take it alone ; and the curtain rising
again discloses her standing with becom
ing modesty among the other actors who
figured in the last scene. Another call
brings the curtain up again, to reveal
precisely the same group, the star bend
ing her head with downcast eyes, and
completely ignoring the fact that the ap
plause is intended for her any more than
for her associates.

Then the curtain falls again, and this
time finally, for the electrician, literally
working with the manager s directing
hand on his arm, turns on the lights, the
men in aisle seats get up and make for
the lobby, the women begin to look
around at the other women, and the ap
plause dies away, dispelled by the bright
glare of electric lights. It is too early in
the game for the star to take a call alone.
There must be something held in reserve
for the end of the piece.

When the manager reaches the lobby
he finds it full of the first nighters, who
are standing about and apparently wait
ing for something. He notices that some
of them are wagging their heads omi
nously, while two or three are remarking
rather loudly that the}- are afraid "she ll
never do.

"Tom," says the manager who be
lieves in art to his press agent, who
believes in favorable criticisms and many
of them, "get those old codgers out of
the lobby and give them something to
drink before they queer the show. I can
tell vouit s the last time I ll consent to

give up the best seats in the house to a
lot of first nighters that you have to bribe
with rum to keep quiet between the acts.
However, I suppose I ought to be thank
ful that they don t make a noise while
the play is going on. "

So Tom, the press agent, gathers the
guests of the house under his protective
wing, and leads them to the cafe across
the street, where they remain until five
minutes after the rising of the curtain.

The manager now finds time to go back
upon the stage and offer a word or two of
encouragement to his star. Knowing
her to be a woman of moods and tenses,
and knowing what the nervous exactions
of a first night mean to one of her tem
perament, he knocks rather timidly at her
door, and is amazed to find her smiling,
calm, and radiant.

"Well, "he says, beaming pleasantly
upon her, "I never saw you in such
good form on a first night. I expected
to find you so rattled you wouldn t know
what you were doing. It s going all
right, and you needn t be afraid."

" I was rattled at first, " she says gaily;
but what do you think happened at the
end of my long scene ? You know that
big stage carpenter they call Frank ?
Well, as I came off at the end of it, I
almost ran into him where he was stand
ing in the wing, and he grabbed me by
the arm and said, You ll do, little
girl ! I looked up and he was crying.
That means I m all right, doesn t it?"

Then the manager, much relieved in
spirit, and marveling greatly at the un
expected phases of the feminine nature,
goes back to the box office to count up
the house," and the play goes on. At
the fall of the curtain he is again in the
prompt entrance with one hand on the
electrician s arm. After the entire com
pany has taken three recalls, he waves
the minor members off the scene with his
disengaged arm, the curtain goes up
again, and the star herself comes forward,
pale, lustrous eyed, and triumphant, 3*et
on the verge of collapse. Then the pent up
enthusiasm of an audience that has really
been deeply moved, and no longer needs
the leadership of the manager s faithful
henchmen, breaks forth.

The curtain falls, the lights are sud-
denlv turned on, and there is another

THE WHIRLWIND.

125

scamper for the lobby, some of the critics
taking their overcoats with them, and
going into the manager s office to begin
their work. It is half past ten, and their
matter must be in the printer s hands
soon after midnight ; besides which
many of them, notably the veterans,
would like to go home and go to bed.

There is an eager buzzing throughout
the house, for not only the enthusiastic
well wishers of the star, but the other
auditors as well, realize that a strong im
pression has been made by the slender
woman with the pale face and deep, lus
trous eyes, and that they are assisting
at a first night that is destined to take
rank as an important one in the chroni
cles of the New York stage. No one
leaves the theater now, except some of
the critics and other professional first
nighters. The rest are interested in the
story of the play, and are anxious to see
it to its end. They want to see how the
heroine fares, and how she extricates
herself from the difficulties which sur
round her.

There is one critic in the house who
remains until the very end of the last act,
for he was one of the first to observe the
star s genius when she was a young
and inexperienced actress, years before.
Standing up behind the last row of seats,
this man. whose enthusiasm for budding
talent has been dulled by thirty years of
constant theater going, watches her care
fully as she plays the great scene in the
third act. He hears the outbreak of ap
plause following close upon the heels of
the intense quiet that all true artists love,

and which in this case tells unmistakably
of the hold this pale faced woman has
taken on the sympathies of her audience.
Then he slips on his overcoat and hurries
away to his office, wondering carelesslv
what effect success and prosperity will
have on this woman in whose career he
has had a certain part.

By this time there are no more doubts
in the manager s heart. There is no need
of the services of the claque or of his
friends at the close of the act, when the
applause, which has been steadily gain
ing in volume, culminates in an outburst
that seems to make the theater rock.
There is no need now for the skilled hand
on the lever that regulates the lights and
incidentally molds public opinion in the
auditorium. The spectators are all on
their feet, and again and again, after the
whole company has been called out, does
the star appear alone, between smiles and
tears, to bow her acknowledgment of their
greeting. And then the curtain goes
down for the last time, the spectators dis
perse with songs of praise and delight on
their lips, and the manager, with his fur
trimmed overcoat wrapped about him,
and an unlighted cigar between his lips,
makes his way back to the dimly lighted
stage, a*hd taps on the door of the star s
dressing room.

"Well, girl, I rather think we ve
knocked em tonight, " he says.

" Yes, I felt it myself," she replies, as
a momentary smile of triumph lightens
her pale face, and dispels the look of in
expressible weariness and sadness that
has settled upon it.

THE WHIRLWIND.

K morning dawned so bright for me,

I did not dream of cloud or rain ;
A bird sang in the locust tree,

A rose smiled through the window pane.

Then, suddenly, with passion dire

A fearful wind filled all the land ;

Within my heart a spark of fire

Into a furious flame was fanned.

Midnight the storm sped far away,

Cold stars shone where the sun had been ;

The bird and rose all lifeless lay,

And I had seared my soul with sin.

Clarence I ni/y.

CASEY S CLAIM.

BY W. M. CHAUVENET.

The forty thousand dollar carelessness of a miner with a ready boot, a warm
heart, and a regard for his promise, even to a little red dog.

was climbing up the steep
\^s and dangerous trail on King Moun
tain to his claim near the divide. His
little red dog was with him.

An April thaw was melting the snow
and making trickling rills which, with
natural perversity, took to the sunken
path ; but Casey was clad to the hips in
rubber boots and didn t mind,

Great fog banks and trailing clouds
hung on the face of the mountain and hid
its lofty peak from view. Now and
then a mass of slushy snow slipped from
a heavy laden fir tree and deluged the
passing miner. To this, too, he seemed
equally indifferent, and plodded steadily
upward, Ms pick and shovel on his shoul
der, and a couple of .steel drills in his
hand.

The drills gave him trouble, for when
he failed to balance them exactly they
spread apart at the ends, in the form of a
letter X, and hurt his thumbs. Then
Casey would swear in a quiet way, and
drop them end up, to get another hold in
the middle.

The little red dog splashed and panted
cheerfully behind. He had been the
man s inseparable companion since the
day when Casey was buried in a snow
slide in Dead Man s Gulch and the faith
ful little friend stood barking above him,
locating his grave, until some fellow
miners came by and dug him out. Though
Casey was kind to the dog, he rarely
petted him, but let him take pot luck
along with the camp. He called him
" Pills " because he had got him from a
doctor at Medicine Hat.

Casey s claim was one of the richest in
Idaho Gulch. Twenty five thousand had
been offered for it when first struck, but
Casey wouldn t let go. The shaft had
struck the vein at forty feet, and the

twenty foot drift at that level was ex
posing a streak of ore running eighty
dollars in silver to the ton. The develop
ment thus far had all been done by Casey
and by a Welshman named Gilfoyle,
whom Casey had hired.

The wet spring had almost ruined the
roughly timbered shaft, and the main
drift was flooded, covering the vein.

It was a hard climb to the dump, but
Casey was a hard climber, and arrived at
his shaft only slightly winded, flinging
down the drills and other tools in a
jingling heap on the ground.

He rapped on the windlass, and a voice
answered from below.

" Is it you, Casey ? "

"Aye!"

"Is it a mud bath 3^ou come for, an
did you fetch along your hot water can ? "

"Is it water that s troublin you, Gil
foyle? It s rare that you re troubled
that way. "

He took the windlass and brought the
bucket up. Gilfoyle emerged, shining
with wet, and dripping with oozing yel
low mud from head to foot.

"How s she lookin , pard ? " said
Casey.

"She ain t lookin at all. She s as
blind as a ground hog; just a squirtin of
dirty water and a cavin and a creakin of
her blasted timbers. Ain t 3^ou got a
pug mill, Casey, for makin bricks?"

"Down I go, " said Casey, not deign
ing to notice this slur on his pet claim,
as he stepped into the bucket and seized
the dripping rope. At this Pills set up
a whimpering and scampered about the
curb of the shaft, in imminent danger of
plunging down.

"Not this time, pup, "said Casey, as
he disappeared. You ain t web footed.

Gilfovle lowered him down, and then

CASEY S CLAIM.

127

for four hours stood in the slush and
mire at the top of the shaft, winding up
and emptying the water that Casey sent
him from below, while Pills ran to and
fro, following the bucket to the edge of
the dump and back, and shivering in the
cold, raw wind. Hard, cold, wet, miser
able work it was, but not as hard nor as
cold nor as miserable as that which Casey
was doing down below. He stood knee
deep in the icy water, with the dripping
shaft raining upon him from above and
the bulging sides ever threatening to
spring and close him in. The candle
sputtered in the wet, and now and then
was wholly extinguished by a muddy
drop. The greasy, ill smelling smoke
that wouldn t rise made his eyes run.
The bad air made his chest heave and
his breath come hard. His boots chafed
his heels.

Worst of all, that day he was making
but little headway against the water,
which trickled down from above almost
as fast as the two men could fill and
hoist. Casey was feeling discouraged,
which was not common with him. At
last Gilfoyle carelessly kicked a stone
from the edge of the curb. Falling forty
feet, it struck Casey in the back as he
was bending down. This was the last
straw. Had the stone struck the miner s
head it would have killed him ; as it was,
it only bruised him, but it made him
angry.

When he came up at noon he was
tired, and when Casey was tired he was
mean, sometimes dangerous, always pro
fane. He began to swear even before his
head appeared above the curb, and
the sounds that issued from the shaft
warned Gilfoyle that an eruption was
threatening.

Pills, whose short tail, like a quick
wagging metronome, kept joyful time to
Casey s oaths, was the first to realize the
violence of the eruption. Having taken
the inopportune moment when Casey s
head emerged to rid himself of the super
fluous mud and water acquired in helping
Gilfoyle dump the bucket, he found him
self, a moment later, cruelly booted off
the dump by a big rubber sole, which
sent him howling with pain and surprise
into a spruce thicket far below.

"Shame on you, man. You broke his

hind leg," said Gilfoyle, as he climbed
down and gathered the whimpering dog
in his arms.

" Gimme my dog," said Casey, taking
Pills rudely from his partner s arms, but
nestling him more gently within his
own. "It ll take a thousand dollars to
put that shaft in workin .shape, and we
ain t got it. "

Without further words he began the
descent of the trail. He had been long
out of sight when Gilfoyle, who under-,
stood Casey too well to oppose him, took
up a coil of rope that needed splicing and
began to follow down the mountain. The
mists had cleared away, and the treeless,
snow clad crown of King Mountain was
gleaming in dazzling sunlight against
the deep, clear blue of heaven. The
green spruce timber reached upwards
with dark encircling arms and embraced
the mountain, while aloft in the infinite
depths of air long streamers of cirrus
clouds stretched their delicate and grace
ful forms across the sky.

Gilfoyle was not indifferent to all this
beauty of form and color, and walked
slowly, looking overhead more often than
underfoot a dangerous thing to do on
such a trail. He didn t much care about
Casey s quitting work at noon, for he
saw the hopelessness of trying to unwater
the shaft until the snow was off the
mountain, since to expose the vein one
day was to find it under water the next ;
so he came down willingly enough, loiter
ing here and there to look about.

At last, on turning a sharp projection
in the steep path, he caught sight of
Casey, below him, seated on a rock, with
his little dog still in his arms, and talk
ing earnestly.

Gilfoyle dropped quietly down through
the bushes unobserved, and stood behind
a clump of cedar, listening.

"Poor little pleasant faced cuss, " said
Casey, " you got a heart like a man, an
I can feel it beatin in your breast. You
jest keep on a smilin that a way, what
ever damn chap kicks the wind outen
you ; a lickin the foot that done you
dirt. Yes, you keep right on a smilin
in that dernation pleasant faced way, no
matter what comes against you. It s only
a black brute as would kick a poor little
innercent red pup that a way. Look in

128

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

my eyes, you poor little broken leg cuss,
and see if I ain t plumb sorry I done it.
Derned if I ain t. I ll make it good to
you yet; don t you be a whimperin .
That s right. Go on a lickin the hand
that s goin to be your best friend from
this very day on. Tears in your eyes,
too, and a smilin yet; jest as forgivin
as a woman, I ll be swiped if you ain t,
an a mighty tender and lovin one at
that. A waggin your stumpy tail all
the time ! "

There was a long silence, broken only
by the sound of running waters and drip
ping snow. - f

"I knowed it was the left hind leg,
cause of the twitchin and danglin down
like. But you don t have to walk a step.
I d carry you plumb to the shack-, if it was
a hundred mile. You ain t allowed to
walk, an you ain t allowed to pay your
way. I 11 put you in my own bunk and
tuck you in same like I was your mother,
derned if I don t. I ain t ever kicked
nothin that hurt me so much in all my
life. I promise on my oath to make it
up to you. I solemnly swear before God
to treat you same as if you was my sweet
heart and got hurt, you poor little tender
hearted, sniilin cuss."

The big hand stroked the little wet
head tenderly, and Casey rose and con
tinued the descent of the mountain down
toward Idaho Gulch.

He was as good as his word. Arrived
at the shanty at the end of the settle
ment s miry street, he made a -careful
examination of the hurt leg, while Gil-
foyle helped him to locate the break.
They found the bone broken below the
knee joint, and Casey set to \vork to bind
it in a splint. Clumsy as he was, the
little red dog licked his hand all the time,
till Casey laid him on his bed, talking to
him continuously.

That night there was a great excite
ment in Idaho Gulch. Two Boston
mining men had offered a hundred thou
sand dollars for the Idaho Queen, a mine
only a thousand feet beyond Casey s
claim, and on the same lead. Casey had
long been known to hold the best c: .d of
the extension of the vein to the east,
though there were promising prospects
on the same lead to the west.

Just as Casey laid Pills down, there was

a knock at the door, and the two Boston
men entered and introduced themselves.
They had come to talk of Casey s claim,
and so began by talking of anything else.
They thought of buying the Captain
Kidd, they said. That was the -extension
of the Idaho Queen to the west. They
listened to Casey and Gilfoyle, and ended
by offering thirty thousand for the claim,
if the miners could actually show them
the four foot vein of ruby silver ore by
the next afternoon.

Casey knew the value of his strike, and
soon got from the speculators a forty
thousand bid on his representations of
wall and vein filling. He guaranteed to
show it up with six hours work on the
water.

Gilfoyle was waked next morning by
Casey talking to his dog.

"I ain t half kep my promise, you
poor little cuss, " he said. " Snoring all
night, and you Jest a sufferin with this
yer bunglin thing come off and danglin
down and hurtin you worse than nothin .
Easy, now, easy. I ain t a hurtin you a
purpose. That s all right. I ll fix you
up to stay this time. Keep right on a
sniilin . Surgeon plaster don t come off,
and it s better than splints, a heap sight.
Round and round she goes, snug as a
snake s skin. Don t cry, pup ; it ll be all
right in a minute. There you are neat
as a buckskin leggin", and sticks to
stay, like Injemima s plaster the more
you try to get it off the more it sticks the
faster.

Casey sang the last words, holding the
dog at arm s length by the light of the
dim lantern, the better to admire his
work. Then he laid the little fellow on
the bed again, placed a pan of cold meat
beside him, and, with Gilfoyle, went
away to the boarding house to breakfast,
where their offer was soon the talk of the
room.

By seven o clock the two miners were
at work at the shaft. Casey had got his
price, and was eager to sell ; and as for
Gilfoyle, he was coming in for a big tip,
at least, so both worked eagerly, Gilfcxyle
taking his turn below.

The morning wore away. A hundred
buckets had gone up, and things were
looking promising.

The water that covered the ore in the

CASEY S CLAIM.

129

cross cut was retreating. Twenty more
buckets, and the vein would stand ex
posed. Gilfoyle filled and Casey wound
up and spilled ; but as the one hundred
and second bucket stood full, Gilfoyle
heard a sudden exclamation from Casey,
and got no response to his signal to hoist
away. He waited patiently, not know
ing what was the matter above. He
called again, but there was no answer.
He waited below half an hour, and then
climbed out, only to find that Casey was
gone. To stop work was fatal to the sale
of the mine, and Gilfoyle was afraid of
foul .play. The idea struck him that
Casey had been kidnaped to prevent the
sale, and seized with a sudden panic, he
started on the run for town.

He arrived breathless, but nobody had
seen Casey since morning, when they had
started off together. Then Gilfoyle
shouted his fears aloud.

He was soon surrounded by an excited
crowd, some mounted, some on foot, and
all starting for the hills in search of
Casey s trail.

From three o clock until sunset the
scouting parties ranged the hills, climb
ing to remote claims and plunging into
mud holes in the gulches ; interviewing
the owners of the Captain Kidd, whom
they suspected, but getting no news of
Casey before darkness came. The night
closed down with heavy, sullen, persist
ent rain, and the first real thunder storm
of early spring. It was Saturday, and on
Saturdays the settlement was always
crowded. One by one and two by two
the men came down from their fruitless
hunt. The miners gathered in the gam
bling hells and squalid resorts, to drink
and quarrel half the night away ; but
Gilfoyle was not in a drinking mood.
He was down on his luck and went back
to the shack to think it over.

As he approached^ he was surprised to
see a light in the window. When he
opened the door he was dura founded.

There on the floor, by the red hot stove,
with a pan of warm water and a sponge,
sat Casey, tenderly soaking the last of
the surgeon s plaster from the broken
and swollen leg, while the tears were
running down his rough cheeks at ever}
twitch and painful whimper of the little
red dog.

Gilfoyle sat down on the bed, too
much disgusted to say a word or ask a
question, while Casey, who seemed to
think himself called on for some sort
of an explanation, began talking to his
patient.

" You poor little undeserving cuss ! A
contemptible brute, without no manners,
kicked you clean off your own claim and
broke your standin up leg. Then he got
powerful smart, he did, an like a derned
pill doctor tied you up with this yer tar
nation sticky stuff, and you a swellin all
the time. Then the ignorant coward
shet you up an left you-torturin , an
after promising on his oath to watch you
same as if you was his sweetheart ! Hold
on, hold on, pup. Don t git impatient
on me. It s a coming now, if it has took
two mortal hours, an if it is a bringin
the skin along. An then the miserly
fool went to digging for gold, till all of a
suddent he remembered how he onced put
a yellow plaster round his own sprained
ankle, an how he yelled when he woke
at night an tried to git the derned stuff
off. There you are, pup, it s all done,
an you still a smilin like an angel, and
the doctor a comin to do a decent job an
put to shame the derndest ignoramus that
ever swung a pick !"

Gilfoyle waited to hear no more. The
thought of his lost tip was rankling in
his mind, and he went out to drink down
his sorrow.

Next day it was newsed about the
camp that the Boston men had paid forty
thousand for the western extension of the
Idaho Queen, since Casey s shaft had
filled with water during the night.

At three o clock Gilfoyle was sobered
up, and came back to the shanty. Pills
was asleep on the bed, with his leg nicely
splinted and bandaged, while Casey sat
beside him smoking calmly.

" A forty thousand dollar splint, " said
Gilfoyle sarcastically. "You lost your
claim in forty feet of mud an water. "

Casey took his pipe out of his mouth,
slowly tapped the ashes out on his heel ,
and, rising, turned a smiling face toward
Gilfoyle.

" Let her sputter, pard," he said. " I
wouldn t give a paper cent for a chap
who couldn t keep his promise, even to a
little broken 1e&lt;r dog. "

STORIETTES

A FABLE FOR WOMEN.

THERE was once a man who was charged
with a crime of which he was innocent ; but
so overwhelming was the proof against him
that none could doubt his wickedness. As
he stood to receive his sentence, the multi
tude cried out against him, and as he left the
court, an exile and an outcast, all faces were
turned away, even that of the woman he
loved. Bitterness overflowed his heart as he
strode forth in impotent despair, hoping to
find death among the sands of the desert.

But another woman stepped forth, one who
had also loved him, and she spoke to him,
saying, "Though all the world ring with
your guilt, I believe you innocent. Though
the city banish you, yet shall I be honored in
sharing your disgrace." Her people strove
with her and mocked her, but she followed
the man towards the desert.

Here they lived for many years, and she
tended and served him, so that his burden
lay less heavily upon him. Her faith sustained
the man, and she promised him ever that this
wrongful sentence would pass, and that the
city would yet make amends for the evil
done him. And in his gratitude he wept,
and made vows of the honors he would pay
her then. But she answered always, "I ask
no honor but your love."

Now, it came to pass that, in the course
of years, the truth was made known.
Messengers were sent from the city to recall
the wanderer to honor and reparation.
Once more the man stood in the great court,
and those who had sentenced him now knelt,
saying, " Great have been your sufferings ;
great shall be your reward. To atone for the
past, all the city shall be yours to choose
from. Speak and let us know your desires."

And the man replied, " Honors and riches
you have restored to me sevenfold, and
length of days to enjoy them, but one thing
I desire still a woman to share my great
ness." The multitude applauded, and all
eyes were turned on her who had followed
him to the desert, and had helped him to
i-ndure his hardships and disgrace.

But the man said, " These many years has
the yoke of gratitude galled my neck, and I
hold it greater to forgive than to be forgiven.
Give me, therefore, the woman who turned
from me in my hour of need, that I may
pardon her unbelief, and be my own man
again."

And they led forth her who had held good
repute higher than love, and gave her to the
man with rejoicing and acclamations. And
the other turned away, and her face was gray
and old. But the man saw her not at all, for
his eyes were with his wife.

The outcast cried to the heavens, saying,
"What was my sin?" And a voice an
swered : Hast thou looked for reward ?
Toil and sacrifice were thy choice ; toil and
sacrifice shall be thy recompense ; and in
what thou hast given lies thy .comfort for
what has been taken from thee."

And she passed on towards the desert again,
calling to death.

E. Gardner Bent ley.

" CONGRATULATIONS."

AND so it had come too late !

A month before I had been hastily sum
moned to England to the bedside of a dying
uncle, who peacefully shuffled off this mortal
coil, leaving me his blessing and his worldly
goods. Then I heard Lou was engaged, and
I hurried home again a rich man, a thankful
man, and a yet very miserable man, for I
knew that it was too late !

At first I railed at the fickleness of woman
kind in general and of one woman in particu
lar ; but, on sober second thought, it occurred
to me that perhaps I was unjust.

You see, I had never really asked her to
marry me. Of course, I knew I should some
day, when the right moment came, and I felt
instinctively that "yes" would be my re
ward. We had been such good chums, Lou
and I. For two consecutive Augusts we had
been together at the seashore and you know
what that means ! Then, in town, during
the season, we were always meeting, and we
regularly did the theaters together, and
well, I did not see why things should not
drift along as they were for sometime longer.
We were both young, and until my recent
inheritance my income, though it did nicely
for a bachelor, was not just what 1 wanted to
ask a wife to share, especially when she was
a girl like Lou Bradford ; and so, in my easy
going fashion, I had let things drift until they
were far beyond my control.

" Yes," I said to myself; " I will call this
afternoon and offer my congratulations, and
and see how the land lies."

I rose and searched through the drawer
containing my scarfs until I fished out of the

STORIETTES.

chaos a rather dilapidated tie, and tied it in
an execrable bow under niy chin. There was
nothing particularly attractive about the tie,
but it had certain sweet associations for me.

Half an hour later I was ascending the
broad steps of the Bradford mansion. Miss
Bradford was at home, the butler informed
me, as he opened the door and ushered me
into the drawingroom.

Presently there was audible a light step on
the stairs, the portie res were parted, and Lou
entered. She was dressed all in white. I
thought she looked rather pale ; but that
might have been merely the contrast to the
sunburned faces I had grown accustomed to
on the steamer.

" Why, Mr. Norris, how do you do? It is
really an age since we last met. When did
you return?" This in a tone of voice that
was meant to express dignified cordiality
only it expressed more ; it expressed nervous
ness, which was corroborated by the cold
little hand she gave me.

" I arrived yesterday," I replied, rather
stiffly. I did not like that "Mr. Norris."
It sounded so deuced formal. She never used
to call me " Mr. Norris."

" I suppose you have heard the the
news? " remarked Lou, as she seated herself.

" Yes oh, yes ! " I said, with great calm
ness ; "and I have come to offer my con
gratulations."

" I am sure it is awfully kind of you. Ed
ward Mr. Mackenzie will be so pleased,"
replied Lou, her voice trembling a bit.

"Yes? " I murmured aloud. To myself I
said, " Hang Mr. Mackenzie ! "

" I believe you also are to be congratulated
on your recent good fortune."

"No," I said, rather shortly; "I don t
think I am."

Lou opened her blue eyes wide and stared
at me.

Why, you always used to say that you
wished you had wealth, and "

"Yes," I interjected; "but that was be
fore when things were different."

"How are things different?" asked Lou
sharply.

"I ought to have said people, not things,"
I rejoined.

There was a slight pause. Then I remem
bered something.

"Oh, by the way," I remarked, "I had
nearly forgotten. I brought you a little
trinket from London sort of souvenir, don t
you know ; " and I hauled out of my pocket
a small morocco case.

Lou took it with a little gasp of pleasure.
The color came in her face, and I thought I
saw something glisten in her eyes, but I dare
say it was only fancy.

" Oh, Jack I mean Mr. Norris how
lovely ! "

" Mr. Norris is exactly what you don t
mean," I put in boldly; "what you said
first is what you mean. Isn t it, Lou?" I
added gently.

"Well, sir," said Lou, with an airy toss of
her head, " if you know so much better than
I what I mean, why have it your own way ! "

" Thank you, Lou," I said humbly. There
was a slight pause ; then Lou spoke.

"But I am really afraid, Jack, that I I
ought not to accept this. I don t think that
that Edward would like it."

" Well, let Edward lump it! " I muttered.

" What did you say, Jack? "

Oh, nothing ! Has the day been fixed ?

" No, not yet, Jack. I don t want to be
I mean, I don t like short engagements."

"Quite right, I m sure," said I decidedly.
"Always look before you leap, don t you
know, and

" Oh, it isn t that, Jack. It s all arranged,
only only I don t believe in hurrying
things."

There was a slight pause ; then I asked :

" Where are you going this summer? "

"Next week mother and I go to the sea
shore for a month."

" The same dear old place, Lou ? " This in
rather a husky voice.

" Yes, Jack," said Lou softly.

"Do you remember what jolly times we
used to have down on the beach by that old
wreck? "

" Oh, Jack, yes!"

1 And do you remember how I used to
build up great bulwarks of sand about us to
keep off the incoming tide ? "

" Yes, and how like a Trojan you worked,
rebuilding as fast as the sand was washed
away!" cried Lou, with glowing face. I
think for the moment we both forgot " dear
Edward !

"And do you remember that last night on
the beach ? It grew so chilly I had to put
my coat about you."

" Yes, Jack ! " said LOU softly.

" And and then I had to hold your hai) Is
to keep them warm."

"Jack ! " very softly.

" And, Lou, do you remember how you
used to make fun of the way I tied my
scarf "

" Well, you know you never could tie it
decently."

" And how you tied it one evening for
me, only somehow it wouldn t stay tied and
you had to tie it over again ? "

" Why, Jack, you ve got on the very iden
tical tie now !

"Why, so I have!" This in a tone of

I 3 2

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

great surprise, as I looked at it critically in
the glass.

" And it is tied as disreputably as ever ! "
said Lou despairingly.

" Yes," I admitted ; "it does look rather
forlorn."

" Jack, I m afraid you re past reforming ! "

" I know somebody who could reform me,"
I said gently.

A pause. Somehow there were an awful
lot of pauses in our conversation. Then I re
marked casually : "I suppose you arrange
Mr. Mackenzie s ties for him now."

" Don t be silly, Jack ! Mr. Mackenzie is
a more orderly man than you are, sir. He is
quite able to tie his own scarf."

Another pause.

"I wonder,"! ventured presently, " if Mr.
Mackenzie isgoodatbuilding sand fortresses."

"Why, Jack, how ridiculously you talk.
Mr. Mackenzie is not coming to the seashore
with us. He is a very busy man. He s very
clever and ambitious and" with a little
catch in her voice "he has too much on
hand just now to take a vacation."

"Lou," I said suddenly, "why do you
want to marry Mr. Mackenzie ? "

"What an absurd question! Why, be
cause because I want to."

Why do you want to, Lou ?

For various reasons, if } T OU want to know,
said Lou, with her chin in the air.

" Indeed ! " I said ironically.

"And " defiantly " if you want to know
one reason I want to be of some use in the
world. I ve been throwing away my life.
I ve been wasting my time, always going to
this affair or that, or else flirting outrageously
with you so there ! "

"Do you mean to say," I cried fiercely,
" that those dear old times we used to have
together were flirtations ? "

" I don t see what else they were, Jack !"
said Lou, her lips trembling.

"Why, Lou, didn t you think I meant

what " Then a great light dawned on

me. " Do you suppose I would ask a girl to
marry me till I could afford to give her what
she was accustomed to ? "

You must have a very poor opinion of a
girl if you think that would make any differ
ence to her ! " she replied, in a low voice.

" Do you mean to say " I broke in.

" I don t mean to say anything."

"But, Lou, if "

"Jack, are you aware that I am engaged
ta be married?" This with tremendous
dignity.

" I have no objection," I remarked.

" Oh, indeed ! " very haughtily.

" All I object to is the person you are going
to marry."

" Really ! " with withering sarcasm.

"Of course," I began humbly, "a poor
devil of a fellow like me a rolling stone
who isn t clever or "

"Now, Jack, don t be a goose. Really,
there is lots of good in you, only only it
needs bringing out."

"That s it," I cried eagerly. " That s it.
It needs bringing out ; but who is going to
bring it out? "

" Why, I I don t know," faltered Lou.

"Looking at the matter entirely from an
impartial standpoint," I remarked slowly,-
"it seems to me that a man like Mr. Mac
kenzie we ll say who is as steady as a
house, whose future is assured, and who is so
wrapped up in his work" (I did not know
any such thing, but it did very well for the
sake of argument) "it seems to me that
such a man is infinitely less in need of a
woman s helping hand than a poor fellow
like me, who is likely to go to the devil if he
does not get married and settle down." And
having delivered myself of this lengthy ora
tion, I paused. There was no reply.

"Lou?"

"Yes, Jack ! " very faintly.

" Lou, you are crying ! "

"I I m not!" came in tearful accents
from the corner where Lou sat. " It s
c-cruel and c-cowardly to to talk to me that
way when you know I m engaged ! "

The second hand of the solemn faced clock
on the mantel traversed a full half circle.
Then I remarked slowly :

" Lou, I came back as soon as I could. I
did not even stop for the jubilee, and all dur
ing the voyage home I could only think of
what? LOU, I was wondering if a girl who
was engaged found out she cared for another
fellow

"Jack!"

" I am only speaking in a general sort
of way. I was wondering if it would not be
that girl s duty to break off her engagement,
in justice to her fiance, and in order that she
might keep the other fellow from going to
the bad."

This argument may not stand analysis ; but
the truth of the matter is I was desperate.

Lou was standing by the window, appar
ently looking out. There was silence for
some moments. Then I took up my hat and
my gloves, and moved towards the door.

" Oh, are you going, Jack ? " came from the
window.

"Yes oh, I nearly forgot; give my very
kind regards to Mr. Mackenzie. Good by."

I stopped a moment to rub my silk hat
with my sleeve.

"When shall I shall we see you again,
Jack?"

STORIETTES.

" I don t know " very grimly. " I am
going to Africa or China or or somewhere,
and there s no knowing when I shall get
back if I ever do ! "

With that I walked slowly to the front
door, and opened it with a great rattling of
the door knob.

I heard a slight rustle behind me, and look
ing over my shoulder I saw Lou with a pale,
anxious face, her little hands clasped nerv
ously together.

"Jack, if if you want to go anywhere,
why don t you go to the seashore next week ?
It will do you a lot more good than going
to to Africa."

I looked very thoughtful, as if I were con
sidering the idea. Then I looked up at her.

" Lou," I said, " what would Mr. Macken
zie say ? "

Lou gave me one radiant look as she whis
pered, " I am going to write him tonight, and
then and then it won t be any of Mr. Mac
kenzie s business."

* * * *

Yes, it certainly was hard on Mackenzie,
but "all s fair in love and war;" and I
think I managed the affair pretty well. Pro
posing to an engaged girl is rather a delicate
business, you know.

Douglas Zabriskie Doty.

AT DAYBREAK.

THE prisoner glances out of the window
with a bored expression on his face, then up
at the lieutenant ; then he yawns and closes
his eyes wearily.

" Did you understand ? "
The bored expression deepens as the man
lazily drawls :

" Perfectly."

You are to be hanged at dawn tomorrow.

" So you said."

" The colonel intends to make an example
of you."

" Indeed ! "

" The full regiment is to be present, and
the colonel will make a speech."

Before or after iny elevation ?

4 Before.

" Sorry. Do you happen to have a cigar
ette about you ? No ? Too bad. B) 7 the
way, don t you enjoy walking ? Good for
you, you know much better than the musty-
air of this er apartment. Pardon my
yawning. Not the company, I assure you."

" I must "

"Be going? Well, good by. Present my
compliments to the colonel. Sorry I cannot
accompany you to the door. These er
ornaments interfere. Very kind of you to
have called. Good afternoon."

The prisoner closes his eyes again and leans
back against the wall, and, half bewildered,
half angry, the lieutenant strides out, banging
the door of the cell after him. The sound of
his footsteps echoes down the long corridor,
then grows fainter and fainter, until it finally
ceases.

Then the man on the bench opens his eyes.
The sleepy expression is gone now, and he
raises his head and listens.

From a crack in the floor he brings forth a
bit of dingy rag which incloses a long, thin
" rat tail " file. He listens intently, but no
sound reaches his ears save the footfalls of
the sentry pacing back and forth before the
cell door. He marks time for a moment till
he catches the rhythm of the man s measured
tread, and then draws the file across the iron
on his wrist in perfect time to the sentry s
pacing. Step, file ; step, file ; step, file. So
many steps, so many strokes.

He blesses the cobbler who made the
guard s shoes so heavy. Above all, he blesses
her whose loving heart and nimble wit have
provided him with this bit of rasping steel,
which may mean liberty and life to him.

The iron is thick, and four times must the
file bite through it. Four times, and there
are not twelve hours to sunrise. Step, file ;
step, file ; step, file. Oh, why does the
sentry pace so slowly ! The time is so cruelly
short.

Some one is coming along the corridor
now. They are bringing him his supper. It
may be his last meal, but he curses the inter
ruption bitterly. He must cease work for the
present. He restores the file to its old hiding
place, and leans back against the wall drowsily
as the soldier enters.

He blinks his eyes and yawns sleepily, as
though just awakening ; then eats his supper
hurriedly that he may the sooner be alone. The
soldier stands watching him that he may not
..try to kill himself with the dull knife, for the
colonel does not propose to have his carefully
prepared oration rendered tiseless for the lack
of an illustration.

The soldier looks at him pityingly. Only
the officers know, as yet, the crime for which
this man is to pay the penalty at sunrise. He
thinks the prisoner might at least be granted
what little mercy lies in a firing squad. But
then, he has seen many men die, and, after
all, it can make little difference by what
road one leaves the world.

As the soldier carries out the empty platter,
the prisoner smiles sarcastically. They are
taking great pains to preserve his life until
the moment when they have planned to take
it from him. They could not be more solicit
ous for his safety if he were a major general.

Hastilv he resumes his work, and labors

134

MUNSHY S MAGAZINE.

ceaselessly, glancing up at the little, barred
window now and then to make sure that the
dreaded dawn is not yet sending its first
messenger of light into the room. His work
is nearly finished now, and his hands are raw
and bleeding. Step, file ; step, file.

Never before has time seemed so precious.
For another hour he would barter a year
aye, years of his life. Feverishly he presses
the steel into the iron, no longer measuring
the strokes by the sentinel s tread. The
edge of the file touches his wrist beneath the
iron. Now!

Hark ! The lock of the cell door clicks.
Can it be the squad to escort him to the scaf
fold ? Hardly ; he would have heard their
footsteps. The door swings open, and as the
sentry flashes a lantern into the cell, the pris
oner leaps upon him. Clutching the man s
throat in his sinewy hands, he stills the cry
on his lips, and the next moment the sharp
pointed file reaches the soldier s heart.

As he lays his victim down the prisoner
hears the steady, rhythmic tread of approach
ing soldiers. The fatal hour lias come.

The soldier on guard at the end of the cor
ridor hears a quick step behind him, and as
he turns, a crushing blow from a clubbed
musket smashes helmet and skull.

Then a running, dodging figure crosses the
courtyard, and disappears in the trees. The
next, moment, shouts and a few scattered shots
indicate that the pursuit has begun.

But a short distance away a girl has been
waiting all night with two horses. As she
sees the first streak of light in the east she
sighs bitterly, and rests her head against her
horse s neck. Then she hears the noise of
shots, and a rushing, crashing noise coming
towards her.

The horses prick up their ears and paw the
ground. Then a man s figure breaks into the
little clearing. There is a kiss for the girl, a
leap on the horse, spurs, a mad ride free
dom life love !

And the colonel s oration is spoiled.

_/. Frederic Thome.

HIS MOTHER.

Miss LiTTLEFiELD was very much per
plexed. Two men were in love with her ;
both had offered themselves, and now the
question was, which ?

"I must look at it from all sides," she
mused. "I have always declared that I
would never let my fancy run away with
me, and I won t I won t ! " and she pushed
the hassock away impatiently.

"I like John the best," she admitted
slowly. "I I think I love him." She
blushed guiltily and glanced about lest some

one might have heard. " That is why I am
afraid to trust myself," she concluded. " He
is so different from the other men I ve
known. I might be horribly ashamed of
him, but I never would be of Clyde. Dear
me, no ! "

She laughed a bit hysterically. Clyde was
always so correct. It must be uncom
fortable to be always fearing one s fiance
would do the wrong thing. Clyde s family
was also most correct. The father was rich,
and though a trifle stupid, was secure in his
position. And his mother was one of Miss
Littlefield s own set. She recalled the pink
cheeks, the pompadour hair, and the ultra
fashionable attire of this woman of the
world .

Yes, everything was satisfactory so far as
they were concerned. But John s family?
She hesitated, daring hardly to think of
them.

"He has folks, I presume," she said
slowly. "Good people oh, painfully good
and John is the apple of their eye ! And
they have pie for breakfast," she went on,
with a groan ; "and they ll want to see the
girl John keeps company with. They will
tell her that he s a likely young fellow, with
prospects. His mother will be big and fat
and wear a calico wrapper, and sit rocking
and looking out of the window. Oh, dear,
John, how could you?" And there were
tears of vexation in her eyes.

x- * # *

" You are sure you won t mind if I run in
a moment ? " John asked, as the horse stopped
of its own accord under the big trees. "I
promised to bring this package to mother."

Miss I/ittlefield did not answer at once.
She was surveying the house critically.

"I wish " she said suddenly, then

paused.

He looked at her inquiringly.
"I wish," she repeated, with an effort,
" that you would ask me in."
He strode rapidly up the path.
" Mother," he called, in his strong, cheery
voice, "Miss Littlefield is here; will you
come and ask her in ? "

Miss Littlefield watched them as they
came down the path, the big son and
the little mother at his side. She wore
a gray gown, with soft, old lace at the neck
and sleeves ; her white hair was drawn loosely
back from a smooth forehead, and there was
a delicate flush on her cheeks. "I am very
glad to see you, my dear," she said, in mother
tones that went straight to the girl s heart.

The next moment Miss Littlefield felt her
self lifted from the carriage by John s strong
arms. Her hair just brushed his cheek.
"I want you to like me," the girl said, in

STORIETTES.

clear tones, as she stood by the side of her
lover s mother, almost overshadowing her in
her splendid, blooming womanhood. "I
want you to like me " clasping the delicate
white hand, and with an almost imperceptible
motion towards the man by her side " be
cause, you know, I am going to marry John."
Harriet Caryl Cox.

ONE WAY TO SUCCEED.

THERE was a time when Dick Van Orden
had hundreds of friends, and not an enemy
in the world. Everybody said that he was
bright and could write excellent fiction that
is, everybody but the magazine editors. He
di.l manage to push his way into one or two
of the smaller magazines, but the more im
portant publications would have nothing to do
with him ; and, like all the rest of us, he was
always complaining that the magazines were
private property and belonged exclusively to
two or three old fossils of writers.

Dick had published one or two of his books,
but they had not proven successful, and it
had cost him about all his ready cash. That
was one of the reasons why we all liked him.
If he had made a success, we should have
hated him. That is one of the tricks of the
trade.

Dick has not nearly so many friends now as
he had then. When he made a success a
month or so ago, we all talked about him, of
course, suppressing praise and belittling him
in every way possible, so as to keep him from
becoming a greater man than the rest of us.

The meanest thing about Van Orden s suc
cess, however, was the way he went about
it. First of all, he married not a frowsy
haired woman who smoked cigarettes and
called herself a Bohemian. She didn t drink
crcine de menthc, either, which was a further
proof that she was stuck up. Miss Jones
dubbed her simple, countrified, and unsophis
ticated, and the newspaper women vowed that
they would have nothing to do with her. As a
matter of fact, she would have nothing what
ever to do with them.

Van Orden didn t introduce his wife to
many of us, but those who knew her liked
her until he made his hit. She was a quiet,
unassuming little woman, who did not belong
to any latter day clubs, and seemed to have
but one idea that her husband was a smart
man and bound to succeed. But we all proph
esied failure, of course.

It was some months before anything hap
pened to make us hate our rival for literary
honors. Then, one day, we read that Rich
ard s bride of but a few months had brought
suit for a separation. To say that we were
shocked would be to put it mildly. We were

simply delighted. We had not had such a
choice bit of gossip for years, and we simply
reveled in it. The papers all told how Van
Orden was a story writer, and mentioned the
books he had published. We all laughed
quietly when they referred to him as a "promi
nent young man of letters," and called his
books "masterpieces."

The story of the suit for separation lasted
three days, and on the fourth came the best
part of all. Mrs. Van Orden declared, in an
interview, that the cause of all their trouble
was her husband s work. She objected, it
seems, to the sort of books he wrote. They
were too realistic, and she could not be happy
with a man who entertained such extraor
dinary ideas about men and women.

On the first day that the story of the suit
for divorce appeared, I noticed a man reading
Van Orden s latest book on the Elevated.
On the following day I saw half a dozen people
with it. On the third day everybody in the
car had a copy of the book ; and on the fourth
I actually bought one myself. I had to wait
in a line nearly five minutes to get it, too
But the book was really not half bad.

In a few days everybody was reading it
and a second edition was called for. It was
reported that a leading dramatist was at work
on it. Men and women began to write to
the papers about it, some defending the hus
band, others declaring that the wife was tight,
and that no pure minded man could have
such ideas. In less than a week, Richard
Van Orden was the most talked of man in
New York. In short, he was a success !

The publishers ordered more books from
him, and paid for them in advance, and as
for the magazine editors, they were simply
wild about him. But Dick was ready for
them. He had a trunk full of old stories
written and rejected in past years, and he
simply did what every one else does under
similar circumstances unloaded them on an
unsuspecting public.

As for the suit for separation, it never came
to trial. Then my suspicions were aroused,
and I began a quiet little investigation. No
matter what I discovered. Richard Van
Orden was once a friend of mine, and I refuse
to reveal what I learned. Besides, I may
want to use the trick myself some day.

Dick is now so thoroughly hardened that
he has no hesitation in laying all the blame
on his wife. He declares that the suit for
separation was her idea, and he owes to her
his newly acquired fame and fortune. I also
learned, by the way, that her father was
formerly one of the best known advertising
agents in New York, and that Barnum once
paid a fabulous sum for his services.
Wanrn

THE STAGE

" OH, SUSANNAH ! "

Critics on both sides of the Atlantic have
soundly berated this English farce comedy,
which took three men to put it together.
And the critics are right ; as a specimen of
play making, "Oh, Susannah!" is mighty
bad sort. The ingredients are there, but the
overplus of cooks has evidently spoiled the
broth in the mixing.

So much for the critical point of view.
The box office end tells an altogether differ
ent story. More than four months is the
record of the run at the Royalty in London,
with the finish not yet sighted, and from the
peals of laughter heard at Hoyt s, the piece
will have a similar vitality here. For the
people have found the fun in it, interlarded
as it is between trite talk and strained situ
ations. And Josephine Hall s Aurora,
another slavey role similar to her Ruth in
The Girl from Paris," is a magnet in itself
of big attracting power. The part is played
in London by Louie Freear, who was also
the Ruth there, and in both cities the imper
sonator of this character has been credited
with saving the play.

Fritz Williams is the leading man, an im
pecunious young doctor who has to bear up
under the loving attentions of Aurora. He
manages to extract all that is possible out of
the part,- and is especially clever in doing the
funereal on his first entrance.

JULIE! OPP AND ROBERT LORAINE.

Last June we printed our first portrait of
Julie Opp, in the small part of Hymen in " As
You Like It." She was, at the time, playing
Mrs. Ware in " The Princess and the Butter
fly " at the London St. James. As those who
have seen the pla) will recall, the character,
while important in the development of the
plot, calls for only a single appearance ; but
when he assigned it to her, George Alexander
remarked, "You have shown me what you
can do " referring to her sudden assumption
of Julia Neilson s place as Rosalind. " Be
patient ; your time is to come."

And her time has come without calling for
the exercise of much patience. After playing
the Princess on several occasions in London,
Miss Opp returned to her native America, and
in less than six months created the part in
New York, making an impression that will go
down in the history of the season. She is
still under contract to Mr. Alexander, and
will probably return to London this spring to
appear there in " The Conquerors."

Miss Opp is a woman s woman. Her ad
mirers among her own sex are legion, and
during the fourth act of " The Princess," in
which she doesn t appear, she holds a regular
levee in her dressing room. Her marriage
last autumn to Robert Loraine, an English
actor, was announced in our January issue.
He is a member of the St. James company,
and played Maxime Demailly in "The
Princess." In the forthcoming production of
"Much Ado About Nothing" he is to be
Claudia, and will make a handsome Prussian
officer for "The Conquerors." His father is
Henry Loraine, a veteran English player.

Miss Opp, by the way, wishes it stated that
instead of her husband being almost as tall as
herself, he is a few inches taller.

" WAY DOWN EAST."

Some half dozen years ago an exceedingly
pretty curtain raiser was produced at the
Lyceum with Georgia Cayvan in the principal
role. It was called " White Roses," and was
written by Lottie Blair Parker. Encouraged
by this beginning, Mrs. Parker wrote " Way
Down East," which, after much buffeting by
the way, has finally reached the footlights
via Joseph R. Grisrner, of "New South"
memory, who elaborated and produced it,
with his wife, Phcebe Davies, as the leading
woman. The play has proved such a big
success from the financial side that the
managers who refused it, thinking the people
had had too much of " The Old Homestead "
and " Shore Acres" diet, must feel like call
ing themselves very hard names. And yet
that illogical last act would seem to justify
the turning down of any play.

It must be that it wins by its atmosphere,
which fairly reeks with New England reali
ties. There is any amount of snow, and such
a winding and unwinding of mufflers as to
make one fairly dizzy. It goes without saying
that the characters eat a meal on the stage.
They always do in these Yankee dramas, and
onecan tblanie the playwright for introducing
the scene. For some unknown reason there
is invariably a delicious flutter of expectancy
in the audience when chairs are drawn up to
the table. Is it, we wonder, because there is
a hope that now the players will perforce stop
talking for a while ?

Frankly, in spite of its time worn devices,
" Way Down East" holds the interest through
three of its acts, and as they cover almost the
entire evening, the public evidently stands
ready to forgive the horse play and absurdi-

ROBERT LORAIXK, AS " RUDOLF RASSENDYLL " IN " THE PRISONER OF ZEXDA."

From a photograph fry Sawyer, Newcastle.

JULIE OPP AS "ANTOINETTE DE MAUBAN" IN "THE PRISONER OF ZENDA."

From a photograph by Ellis, London.

THE STAGE. i 39

ties of the fourth. In any event, the piece presentation in this country, nine years ago,
marks a turning point in the fortunes of the by John A. McCaull., who had De Wolf Hop-

Manhattan Theater, which had such a display
ing succession of failures as to frighten off

per for his leading comedian, and whose
spring season of light opera at Wallack s had

ANGELA Mt- CAULL.
From a photograph by Thors, San Francisco.

Mr. Woodhull, who took the management
only last August. The new proprietors are
William A. Brady, sponsor for the celebrated
Corbett, and F. Ziegfield, Jr., introducer to
these shores of Anna Held.

A WEI,!, KNOWN MANAGER S DAUGHTER.

The production of " Clover " by the Castle
Square Company recalls memories of its first

come to be one of the theatrical features of
the metropolis. The year before, the piece
was "The L,ady or the Tiger?" and besides
Hopper there were Jefferson De Angelis,
Alfred Klein, Mathilde Cottrelly, and Made
leine lyiicette, now Mrs. Ryley, who draws
such handsome royalties from " An American
Citizen" and " Christopher, Jr.," that many
have forgotten that she was once an actress.

140

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MAUDE ADAMS.
From her latest photograph by Pac/i, New York,

After riding on the top wave of success for
more than a decade, Mr. McCaull met with
reverses, and the big benefit given for him at
the Metropolitan Opera House was a notable
event. He died soon afterwards, leaving his
two daughters quite alone in the world. We
give a portrait of Angela, the younger, who
played opposite to Cyril Scott in the original
cast of "The Heart of Maryland," and who
continued with the piece until a few weeks
ago. Miss McCaull has a keen sense for
comedy, and plays with a sprightliness that
unending repetitions cannot dull.

GRACU GOLDEN AND POPULAR OPURA.

Novelty is usually considered to be a big
drawing card, but the experience of the Castle

Square Opera Company would seem to prove
that " old things are best." While the house
is always well filled for their New York en
terprise is an undoubted and deserved success
such well thrummed works as " Trovatore "
and " Martha " crowd it almost to the suffo
cating point. This showing is a gratifying
one at a period when so much is said about
the public s degenerate taste for the frothy
and the ephemeral. Among the other titles
in the grand opera list included in the reper
tory of the Castle Square organization are
" Aida," "Carmen," "Faust," "The Hugue
nots " and " Romeo and Juliet."

While the excellent results attained by this
company are secured by all round good work,
Grace Golden fully merits being considered

THE STAGE.

141

the star, if star there be. Her versatility is as
remarkable as her untiring industry. One
week she will be singing Leonora in " Trova-
tore " while rehearsing for Francesco, in " The
Fencing Master," to be sung the next, for

as the star s understudy. Then came her
association with Marie Tempest, and her
frequent singing of Miss Tempest s parts in
" The Fencing Master " and " The Tyrolean,"
which first brought her into real prominence.

GRACE GOLDEN.
From her latest photograph by Gilbert &&amp;gt; Bacon, Philadelphia.

the bill, with very rare exceptions, is changed
every Monday.

Miss Golden comes from Indiana. Her
parents, Martin and Bella Golden, were both
actors, so, gifted with such a voice as hers, it
was a foregone conclusion that she should
adopt the stage as a career. Beginning in the
chorus at the Metropolitan, her first role of
any consequence was Cerise in the revival of
" Erminie " at the Casino, in 1889. She soon
replaced Pauline Hall in the name part, and
later was with the Lillian Russell company

She has been with the Castle Square forces
since last season, joining them in Phila
delphia, where they still continue to crowd
the Grand Opera House, just as they do the
American in New York.

PURE PLAYS IN THE LEAD.

The present season will pass into history dis
tinguished for two marked characteristics of
utterly opposite natures : the great vogue of
plays perfectly pure in tone and theme, such
as "The Little Minister," "An American Cit-

142

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

izen," and " A Virginia Courtship," and the
turgid discussions aroused by those of the
other sort, of which "The Conquerors" and
"The Tree of Knowledge" are the notable
examples. And when the balance sheet is
struck at the close of the theatrical year, we
think it will be found that known purity has

" Phroso," from Anthony Hope s novel, may
be the play of the Empire stock, and at
the Lyceum Pinero s latest, "Rose Tre-
lawny," is already booked for November.
Called "Trelawny of the Wells " at the
London Court, where it is now being pla) ed,
this is a bright, breezy story of stage people as

FLORENCE WALLACK, LESTER WALLACK S GRANDDAUGHTER.

From a photograph by Falk, Neiu York.

outdistanced debatable propriety as a paying
investment for managers.

Assuredly there is no close second in draw
ing power to Maude Adams in Barrie s play,
which is a fixture at the Garrick till hot
weather sets in. It is also announced that
Miss Adams will retain "The Little Minis
ter " throughout the whole of next season, all
of which, it is possible, may be passed in New
York. We present herewith another portrait
of this favorite among the stars, one taken
for private distribution among her friends
and only recently permitted to be given to
the public.

To return to next season s possibilities,

contrasted with the nobility, and its atmos
phere is happily free from every taint of that
element which, in the long run, is inevitably
found to be a real drawback to houses of the
better class in that it prevents the " talking
up" of the play in drawingroonis and at
dinner tables.

Rose Trelawny, by the way, will suit Mary
Mannering admirably. It is being played on
the other side by Irene Vanbrugh, sister to
Mrs. Arthur Bourchier.

STARS OF THE SIXTEENTH MAGNITUDE.
It is to be hoped that the year 1898 will
witness the final disappearance from the

THE STAGE.

GERTRUDE GHEEN AS "LADY SPILLSBY 1 IN"
From a photograph by Ellis, London.

American stage of that style of "farce
comedy " with which it has been infested for
several years the farce comedy that is so
called because it is neither farce nor comedy
and is generally nothing more than a vehicle
for the display of the eccentricities or "spe
cialties of the variety actors for whom it is
constructed. No sooner does a variety
"team" make a hit with some amusing ten
minute absurdity than they are seized with a
desire to " star " and thereafter know no rest
until they have secured something that they
call a play which will enable them to do in
two hours and a half precisely the same

things that have amused variety audiences
when condensed into ten minutes.

It is doubtful if any more terrible example
of this craze can be found than that of
Messrs. Ward and Yokes, who came into
prominence a few years ago in a very funny
sketch in which, attired as ragged and bearded
tramps, they pretended to be English gentle
men of title. As a ten minute sketch nothing
could have been funnier than this, but they
must needs go "starring" in a play which
not only introduces in an amplified form their
own specialty, but also proves conclusively
that they are absolutely unable to do any-

i 4 4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

GRACE FILKINS AS " CELIA PRYSK " IN "THK ROYAL BOX."
From a photograph by Schloss, Neiu York.

thing else that is worth the while. After all,
acting is an art capable of infinite variety and
the true exponent of it should be able to
entertain an audience during an entire eve
ning without once repeating himself.

A PROMISING PLAYER.

Robert Milliard s revival of his old play
"Lost 24 Hours," under its new and much
poorer name, " A New Yorker," served one
good purpose in introducing to American
audiences Gertrude Gheen, who played Mil
dred Sii ift, the hoodwinked wife. Her im

personation was so convincing, and her stage
presence so devoid of all affectations, that the
critics forthwith singled her out for special
mention

Although she came from L/ondon to take
this part, and though no one would guess her
nativity from her accent, Miss Gheen is not
English, but American, hailing from a little
town in Pennsylvania. Her brother, Frank
Gheen, is one of the two lieutenants in
" Secret Service."

jVIiss Gheen has been abroad for some time,
and did good work in " Cheer, Boys, Cheer ! "

THE STAGE.

a big melodrama which was thought too
essentially English to stand importation.
Last autumn she played in " Bye ways " at
the London Comedy.

A CREDIT TO THE SEASON.

The success of Charles Coghlan in "The
Royal Box " is one of the most gratifying
events in a season notable for divided opin
ions and acrimonious discussion. For this
success is due wholly and without question to
artistic merit, depending neither on the per
sonal following of the star nor on any sensa
tional features in the performance. The
utilization of a proscenium box in a serious
play, after the burlesques and reviews have
thrashed all novelty out of the device, was to
be considered in the nature of a hazard
rather than a bid for favor.

It is to be hoped that Mr. Coghlan has
broken his visual rule, and read what the
critics have said about him. Their notices
everywhere have been so deservedly compli
mentary that it would be a pity the subject
of them should not taste the joy of such
judicious praise.

We give a portrait of Grace Filkins,
who fills the important and difficult role of
Celia Pryse. To present a love lorn maiden,
eating out her heart because of supposedly
unrequited affection, and keep the character
within the serious bounds of a piece that is
not a comedy this is a task of no mean
dimensions, and that Miss Filkins does it so
happily is a distinction that will carry her a
long step forward in her career.

She will be remembered as one of the series
of Nells in " Shere Acres," and last season
made a brief incursion into the vaudeville
field.

"ONE SUMMER S DAY."
Young Mr. Esmond evidentlj became so
imbued with the atmosphere of "The
Princess and the Butterfly " while he was
playing a part in it that he could not keep
himself from writing a weak imitation thereof.
For in " One Summer s Day " we have the
hero who considers himself already laid on
the shelf, and who is bringing up his
deceased brother s child this time a dutiful
small boy at school instead of a harum scarum
young lady addicted to clandestine mas
querades. Perhaps if his conscience had
permitted him to carry the imitation a little
further, the actor author might not have
made such a sorry mess of things. As it is,
"The Courtship of Leonie" was a classic
beside this latest output, which by some
hocus pocushas managed to please Londoners
for so long a time as to induce John Drew to
come a cropper with it.
13

" I never saw such a collection of dull
people," observes one of the characters at
the dreary picnic which covers most of the
piece, and the bored audience appreciatively
echoes the sentiment. Because Pinero and
Jones, Grundy and Carton, can make plays
"go" on talk, young Mr. Esmond fondly
imagines he can do likewise, and to help
matters out he throws in the senseless chatter
of an impudent small boy by way of variety.
In fact, the play runs to boys, there being
two that appear, besides one who doesn t
appear, but is so constantly in the major s
mouth that Maysie deservedly fines the
middle aged enthusiast sixpence every time
" kiddie " is mentioned.

John Drew is the major, and puts as much
backbone into the preposterous creation as it
can stand without collapsing beneath the
strain. As Maysie, Isabel Irving does good,
honest work, causing the spectator to wish
he could take the very amateurish play
wright in hand and give him the sound
drubbing he deserves for wasting the time of
capable people on such drivel.

" THE MASTER."

The critics have united in a pean of praise
for Henry Miller and his new play. But as
the people have differed from them in one
direction in the case of " Oh, Susannah ! " it
seems to us probable that they will differ
from them in the other as regards " The Mas
ter." It is refreshing, to be sure, to find a
piece turning on a man s violent temper rather
than on lovers quarrels or marital indis
cretions, but there is no denying that Mr.
Ogilvie s play becomes monotonous. Fur
thermore, in order to make his points he has
in at least one instance hammered proba
bility all out of shap*fe ; and again, having
devised a neat bit of business or repartee, he
spoils the symmetry of his work by repeating
it later on.

Then the preponderance of business terms
and references will militate against the last
ing popularity of "The Master." "We
women know little of stocks and bonds,"
remarks one of its characters, and as women
are the principal support of the better class
of theaters, a drama overladen with the com
mercial element is not likely to be a winner.

There are some strong scenes in "The
Master," Henry Miller does excellent work
in the part, and now and then genuine
emotion is aroused by an expressive touch on
the chords of nature, but judged both as a
well balanced piece of dramatic workmanship
and as a play that is likely to attract money
to the box office, we cannot agree with the
reviewers who have eulogized it. John Hare
has the English rights Mr. Ogilvie is an

146

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Englishman and we await the London ver
dict with interest.

Among our portraits this month is one of
the granddaughter of the man who two
decades ago stood at the head of things
theatrical in New York Lester Wallack.
Florence Wallack is still very young, having
made her first appearance on the stage last
season, when she played with Margaret
Mather. This year she is in Richard Mans
field s company ,and has parts in "A Parisian
Romance" and "The Merchant of Venice."
Her real name is, Sewell, her descent from the
famous actor manager being through her
mother.

* * * *

A young man who is likely to make a name
for himself in the line of play writing is Mr.
Loritner Stoddard, who dramatized " Tess of
the D Urbervilles." He is at present engaged
on a stage version of " Vanity Fair," which
will probably be produced next season with
Minnie Maddern Fiske in the role of Becky
Sharp. Those playgoers who were disap
pointed in Mrs. J^iske s Tess, because it
failed to fill their preconceived ideas of Mr.
Hardy s rustic heroine, will undoubtedly
derive much satisfaction from the knowledge
that this actress bears a striking resemblance
in all her physical aspects to Thackeray s
own pictures of the woman whom he drew
with such a brilliant pen.

* * * *

College theatricals are not subjected to so
severe an ordeal of criticism as obtains for
the professional stage. But of late years the
Columbia University output has been so good
that one is almost tempted to point out wherein
it might be made better. " In Vanity Fair " is
the title of the present*season s production, a
musical comedy by Arthur Augustus Powers,
97, and Donald MacGregor, 96, some of
whose work (from " Cleopatra ") is utilized in
Rice s French Maid," as was noted in this
place last November. The music of "In
Vanity Fair" is certainly "catchy," and no
more reminiscent than that which furnishes
forth man) more ambitious scores, while Mr.
Powers lyrics all possess a swing that makes
them easy singing. The Mask and Wig col
lege club of Philadelphia, and the Paint and
Powder amateur society of Baltimore have
secured the right to present the piece.

Mr. MacGregor is an architect, and Mr.
Powers a journalist. Whether they are also
De Kovens and Smiths in embryo the future
must tell us.

* * * *

The present season has seen some particu
larly striking posters. Reference has already
been made in this place to the really beautiful

one advertising Julia Arthur in "A Lady of
Quality. Another effective twenty eight
sheet is that devoted to " A Virginia Court
ship." It shows a hunting scene, with
hounds and red coated horsemen, and is pleas
antly realistic in spite of the absence of
green, to indicate grass and shrubbery, this
being an interdicted color, owing to a super
stition of Mr. Crane s.

Apropos of posters, Mr. Hoyt had a bright
inspiration for one with which to herald his
"Stranger in New York." Shakspere was
represented as just arrived in the metropolis,
striding down the middle of a street, and
gazing with horrified eyes on the billboard
announcements of the theaters, among which
his own plays were conspicuously absent.
* * * *

There is a good deal of talk these days
about the "commercial spirit " entering into
the theatrical world to the detriment of the
artistic side of the drama. Plays that will
run are what the managers are after, cry the
disgruntled, not plays that are of real worth,
that will " live " whether they run or not.

It may be so, but self preservation is the
first law of nature. Being without a subsi
dized theater, the manager must live by what
he can draw to the box office, and the ex
penses of production are increasing with
every year. The public expects realism in
scenic effects, and is quick with the laugh at
makeshift devices. The time has gone by
when a woodland back drop will answer for a
forest, and a few gilt chairs furnish the illusion
of a palace. The "commercial spirit" must
of necessity enter into calculations behind the
footlights when exacting spectators sit in
front of them.

* * * *

Although the regiilar stock season at the Ly
ceum closes on April 2, the attraction secured
to follow on Easter Monday will bring back to
its stage three faces that will seem of right to
belong there. Herbert Kelcey, Effie Shannon,
and W. J. Le Moyne are to appear in their
new play by Clyde Fitch, "The Moth and
the Flame." The action takes place in
fashionable society circles and includes the
interruption of a marriage service in presence
of the " smart set " in a church scene. Miss
Shannon is the bride, Mr. Kelcey the villain,
and Mrs. W. J. Le Moyne also has a part,
that of a grass widow who makes horrifying
speeches. It will recall the "good old
days " of "The Charity Ball " and its com
panion pieces, "made in America," all of
them, and each playing the season through
in spite of hard knocks from the critics.
The people liked them because they put the
story foremost and left repartee and epigram
to take care of itself.

MEN S BETTERS.

Now that authorship has become a trade, an
author s correspondence is no longer a thing
to be dealt out to an eager public before the
crape is off his door. It has lost its literary
value.

The modern author turns to his correspond
ence when he is out of humor for writing,
since a really live, inspired literary mood
must always be cashed up for business pur
poses. He throws into a letter the fag ends
that he could not uce elsewhere, or strag
gles through dreary commonplaces of news,
turning out what some one has described
as a Mother s-better-we re-expecting-Jim-on-
Friday-do-tell-me-all-about-yourself product.

Or else, if he does squander a fresh, bright
hour on a friend, his cleverness is self con
scious, and the letter screams biography on
every page. He posts it with a comfortable
feeling that, even if he has not made any
money that morning, he has added a spark
to his own posthumous glory.

The letters that should be published are
those of the people who make writing their
pastime, not their business, and who put
their best selves into their correspondence.
These people lavish upon their letters all the
little points and big ideas that come into
their heads and would otherwise go unex
pressed, and they spin along without posturing
or affectation, since there is little chance that
their winged words will rise again in print.

As for the author s little fag end scrawls,
publishing them is a frank brutality, in spite of
the gossip lovers that clamor for them. They
are pretty sure to show us that a great man
is great only in spots ; that, instead of being
permeated with genius, he carries it merely as
an excrescence, like the camel s hump, and is,
beneath it, very much like other mortals.
Our illusions are going quite fast enough as
it is. Do let us keep a few pedestals.

Walt Whitman s recently published letters
may be a revelation of the man, but we loved
him as a genius, and we have lost something.
Here is a fair sample of his epistolary self :

I received your second letter today also the
Star. I sent you a letter Tuesday evening,
which I suppose you have received. As I am
now sitting in my room and have no desire to go
to bed yet, I will commence another. Give my
best respects to

BRET HARTE AND HIS BOOKS.
Bret Harte is a facile and prolific writer, and
his books issue from the press with a fair de

gree of regularity. His recent, work, " The
Three Partners," is welcome, for it shows the
author in his happiest vein. Moreover, it is
a pleasure to meet again in this book some of
the characters of his earlier stories.

Bret Harte has always had a large audi
ence. Indeed, the extent of his popularity
is scarcely realized by many people, because
of late there has been little of that newspaper
furore over his books which stands too often
for the gauge and guarantee of literary merit.
He is one of the very few American authors
who are popular in Germany. His aggressive
Americanism, and the intensely and distinct
ively American characteristics of his work
compel the respect of Englishmen, who,
themselves strong in the love of country,
recognize and applaud the same trait in peo
ple particularly literary people of other
nationalities.

The accidents, if one may call them so, that
led to Bret Harte s sudden accession to fame
are easy to follow. When the California gold
craze was at its height he left Albany, his
native city, and went West. He was a mere
lad, and with his inherent nicety and love of
refinement he did not make a success of gold
digging. He became in turn an express
messenger, a school teacher, a typesetter, and
an editor s assistant ; and all the while he
was treasuring up the picturesque scenes and
episodes around him for future " copy."

When he was twenty nine, the Overland
Monthly was established under his editorship.
In the first number appeared " The L,uck of
Roaring Camp," and many stories from his
pen followed. The " L,uck " was reviled by
Western reviewers and critics, but was re
ceived with such marked favor in the East
that the author s reputation was soon estab
lished. He had portrayed the human aspect
of the new West fearlessly and uncompro
misingly, and out of this novel and unconven
tional material he had made a tale of the
strongest interest. Such work was no less rare
in those days than it is now, and his genius
received wide and instant recognition. Plain
and directly put as his stories are, they have
always borne evidences of sincerity, and have
showed a sense of freedom which is strongly
characteristic, for Mr. Harte has never
knuckled to the conventions of a literary
clique.

An interesting episode in his career was
his association with the author of " Huckle
berry Finn." It was Harte who first suggested
to Mr. Clemens that he should write for pub-

148

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

lication some of the humorous stories he used
to tell, and Clemens, profiting by the advice,
came to world wide fame as " Mark Twain."
Bret Harte is still in his prime, a gentleman
of unusual polish, exhibiting a nicety of
dress and manner which would be taken for
foppishness if such a blemish could exist in a
nature so frank and sincere. His personality
is as unconventional as his work, and he is
as witty in conversation as in his writings, so
that he has always been a favorite with his
friends in England and America.

TWO MARK TWAINS.

The Mark Twain we used to know, the
Mark Twain of " The Innocents Abroad," of
" A Tramp Abroad," of his short stories, isn t
in existence any longer. In his place we
have a man who writes books, but we wish
that he would write what he wants to, instead
of what he fancies the world wants him to
write.

" The Innocents " was the spontaneous fun
of a young man with a gift of humor. Real
humor of the early Mark Twain variety is
not only a fine thing in itself, but it is an in
dication of something infinitely finer. It goes
to the very root of human nature.

It is altogether probable that had Mr.
Clemens never met with reverses of fortune,
he would have taken the time to sit down
and put upon paper the book he wanted to
write. He did something that pleased him
in his "Joan of Arc," but that was not the
best in him. His last book, " Following the
Equator," is interesting ; but it would have
been a thousand times more interesting if
Mr. Clemens could have forgotten, and
the world could have forgotten, that he
had written a funny book of travels
before. His sense of observation is keen
and cultured now. He sees into the real
heart of things. When he began writing, he
was a boy who saw the incongruities of life,
and presented them humorously. Now, with
his clearer vision, he is obliged to put himself
into a mental position to catch his old point of
view, and then we are glad he doesn t suc
ceed, and we wish he would not try. In all
these years Mark Twain has become a lov
able personality to the English reading world.
We have laughed with him in his youth, and
we have been sorry when he was sorry, and
we wish he wouldn t think he had to make us
laugh.

" Following the Equator" is a delightful
book of travels, nevertheless. Mr. Clemens
sees the plain truth as we understand it, and
he tells it admirably. Here and there are
little scraps of a disposition toward bitter
ness, some people might say, but these are
outcroppings of a deep understanding of the

tragedies of existence. Most of us dullards
grow so accustomed to the usual course of
life that it has no power to move us or make
us wonder. The humorist is the one who
seizes upon the every day happening and
shows it to us. By his very nature he must
see the tragedy as well as the comedy.

Mr. Clemens has reached the time when it
is the serious side which appeals to him.
Why not give us a great book in which he
would let us see it, too ?

THE IMMORTAL COOGI^ER.

More than a year ago we introduced to our
readers a budding genius. We could not
identify the bud, but we recognized the
genius ; and now our bud of last year has
blossomed.

We have no forty immortals in America ;
we have only one, and his name is Coogler
J. Gordon Coogler. Inspired to f&gt;rophecy we
once called this man the " Poet I/aureate of
America," and the laurel is even now upon
his brow. His fifth volume of "purely
original verse " has come to hand, so that we
have now his complete works up to date an
adjunct to our library that we would not ex
change for any other publication of the year.

The lofty purpose which animates J. Gor
don Coogler in his poetical work, and the
svyaernal beauty of the lines themselves, are
vividly shown in the following passage :

Tis better this hand was silent,
This mind obscure and weak,

Than it should pen a single line
These lips would dare not speak.

There are passages in Mr. Coogler s pure
and original verse to which we would gladly
direct the critical attention of our readers,
but the poet s warning makes us hesitate :

Oh, you domestic critics who always quote,

But cannot e en compose a readable fetter ;
I defy you with all your self blown wisdom,

To write a decent line of verse or make mine
better.

No, no, Mr. Coogler, we cannot possibly
make your verses any better ; we certainly
shall not attempt anything of the sort. The
poet laureate of America is a modest man,
and disavows all responsibility for his sur
prising feats of versification. His destiny
seems to be as much in the hands of fate as
that of the novice who starts down hill on a
brakeless bicycle. We apologize for dragging
in this figure of speech, but it was suggested
by Mr. Coogler s pathetic introduction to his
fifth volume :

The path is old and well beaten I know
That leads away o er the hills to fame ;

I ve started thereon and I cannot turn back,
I ve naught to regret and no one to blame.

None is to blame, assuredly ; not even Mr.

LITERARY CHAT.

149

Coogler himself. Every one knows that it is
hard to stop when you are well agoing, and
Mr. Coogler s only mistake was in not start
ing out with a brake and putting it down
hard.

We are watching the- rider, his mount, and
the hill. Where Mr. Coogler is coming out
we cannot say, for we have never essayed that
hill and we are not familiar with his par
ticular make of Pegasus. We can only echo
the words of the bard himself :

Farewell, ye milk white dove, farewell !

This parting gives me pain ;
To think, perhaps I ne er shall see

Thy gentle form again !

YELLOW JOURNALISM.

In a recent monthly an article appeared
exposing the frail foundation on which the
yellow journalism rests, and proclaiming that
its downfall is near at hand.

The author makes the tail wag the dog in
a most ingenious manner, for he attributes
the wide sale of the atrocity mongers not to
an indigenous love of the gruesome, but to
the editorial dictum, " Sensationalism is what
the people want." The newspaper, he argues,
makes people think they want a certain per
son for mayor, a certain government for Cuba,
a certain standard for currency. Why should
it not be equally powerful to make a man
think he wants a certain nastiness in his daily
journal? The people do not think for them
selves, he claims ; they buy their opinions
and preferences at from one to three cents a
day. This, then, is the situation :

YELLOW JOURNAL "You want sensation
alism ! "

AMERICAN PEOPLE (surprised) "Why,"
by gum, so we do ! "

Kesult Five hundred million circulation.

This is granting the newspaper an alarming
degree of power. What if some enterprising
journal should start the cry, "You want a
wife " or, more alarming yet, " You don t
want one " ? What a commotion there
would be among the maidens !

When it comes to personal appetites, we
are strongly inclined to think that men know
their own wants and distastes, and act on
them, instead of meekly acquiescing in an
editorial edict. Take a crowded car when the
evening papers are out, and notice what the
people around you are reading. Then look
at their faces. There is nothing ungenuine
in that absorbed interest. "Throttled Her
Ivover," " Burned His Mother with Kero
sene," "Butchered His Three Children"
such head lines ought to revolt the people, to
turn them away forever from a sheet that
reveled in the foul details ; but they don t.

The ugly truth is that the great mass of the

people has a morbid love of a thrill. The
yellow journal is an abomination on the face
of the earth, but we cannot fight it with an
untruth.

Our optimistic author argues in all good
faith. His creed is, "We do not want sen
sational journals : we are only made to think
that we do." If he can make us think that
we don t, he will have proved his point and
won a glorious victory ; but we fear he can t.

CONCERNING NATIVE SLANG.

It is doubtful if slang plays a more impor
tant part in the vernacular of any city than it
does in that of New York, with the possible
exception of Paris, which is constantly coin
ing new words for its own exclusive use.

Nearly all American slang comes either
from the stage, the gaming table, or the race
track, and all of it literally reeks of the native
soil. None originates with the educated
classes, though they are willing to make use
of it in a supercilious sort of way when it is
furnished to them by those of inferior scho
lastic attainments. Moreover, it is not from
prosperity, but from hard luck, that most of
our slang expressions arise. Even the tech
nical phrases of Wall Street are those which
relate to losses rather than to gains.

It is easy to see why slang should pro
ceed from the uneducated rather than from
.the educated strata of society. The man of
learning can always find in the English
vocabulary words that will adequatelv ex
press his thoughts, but the unlearned man,
confronted by some new situation or sensation,
is likely, on the spur of the moment, to coin
a word or a sentence apt enough to pass into
the language.

For example, a theatrical manager once
applied to a circus proprietor for a female
rider who could be taught to play the leading
juvenile part in a drama dealing with life in
a circus tent. To this request the proprietor
made answer that it was difficult to find a
good rider who was capable of playing a part
on the stage, "but, "he added, "you might
take one of them actorines of yours and learn
her how to ride." He probably regarded
" actorine " as the obvious feminine of actor,
and the word came so naturally to his lips that
he used it without any idea of saying anything
humorous or odd. A college professor would,
of course, have employed the proper word,
but it is safe to say that his reply would never
have been worth quoting as an illustration of
anything in particular.

It would be impossible to enumerate here
the various sorts of slang with which gamblers
and players have enriched our language, or to
make any comparison of the products of the
two sources. It may be said in a general way,

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

however, that the gambler s slang is superior
to that of the actor, because the latter conies
from the lips of men who have, or ought to
have, some familiarity with good literature.

In illustration of this we may take the ex
pression "playing to the gallery," which, of
course, comes direct from the theater, and is
intended to signify a low, sensational quality
of dramatic art. The phrase is not a good one.
It is distinctly untrue, for the judgment of a
gallery is usually a very correct one, so far as
acting is concerned, and is never inferior to
that of the boxes or orchestra chairs. It is
not difficult to comprehend the reason for
this. Every seat in the gallery is filled by
some one who has paid for it with hard earned
and frugally husbanded money, and who is
there because he is a genuine lover of the
drama and anxious to get his full money s
worth of entertainment. lu the more expen
sive parts of the theater, on the other hand,
there may be found man} who have received
free tickets, and others who are there simply
because they have nothing better to do. The
proportion of real lovers of the stage among
them is extremely small in comparison with
the gallery, a region which the habitual
"dead head" scorns to enter. For these
reasons, if the phrase playing to the gallery
were changed to "playing to the boxes," it
would more truthfully convey its intended
meaning.

The sporting equivalent of this expression
is a far better one, namely, " making a grand
stand play." It was used originally to refer
to jockeys who made sensational finishes,
often at the risk of losing the race, for the
purpose of impressing the occupants of the
grand stand with their extraordinary skill in
horsemanship. Jockeys are well aware of the
fact that the proportion of people who are
ignorant of horse racing is much greater in
the grand stand than in those portions of the
field where the humbler .classes of spectators
are to be found. A jockey would be laughed
at if he were to attempt to impress with his
bizarre riding the great mass of shrewd and
crafty followers of the turf who stand in the
cheap places. Hence it has come to pass that
the term " grand stand play " has crept into
common usage to signify a direct appeal to
ignorance or credulity.

A BUSY IDLE

It is a long time since Jerome K. Jerome
christened himself "an idle fellow," and
made us one and all vote him a charming
fellow. We put his "Idle Thoughts" next
to the " Reveries of a Bachelor," because the
book was so like our own Ik Marvel s crea
tion, and yet so different. We paired his
"Three Men in a Boat" with Frank Stock

ton s "Rudder Grange," and laughed to
scorn his self accusation that when he sat
down to write something original he couldn t
think of anything worth saying. To thou
sands of appreciative readers he is always
amusing. His latest book, "Sketches in
L,avender, Blue, and Green," does not con
tain a dull line, though the title smacks a
little too strongly of the literary color school
to be strictly original. His short, story in
last month s number of MUNSEY S was a
characteristic specimen of his fiction.

Not long ago Mr. Jerome relinquished the
editorship of The Idler and Today for the
purpose of devoting more time to book writ
ing. He is now at work upon a short novel,
which, needless to say, is humorous. His
" Letters to Clorinda " are to be published in
book form, with additions to the original
series.

KIPLING S FEMININE READERS.

Reviewers have a way of summing up their
Kipling notes with the general remark that
his works have a peculiar delight for men,
which women miss. Do they mean that a
woman cannot appreciate brawn and bone
and muscle, because she is born somewhat
puny fisted ? Surely that is one reason the
more for her to delight in the Kipling sledge
hammer, for fine fingered weakness is always
ready to worship crude strength.

As a matter of fact, this giant has as many
fervent women at his heels as he ever will
number men women who glory in his tread,
and are above the matinee girl gush that is
dribbled over smaller men. There is but one
instance of sentimental adoration on record.
A feminine relative of the author was
presented to a young woman, who took her
hand with a little gasp of ineffable feeling.

"You re related to him, really related ?"
she exclaimed. " Oh, won t you let me kiss
you ?

A MARIE CORELW

A London daily newspaper, or one of its
"bright young men" for the American
press does not monopolize the entire visible
supply of this charming article has been
doing some literary detective work. The
mystery it claims to have unraveled is as
deep and dark as any of Gaboriau s. It be
gan some five years ago, when there was
published an anonymous book, " The Silver
Domino," which consisted of a series of
articles upon the literary lights of the day.
Among these lights was numbered Miss
Marie Corelli, and it was noticed that while
every other criticism was a scathing one, in
her case the tone was rather that of faint
praise. Suspicious people at once suggested

UTKRARY CHAT.

that Miss Corelli had written the book her
self, but she emphatically denied the charge.
Now comes the clue. A second edition of
"The Silver Domino" was printed, and in it
the anonymous author printed the following
letter received from Tennyson :

ALDWORTH, Haslemere, Surrey.

MY DEAR I thank you heartily for your

kind letter and welcome gift. You do well not
to care for fame. Modern fame is too often a
mere crown of thorns, and brings all the vul
garity of the world upon you. I sometimes wish
I had never written a line. Your friend,

TENNYSON.

Now, in a recent magazine article, the
writer, presumably a friend of Miss Corelli,
quotes a letter addressed to her by the late
laureate :

ALDWORTH, Haslemere, Surrey.
DEAR MADAM I thank you very heartily for
your kind letter and your gift of "Ardath,"a
remarkable work and a truly powerful creation.
You do well, in my opinion, not to care for fame.
Modern fame is too often a crown of thorns, and
brings all the coarseness and vulgarity of the
world upon you. I sometimes wish I had never
written a line. Yours, TENNYSON.

The detective argues that these two epistles
must be one and the same. It is not likely,
he urges, that Tennyson would send his
author friends a letter which, while it ap
peared to be a strong expression of a strong
man s strong feelings, was really nothing but
a circular masquerading as an intimate note ;
and the other circumstances of the case point
to the same conclusion which the reader can
readily draw.

A SEQUEL TO "VANITY EAIR."

The desire to know " what became of
them " after the last page of a novel has been
read is an instinct which the scientific mod
ern writers who disapprove of interesting
stories would no doubt condemn as primitive
and childish. Like a good many other prim
itive things, however, it is shared by a great
many people.

There was recently published a letter which
Thackeray wrote to the late Duke of Devon
shire in 1848, shortly after the last monthly
part of " Vanity Fair " had appeared. The
duke, it seems, had expressed his regret at
parting with Becky Sharp and Amelia Sedley
and Dobbin and the rest, and the obliging
novelist who, for all his keenness in scent
ing snobbery, dearly loved a duke, as he
once said himself lifts the curtain for him
and brings the history up to date.

MY LORD DUKE :

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whom I saw last week,
and whom I informed of your grace s desire to
have her portrait, was good enough to permit me

to copy a little drawing made of her "in hap
pier days," she said, with a sigh, by Since, the
Royal Academician.

Mrs. Crawley now lives in a small but very
pretty little house in Belgravia, and is conspicu
ous for her numerous charities, which always
get into the newspapers, and her unaffected
piety. Many of the most exalted and spotless of
her own sex visit her, and are of opinion that
she is a most injured woman. There is no sort
of truth in the stories regarding Mrs. Crawley
and the late L,ord Steyne. The licentious charac
ter of that nobleman alone gave rise to reports
from which, alas, the most spotless life and rep
utation cannot always defend themselves. The
present Sir Rawdon Crawley (who succeeded his
late uncle, Sir Pitt, 1832 ; Sir Pitt died on the
passing of the Reform bill) does not see his
mother, and his undutifulness is a cause of the
deepest grief to that admirable lady. " If it
were not for higher things" she says, "how
could she have borne up against the world s
calumny, a wicked husband s cruelty and false
ness, and the thanklessness (sharper than a ser
pent s tooth) of an adored child? But she has
been preserved, mercifully preserved, to bear
all these griefs, and awaits her reward else
where." The italics are Mrs. Crawlcy s own.

She took the style and title of I/ady Crawley
for some time after Sir Pitt s death, in 1832 ; but
it turned out that Col. Crawley, Governor of
Coventry Island, had died of fever three months
before his brother, whereupon Mrs. Rawdon was
obliged to lay down the title which she had
prematurely assumed. The late Joseph Sedley,
Esq., of the Bengal civil service, left her two
lakhs of rupees, on the interest of which the
widow lives in the practices of piety and benev
olence before mentioned.

Col. and Mrs. W. Dobbin live in Hampshire,
near Sir R. Crawley ; L,ady Jane was godmother
to their little girl, and the ladies are exceedingly
attached to each other. The colonel s " History
of the Punjaub " is looked for with much anxiety
in some circles.

I think these are the latest particulars relating
to a number of persons about whom your grace
was good enough to express some interest. I
am very glad to be enabled to give this informa
tion, and am

Your grace s very much obliged servant,
W. M. THACKERAY.

P. S. I,ady O Dowd is at O Dowdstown arm
ing. She has just sent in a letter of adhesion to
the lord lieutenant, which has been acknowl
edged by his excellency s private secretary, Mr.
Corry Connellan. Miss Glorvina O Dowd is
thinking of coming up to the castle to marry the
last named gentleman.

P. S. 2. The India mail just arrived an
nounces the utter ruin of the Union Bank at Cal
cutta, in which all Mrs. Crawley s money was.
Will fate never cease to persecute that suffering
saint ?

A SOLDIER S MANUAL.

Every American citizen has a constitutional
right to bear arms, and to regard himself as a
possible soldier in case of need. The word

152

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"militia" has often been officially used to
denote the entire fighting force of the nation s
manhood an army more vast than any that
ever took the field.

It would not be strange if Captain Charles
A. Smylie s " Points of Minor Tactics,"
recently published as a manual for the
National Guard, should find many readers and
students outside of that organization. It is a
brief, clear, and remarkably readable sum
mary of the soldier s duties, beginning where
the routine of drill regulations and guard
manual ends, and stopping short of the wide
field of strategical operations. Between these
limits it covers the equipment of the " three
arms," the movements of armed bodies,
outpost and patrol work, fire tactics, field
fortifications, and the simpler intrenchments
details of the art of war on which success
or failure constantly turns, as the author
abundantly proves by the historical instances
with which he illustrates every point he
makes. It will be seen that the title of the
book is a decidedly modest one.

Captain Smylie is an officer of one of the
best New York militia regiments the
Twelfth. He is a director of the company
that is preparing to bridge the Hudson River,
and has other large business interests, but
soldiering is a hobby to which much of his
life has been devoted. He is a man who is
welcomed in any social company, and in
military circles he is known as one of the
most promising of the younger officers of the
National Guard, who is destined to rise to
the highest posts it has to offer. He
thoroughly believes in the value and impor
tance of our citizen soldiery, and in "Minor
Tactics " he earnestly combats the idea which,
in the piping times of peace, has found ex
pression in the sneering remark : "After all,
we are nothing but a glorified police force."
To this Captain Smylie replies :

A sentiment like the above is usually to be
explained by a desire to excuse inefficiency, or
is the result of an underestimation of the value
of thoroughness in detail and all round mastery
of the less obvious duties of the service. The
fact that the National Guard is frequently called
upon to do duty against a domestic enemy on
the occasions of rioting during strikes, etc., does
not affect the other fact that it is primarily in
tended to act against an external enenry.

When rumors of war are, in the air, this
last consideration is by no means a merely
nominal one.

ZOLA IN THE DREYFUS CASE.

The outcry concerning Zola s interference
in the Dreyfus scandal has been sarcastically
referred to as a means of advertising his new
book, " Paris."

Now in the first place, no book of Zola s
needs any advertisement except the announce
ment of its publisher in these days. The fact
that he never sought sensational advertise
ment for his books in the early years when
he could not sell them should certainly free
him from such an imputation when the orders
come in a year ahead of publication.

The point lies in the fact that a man of let
ters, particularly a novelist, is supposed never
to be a man of action, or to have the liberty to
comeforwardin any great emergency. He isn t
supposed to have any partisanship, with the
liberty of using his talent on the side he favors
at least, not as an individual. If he writes for
a certain journal whose owners take up a
cause, he may speak, but not as himself. If
any other man who had reached Zola s emi
nence a great soldier or a famous doctor
had espoused the cause of the unfortunate
Dreyfus, he would not be called an advertiser.

Literary people are too often considered
simply as onlookers in life, the note takers,
who have nothing whatever to do with the
show. Whatever the outcry against Zola,
whatever the disapproval of his methods of
novel writing, nobody can accuse him of
lacking definite purpose. He has not written
what he did not believe. His books are valu
able because he has had a serious purpose.

The hard work that he has gone through,
the study of his subjects, would have out
fitted hundreds of money spinners. He came
up to Paris and suffered and went unpub
lished for years. He belonged to that little
coterie made up of Daudet, the Goncourts,
Turgenieff, and the rest of them, all of whom
came to fame.

As one of the great men of France, a man
of ripe experience and trained intellect, he
has a right to speak upon public questions
without being put down as a cheap jack call
ing attention to his wares.

SOCIETY IN FICTION.

The dialect habit was bad enough, but the
atmosphere of social supremacy that is
smeared over so many recent stories is infi
nitely worse. There has arisen a whole class
of light fiction infested with wearisome little
toy swells, about as much like the real thing
as a little girl with a shawl pinned on the
back of her gown resembles the grown up
young lady she personates with her small
strut. A brougham, a butler, and a maid are
as inevitable to a certain sort of modern
heroine as personal charms, and they are
relentlessly tacked on to her even when she
betrays in a hundred ways that she was born
to trolley cars and second girls, and to the
coiling of her own fair locks with her own
hands.

LITERARY CHAT.

The young writer wlio wishes to picture a
woman of fashion does not recognize that he
must have known that realm personally to
do it passably well. He seizes a few of its
outer symbols, and tacks them on at random,
never realizing that fine feathers do not make
fine birds in fiction any more than in life. His
creation bears the same relation to what he
thinks he has built as a scarecrowMoes to a
man ; and none but the jays are impressed.

He is a brave writer who puts his heroine
avowedly in the great middle class, where
maids are unknown and footmen impossible ;
where the mother lets slip an occasional " he
don t," and the grandmother frankly says
" ain t " ; where people are well bred with
out being good form, well dressed without
being smart, and well behaved without know
ing all the little laws and precedents that
control what we call society. In nine cases
out of ten it is to this class that the writer
belongs, and this that he is best qualified to
describe. But his inborn snobbery makes
him shrink from confessing it in cold print,
and he seeks to surround himself, through
his characters, with the glittering social haze
so dear to the American heart.

THE NEW ENGIvAND STORY.

Go for the first time into a queer old room,
full of quaint furniture and heirlooms, big
and little, and you will not want any other
amusement than that of wandering about, ex
amining each thing in detail. You will come
out enthusiastic about the good time you
have had ; but, after a great many visits, the
novelty will wear off. You will still feel the
charm of the atmosphere, but you will want
to do something while you are there, instead
of merely poking around. You will grow
restless in spite of delft and spinning wheels.

That is the pass we have come to with the
New England story. The minute setting is
no longer enough, since we already know it
by heart. The gaunt characters in themselves
cannot hold our interest now. for we know
them, too ; and after one glance at their thin
lips or shambling knees, we can describe
them with our eyes shut. The time has come
when things must happen in the queer old
room, if we are to stay there. The gnarled
men and hopeless women must move- about,
must please, anger, frighten, and thrill us,
instead of merely posing before the camera.

We have looked our fill. Unless we can be
made to feel, the room will be deserted.

Mr. Kirk Munroe, whose books for boys
which grown people read are popular publi
cations, both here and in England, belongs
to a literary family. His wife is a daughter
of Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, the novelist. His

eldest sister married Mrs. Harriet Beecher
Stowe s son, and his youngest is the wife of
Mr. Putnam, the librarian of the Boston Pub
lic Library. He has a delightful home in
Florida, on Bisdfeyne Bay, but he and his
wife travel constantly, as he hunts his local
color in the places where he locates his stories.
As they have no children, and as Mrs. Mun
roe is as enthusiastic a traveler as himself,
they go from North to South, from Maine to
the Canadian West, and make holiday trips
of their literary tours. They spent last autumn
at Annapolis, where Mr. Munroe was getting
material for a book with a Naval Academy
student as its hero.

* # * *

General Lew Wallace will be able to shut
himself off from the world, this summer, as
completely as any literary worker could wish,
and that without seeking seclusion in some
remote mountain fastness. He has had a
study built among the beech trees of his
Crawfordsville garden, and he is having a
moat dug about it, which will be filled with
water, and presumably fitted with a draw
bridge of the most approved medieval pat
tern. Hither the gallant veteran of the
sword and the pen can retreat, and, pulling
up his drawbridge, defy the most persistent
interviewer.

It is said that at his death he intends to
leave his fortified study which is quite an
elaborate building, costing forty thousand
dollars to the city of Crawfordsville for a
public library.

* * * *

The discussion aroused by the modest Le
Gallienne s assault upon Omar Khayyam .has
caused an English versifier to express his
weariness of the whole subject in a painfully
irreverent way :

There was an old person of Ham,
Who wearied of Omar Khayyam ;

" Fitzgerald," said he,

" Is as right as can be ;
But this club, and these versions oh, d n ! "

* * * *

During his American travels Mr. Gallienne
has doubtless encountered that propensity for
asking questions which is said to be a national
characteristic. One that has been propounded
by some inquisitive native relates to the form
of his name, which is an apparent defiance of
the ordinary rules of French grammar. It
is understood that his euphonious cognomen
was not thrust upon him by ancestors over
whom he had no control, but was selected
for himself by himself. He might just as
well have called himself Le Gallien or La
Gallienne, and thus have silenced the query
that now arises.

I^P MASQUES AND DANCES, DINNERS AND TEAS,A\USICALES, OPERAS.PLAYS,

GOSSIP AND GALLANTRY, WAYS or EASE, FOLLY FRAUGHT NIGHTS AND DAYS;
GREED or GOLD AND THE PACE THAT KILLS.GLAMOOR AND GLOSS AND GLARE * &lt;%
FADS AND FURBELOWS, FANCIES AND FRILLS-? THIS is VANITY FAIR!

THE CROP OF FAMILY TREES.

There is something pathetic in the joy of
the American people over the recent discov
eries in grandfathers. For years these monu
ments of antiquity had lain unappreciated.
Then, all at once, we awoke to the fact that
we had an unminted treasure in the house ;
that these newly unburied ancestors might be
worn as jewels to dazzle the humble, humil
iate the parvenu, and envelop their possessor
in a distinguished glow of inherited respecta
bility.

So the grandfathers were fished out of their
forgotten corners, and dusted and polished
and reset and formed into buttons and badges
and diadems for their exulting descendants.
And when the musty hiding places revealed
but a cheap rhinestone or a bit of broken
glass, or perhaps nothing at alt beyond a little
dust and a handful of ashes, clever artificers
were found who could make even these give
forth a lusty sparkle. No one owning a crack
where an ancestor might lurk need go un
decked, and now all over the land the women
have banded together to play this beautiful
game of " Button, button, who s got a grand
father ?"

Men have rather shrunk back from these
fashionable adornments, contenting them
selves with the glory reflected from their
royal wives and historic daughters. A man is
hampered by the wholesome knowledge that,
if he makes himself ridiculous, the world will
roar in his face ; but a holy law forbids that
a woman shall be openly laughed at, and she
is so used to a decorous respect in the face of
her absurdities that she never dreams there
may be unlawful snickering in the corners.
Her sense of humor will never develop so long
as the world loves her too well to discipline
her with laughter ; and, until humor awakens,
she will carry on her pompous nonsense with
all the dignity of a child playing princess, and
spread her tea table in the shade of a family
tree which, like the wonderful shrub of the
eastern fakir, has sprung up from bare ground
in a single hour.

Even if the tree were the growth of cen
turies, and the jewels of Aladdin flashed on
every branch, an American man would be shy
of displaying his joy in it too frankly, know

ing that a sharp tongued press would have
the world laughing at him day and night for
his pride and vainglory ; but a woman may
put the tree on as a corsage bouquet and strut
serenely behind it without catching a smile
at the display. It is her feminine privilege
to show off un hooted.

CONCERNING CRESTS AND HERALDRY.

Among the many social developments that
have come with the latter day increase of
wealth, few are more astonishing than the
number of carriages now to be seen in the
streets of New York emblazoned with elabo
rate coats of arms, where once a simple mono
gram was used. Whether this is good taste in
the inhabitants of a republic is an open ques
tion ; but it seems reasonable to demand that
if Americans are going in for that sort of
thing they should take the trouble to learn
something of heraldry.

It is not generally known on this side of
the ocean that no woman whatever is entitled
to bear a crest. This piece of information
should be disseminated far and wide for the
benefit of the women who have their note-
paper and their spoons engraved with what
they are pleased to call their "crest."
Furthermore, it is only the eldest son of a
man entitled to bear arms who has a right to
bear the crest pertaining to those arms. The
younger sons may bear the arms, distin
guished with the proper "mark of cadency "
in each case, but only the eldest son has a
right to the crest, and that not in his father s
lifetime.

PLAYING LADY.

When several women meet together on a
strictly society basis, one is irresistibly re
minded how little girls "play lady." The
miniature dames, with shawl trains flowing
from their pinafores, sit in fashionable atti
tudes, and in fashionable accents utter the
fashionable sentiment of the moment, stop
ping now and then to giggle at the absurdity
of it all. And the grown ups do exactly the
same, only they have not humor enough to
laugh at it. The old term " playing lady"
has been changed for "doing society," but
the main elements of the game are the same ;

IN VANITY FAIR.

155

you mustn t talk with your every day voice
or move with your every day gait, or forget
for an instant to be " charming."

It is that overworked adjective that has
caused half the mischief. "Charming "is
continually applied to women of picturesque
attitudes and surface smiles and artificially
sweetened voices, women who always move
in the glamour of imaginary footlights and
go through their little head tilting and eye
shooting acts in serene complacence. For
they know that the hurried world will fling
them the adjective their outer aspect clamors
for, and that their names will always be
greeted by the conventional "Oh, yes;
charming woman ! " which their soul loves.
They pin on an adjective as they would a
satin bow, without reference to their outward
structure, and trust its becomingness to cover
its artificiality.

There are two kinds of naturalness, and
they lie on either side of the great middle
mass of affectation and self consciousness that
society has reared up. The first is the natu
ralness of ignorance, the spontaneous, un
trained variety that laughs freely and whole
heartedly in a crowded car, points with frank
finger and uplifted arm at a pleasing article
in a shop window, eats when and where hun
ger makes the suggestion, shrugs at the word
tact, and would inevitably choose comfort
before appearances if the two conflicted. It
is splendid, untrammeled, and just a trifle
gauche.

On the other side of the great self con
scious belt lies the region of the higher or
trained naturalness, the very perfection of
bearing, that has known self consciousness
and put it away ; that is unaffected, not be
cause it knows no better, but because it
knows better than to be anything else. To
break a social canon through ignorance is un
pardonable. To know all the social code
and quietly and deliberately set aside such
parts of it as seem to one tiresome or absurd
that marks one as first grade, as a thorough
bred of the highest order. This fine sim
plicity is a matter of choice rather than of
impulse, but, though deliberate, it is not self
conscious. It does not contrast so sharply
with the middle airs and poses as the un
trained variety does ; yet, when it passes, the
social world instinctively uncovers, recogniz
ing that she to whom it belongs is not play
ing lady, but was born and bred one, and
could not be anything else.

THE CHILDREN S HOUR.

The women of the past generation were

unlucky in their choice of a period. They

came in at an age when parents ruled their

children, married in a time when the hus

band was lord of his wife, and are growing
old in an era when the children run the
earth. They have never known the satisfac
tion of ruling, the joy of bullying, the
sweet scrunch of a neck under a high heeled
boot. Faithful, dutiful, amiable, obedient
those were the adjectives they prized, know
ing no better.

Perhaps, in their gentle hearts, they har
bored little contraband dreams of power.
Surely they anticipated with secret satisfac
tion the day when they should reap the
daughterly reverence they themselves had
sown, and "Just as you say, dear mother ! "
should be the household maxim.

But we ha,ye changed all that. This is tho
children s hour. The mother of today is not
unkindly treated, but she is held with a firm,
daughterly hand. There is little interest in
her as a genuine sample of an early issue.
She must be edited and revised and brought
strictly up to date before she can be consid
ered suitable for publication. Her grammar
and pronunciation receive careful attention,
and her archaisms of speech are faithfully
pointed out at first tolerantly, then irrita
bly, then with exasperation. For, thoiigh
she is humbly apologetic on the subject, she
is not quick to learn new tricks, and has
been known to say " Sazwwarola " when the
De Veres were calling, and to slip from "does"
into " doos " in the very presence of the Van
Schwaggers.

She cannot now glide comfortably into
what has been called her anecdotage, for the
young generation has discovered that an
anecdote is merely a funny story that isn t
funny, and so has relentlessly snubbed it out
of the conversational category. Her garments
and their adjustment are strictly supervised
by her tireless manager, who, as she pins veils
and straightens bows, wonders in her heart
how her parent ever made a suitable appear
ance before the present mistress of the ward
robe came into existence. Ah, well, perhaps
her husband and her mother between them
kept her in shape until the daughter could
take the reins. That was their business, in
those days. Now the child is mother to the
woman, and does her duty by her charge.

Out of all this comes a most significant
question. What will be the relation between
the daughter and the daughter s daughters?
It will take twenty years to answer it, but
perhaps even in heaven the well drilled
mother will feel a mild satisfaction in that

A NICE GIRL.

" No nice girl would do that."
That is a phrase one hears some three
hundred and sixty five times a year, generally

156

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

on the lips of a very nice girl. A befuddled
man creature, struck with the reiteration,
noted down the occasions that led to the re
mark, and tried to work out a general code of
feminine ethics, setting a heading of "No

Nice Girl Would " over a list of offenses

tabulated, as far as he could guess, in the
order of their enormity. The result was be
wildering. Apparently, no nice girl would
do anything at all, from powdering her nose
to attending a prize fight.

He carried the schedule of forbidden fruits
to the nicest girl he knew.

" Tell me," he said anxiously, " don t you
ever do a single one of these? Why, it must
be awful ! "

She took the list, and by the time she had
reached item No. 5 she was furiously angry.
It was perfectly ridiculous everybody did
that now ; anyone that condemned it must
be a stupid prig who had never been ten
miles from home. Nos. 6 and 7 mollified her
a little, and 10 brought a nod of approval,
but at 13 she smiled distantly and handed
back the list, with the remark that it should
be pinned up in every well regulated nursery.
She had had the misfortune to grow up with
out it, and so could not claim to be a nice
girl. If he wanted to show that he disap
proved of her, she wished he would do it
frankly and openly, not in this roundabout
fashion. And his opinion was a matter of
absolute indifference to her, any way.

The next girl to whom he showed it
laughed till she cried. It was all right to
condemn No. 5 or 13, but as for 8 and 9,
there wasn t a girl in town who wouldn t ;
and though one might not approve of 17
for a steady thing, everybody had tried it at
least once, whether she would own up to it or
not. A girl who lived up to that list would be
simply unbearable ; she wouldn t be nice at all.

The third girl colored and looked very un
comfortable. Of course, she quite agreed
with most of it, only sometimes things did-
seem exceptional, and sometimes one didn t
know that a thing was going to happen ;
though of course no nice girl would, as a gen
eral rule. And her eyes traveled back to 10
with a troubled look. A dozen others tore
the code to shreds among them, each reserv
ing a few sections which in her eyes were in
dispensable, and arguing hotly over the
reservations of the rest.

What were these startling theses to be
nailed to one s boudoir door ? Surely any one
who knows nice girls can guess. They in
volved chaperons and men and millinery,
roof gardens and cigarettes and Sunday, and
all the little trespasses which show that even
a nice girl is human in spots. Though the
code was pulled to pieces by the critics to

whom it was submitted, the various clauses
that were saved out of the wreck and vehe
mently insisted on would, if put together, re
establish the whole code intact.

The masculine mind is still as muddled as
ever, and the problem is still unsettled.
What may a nice girl do ?

THE LANGUAGE OF CLOTHES.

When a girl has throttled herself with a
band of rigid linen that paralyzes her neck
muscles and saws a crimson line beneath her
chin ; when she has cut off her breathing
power abruptly at the waist, burdened her
back with a ponderous mass of swinging,
dragging cloth, poised a winged and ribboned
monstrosity on her head, and dazzled her
eyesight with fluttering dots and dashes, she
looks her very best. She is chic, she is good
form, she pleases our distorted vision as no
exponent of nature s laws ever could.

Seeing her coming, one recognizes at once
that she is " possible " ; that is, that there is
no outer reason why she should not belong to
the sacred inner circle of Vanity Fair. The
impossible watch her pass with frank envy,
or with a labored indifference that betrays
the same feeling. The socially probable
(those who very likely belong to that inner
circle) lean forward in their broughams to see
if she is not a person to be bowed to. Those
who rule the social world meet her graciously
and give her a fair chance to prove herself
worthy of their set, where an equally deserv-
ing person with an easy going collar and an
unrestricted diaphragm would be passed over
indifferently, and must cut her way in through
a thicket of pride and prejudice if she is to
enter at all.

A girl s outer details form a sort of sign
language, and though it takes a social expert
to read it with absolute accuracy, no one can
miss its general meaning. The more val
iantly she has sacrificed personal comfort to
the torturing laws of correct feminine
gearing, the more the masculine spectator
wants to know her, and to have it seen of
men that she knows him. A quick pace sets
her heart to pounding angrily at its barriers,
and a passing wind swirls her into a helpless
mass of skirts, but she never has to struggle
unaided with a heavy swing door, or push an
elevator button with her own fingers, or wait
unnoticed at a crowded counter. The world
steps aside for her, and she walks unjostled
in a glittering social haze. She finds a velvet
cloak at every puddle. Surely bodily free
dom is not a high price to pay for all this.

THE HUMAN FORM DIVINE.

Man was created a vain animal. Before he
had seen his fellow men, he conceived the

IN VANITY FAIR.

157

idea that the human form was a thing of
great beauty, and he strutted proudly about
the earth, enjoying his contours. Woman,
too, started out not altogether dissatisfied
with her geography, and so, when these two
met, each was reveling in the thought,
"How very beautiful I must seem to this
stranger ! And so, of course, they fell in
love with each other.

Being thus blinded, they went along in
happy complaisance, praising human beaut}-.
But one day incautious eating brought on a
fit of dyspepsia, which cleared their eyes of
the love mists in a twinkling, and for the
first time they saw each other. Thereupon
they shuddered and rushed away, and there
was a corner in fig leaves.

Now, man could not give up the glory of
his lost illusion, so he draped himself with
garments that disguised his ungainly bulk,
his strange bifurcations ; and woman did
likewise. And the more garments they piled
on, the more they altered their outer sem
blance, the louder they bragged of their hid
den beauty. To this day they draw it and
paint it and carve it, to prove their boast, but
for all that each keeps his own jealously
guarded, lest the dyspeptic eye of his disil
lusioned fellows finds him out. Maidens,
ruffed and pinched and humped and frilled
out of all human semblance, stand adoringly
before canvas " altogethers, " fortified by the
knowledge that these are " all the rage now " ;
yet inwardly they quiver under the mortify
ing betrayal of their own ugliness.

Mankind has done more than hide and
sham to preserve the beauty fable. It has
even had the audacity tg condemn its God to
the same image.

A THANKLESS TASK.

Every little while one sees a woman walk
ing triumphantly down the street, head up,
shoulders back, skirts swishing, grandly
unconscious that some heartbreaking little
calamity has befallen her gearing. It may
be that two white waistbands, never meant
to show, are outlining themselves against her
dark tailor skirt ; it may be a gaping pocket,
a dangling tape, a misplaced switch that is
ridiculing her proud bearing, and reading to
the amused bystanders a satire on human
complacency.

Some humane being, wishing to shorten the
hour of her humiliation, draws close to her
with a low toned, " I beg your pardon, but

did you know that your " the rest being

a tenderly worded account of the disaster.

And the woman thanks her unknown bene
factor with grateful effusion ? Not a bit of
it. She gives her one short glare, the scorch
ing, dangerous look of a tiger whose young

have been threatened, and turns away with
out a word* Her glance would translate into :
Worm of the dust, how dare you hint that
anything could be wrong with me? What
business is it of yours if I don t choose to
hook my waistband? You meddling, offi
cious " etc., etc.

The luckless philanthropist shrinks back
covered with mortification, and the insulted
one stalks into a shop, whence she presently
emerges properly readjusted. She has been
saved blocks of humiliation by some one
whose act was entirely disinterested. Why
isn t she grateful ?

The only explanation comes from that
never dying root of all evil, feminine vanity.
This insists that she shall seem flawless in
the world s eyes, and she is unconsciously
exulting in her completeness when the inno
cent stumbling block brings her pride to
earth. And some of us are still undisciplined
enough to kick the thing we trip over. She
has had a bad tumble, and it hurts her so
that she wants to hurt back.

What is one to do ? Let her make a spec
tacle of herself all the way down Broadway ?
Or save her in spite of herself and accept
one s snubbing philosophically?

THE "PAYING GUEST."

A great many people utterly fail to grasp
the significance of the phrase "paying
guest," which occurs so frequently in stories
of modern English life. In plain English it is
nothing more nor less than a boarder, thus
politely designated as a sop to the feelings
of those who need the money paid for his
entertainment, and yet do not wish to be
known as keepers of a boarding house.

In America we have polite ways of our own
for expressing this peculiar relationship :

"We re expecting a few friends to spend
the winter with us some nice people from
Ohio, who have been very highly recom
mended."

" Maw s so fond of company that we ve
got the house full, as usual. That s the
reason Uncle Jabez is sleeping in the haymow
and the children have gone over to their
grandmother s."

"Of course, sir, we wish you to distinctly
understand that we don t keep a boarding
house. No De Sneister ever did such a thing
as that. But the winter evenings are so
long, and my husband is away so much of the
time, that at last we made up our minds to
rent a few rooms."

In England, where there seems to be less
variety and picturesqueness of speech than
we have here, all this and much more is
summed up in the terse and readily under
stood expression, " We have a paying guest."

MEN, MARRIAGE, AND WOMEN.
WHEN a man marries the girl he loves he
thinks he s got everything he wants, but he
soon finds out she hasn t.

IN choosing a husband always leave him to
do a fair share of the choosing.

MARRIAGE is a lottery in which many of
the prizes are drawn b} men that never find
it out.

MANY a married man is kept from wishing
ke were single again through fear that his
wife will find out about it.

MARRYING a woman for money is generally
a trifle risky, for you always get the woman
and not always the money.

H. C. Boultbee.

THERE WAS NO ESCAPE.

"On, dear!" sighed Mrs. Barley, "I be
come so frightened when I think that I must
read the report of my committee at the next
meeting of the clnb."

"Then don t read it, my dear," advised
Mr. Barley.

"Oh, but I must! "

" Is it so very important, then? "

"No, I don t think it is especially impor
tant, but I must read it just the same."

" Why not remain away that day and
send the report for the secretary to read ! "

" Oh, that would never do at all ! "

"Why wouldn t it do? Don t you think
she can read your handwriting ? "

" How absurdly you talk ! "

" If you think she can t, I ll take it to the
office and have it typewritten."

"No, you needn t have it typewritten, for
I shall go and read it myself."

"But, my dear, if you become frightened
at the very idea of reading "

" That doesn t make the slightest differ
ence, Frank Barley ! I must read it myself,
because I ve got the loveliest new tailor made
gown to wear that afternoon. It will be the
first time I ve been out in it ! "

William Henry Siviter.

BEHINB THE TIMES.
" WHAT is your fad, Mrs. Newly wed ? "
One of the up to date sisterhood said.
" Have you no ology, ism, or cult,
Poet to annotate, quote, or consult,
Theosophical problem to chew,
Archaeological vein to pursue,
Science or sport that you chiefly affect,

Body of doctrine to probe or dissect,

Theoretical hurdle to vault,

Artist, or school, to exploit and exalt,

Mystical worship of Isis or Brahm

That wraps the vexed soul in its infinite

calm?

Well, then, perhaps of statistics you re fond,
Or travel le monde outre mer ( cross the

pond) ?

A sociological bent you may own,
With plans for extraction of bread from a

stone ?

No, you reply ! Then explain, I implore,
What is the fad that you most adore ? "
Blushing, the young wife raised her head.
" My hobby s my hubby, ma am," she said.

Paul Pastnor.

A TARANTELLA*
LIKE liquid fire the music ran,
And so the dance began ;
Framed in the terrace s low white wall

And purple sweep of the shining bay,
Forward and backward in swift accord

The dancers bend and the dancers sway :
Tinkling earrings and flashing teeth,

Rhythmic swing to a measured beat,
Springing and turning with supple grace,

Lithely poised on their bare brown feet,
Ever and ever a quickening pace

A dizzy whirl and a mad, wild maze
Presto ! the end. A silence falls

On the opal glow qf the noontide haze ;
A shadow seems to dim the sun,
Because the dance is done.

Grace Hodson Boutelle.

THE PURITAN MAIB.
HANGS her picture on the wall,
Where the sunbeams lightly fall ;
O er her seated at the wheel,
Softly, tenderly, they steal ;
Neath her cap so plain and white,
Shine her curls of golden light.

Face of rose leaf tinted hue,
Eyes like violets kissed by dew
Gravely, shyly gazing down,
Shaded by the lashes brown ;
So they looked that fair spring day
V/hen one stole her heart away.

Leal to Stuart blood was he,
And of Roundhead lineage she.
Ere the years around her flew,
Shadows dimmed those eyes of blue ;
Ere her baby girl could speak,
Beath had claimed the mother meek.

ETCHINGS.

159

Now she lies neath moss decked stone,
All with lichen overgrown,
Still the letters you may see,
" Phyllis, Sixteen Fifty Three,"
There the sunbeams gently play
Round the grave of Phyllis Grey.

Patty e L. Bletchford.

DAFFODIL TIME.
OH, it s daffodil time ! You can hear from

the hills

The lyrical lilt of the winter freed rills ;
You can catch, if you will, a faint flushing

of fire
On the maple bough buds and the tips of the

briar ;
And the meads are released from the thrall of

the rime,
For it s daffodil time, oh, it s daffodil time !

Oh, it s daffodil time ! And the tender hues

blend
In the skies like the love lighted eyes of a

friend ;
And the voice of the wind, as it whispers,

beguiles,

Bearing hints of the joy of the opulent isles ;
And sown with content is the path that we

climb,
For it s daffodil time, oh, it s daffodil time !

Oh, it s daffodil time ! How old memories

start,
And love is renewed in the pulse of the

heart !
How the blood, like the sap, seems to leap

as it knows

A sudden relief from the thrall of the snows !
How life flows again like the beat of a

rhyme,

For it s daffodil time, oh, it s daffodil time !
Clinton Scollard.

LEAVES.
THEY body April s ecstasy

The young buds greening on the breeze-
And May exultant sets them free,

To swarm about the orchard trees.

Let loose upon a branching stair
Between the low world and the high,

The leaves ascend the middle air

Like birds that lift themselves to fly.

The river of the wind they stem,

And choke it with their merry crew,

My spirit leaps and laughs with them,
And drinks with them the rain and dew.

Whether against the grass they lean,
Or to the farthest branches flee,

Their living presence comes between
The burden of the day and me.

And if they wither in the heat,
As poets fade when praise is hot,

They make e en withered lives seem sweet,
And drouth almost as it were not.

So with an airy covering

Around the summer s woodland wall,
Or wreathing all the dews of spring,

Or painting all the paths of fall,

They go their brief and lovely ways,
With naught to ask, with all to give,

And make for me the empty days
Of winter lonelier to live.

Ethelwyn Wetherald.

APRIL.

TiS said that maiden April s eyes are wet ;
Grant that the saying s true, it then

appears
Tis but the dew upon the violet

Beauty the fairer through a veil of tears !
Clinton Scollard.

THE SENTIMENTAL POET.
WHEN to the stars this poet sings
His thoughts are on far different things :
His stars are found not in the skies,
But in his sweetheart s eyes !

When to the roses turn his lines
His thoughts are not concerned with vines
His roses honey no bee sips
They are his sweetheart s lips !

When to the night his fancies go
His thoughts are not of shadows no !

His night is everything that s fair,

That is, of course her hair !

Oh, wondrous potency of love !
Sing he of earth or what s above,

A poet s quite like other men

It is his sweetheart then !

Felix Carmen.

AN OLD DAGUERREOTYPE.
THE rounded case shows age s tinge

And just a trace of mold ;
The back displays a broken hinge

That still contrives to hold ;
The pictured face within is faint,

The dust away you wipe
And see the limning of a saint

An old daguerreotype.

The while she posed, a winsome lass,

The soul of girlish grace,
An artist prisoned neath this glass .

The beauty of her face ;
The curls that crowned her maiden brow,

The cheeks as cherries ripe
A legacy from Then to Now,

An old daguerreotype.

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Tis meet that such a face, so pure,

Should with its smiles live on,
In hearts of later growth endure,

Though she herself be gone.
Her grave with grass is grown about,

Around it plovers pipe,
But she still lives and smiles from out

An old daguerreotype.

Roy Farrell Greene.

HIS PRAYER.
ON Easter day Priscilla goes
To meetyng in her Sabbath clothes,

Her flowered gowne with ribbands gaye,
I woulde her eyes woulde bid me staye
Among her galaxy of beaux.

Her face is sweete as May Day rose ;
I marvele if ye texte she knows,

" Behold, the stone was rolled awaye,"
On Easter day.

The clerke intones it through hys nose ;
The ardent bloode withyn me glows.
Priscilla, woulde it were my parte
To rolle the stone that locks thy hearte.
Sweete, for thys miracle I praye,
On Easter day.

Theodosia Pickering.

TO AN APRIL GIRL.
As breaks the sun through the clouds and

mist
And tinges the rain drops with heaven s

hue,

So may the tears in your life be kissed
By the sun of happiness, shining through.
Winthrop Packard.

AN INSCRIPTION FOR A "DEN."
HERE dwells the phantom called Delight :
Come, seek her, friend, by day or night.
The lack of luxury she deems
Less of a drawback than it seems ;
Where friendship is, and welcome bides,
Her smiling face she never hides.
Some care for comfort and for ease
Suffices her fine taste to please ;
A shaded light, a cheerful book,
A title to the lounging nook,
Some pictures, not from bargain sales
On these her senses she regales.
Add, then, for those not overproud,
The freedom here to blow a cloud,
And leave to broach, for homely cheer,
A measure of plebeian beer ;
Perhaps a chatty game of whist,
Where points are lost and never missed
So none may fear to sit and take
An evening s ease for friendship s sake.
For here shall form an outlaw be,

And voice and hand and heart be free ;
Here dignity shall lose his poise,
While mirth has leave to make a noise ;
Here we, as dull reserve unbends,
May name the virtues of our friends,
And brag of what we have in life,
On every score from wealth to wife.
So come and sit, and leave your blues
To wait outside for future use ;
Seek here the phantom named Delight :
Her door swings in by day or night.

Frank Roe Batchelder.

WORTH.

THE rarest gem earth s bosom holds,
Unpolished, half its worth conceals ;

The lapidary s skill unfolds

That hidden wealth nought else reveals.

So, too, it is that powers innate,

Unwrought, must needs unnoticed stand,
As gems there are that only wait

The touches of a master hand.

John Troland.

HER FIRST SORROW.
As when the tender violet

First bows with summer rain
And thinks, because her cap is wet,

The sun will never shine again ;

So for my little maid of four
Was quenched the light of Sol,

When trickled out upon the floor
The sawdust stuffing of her doll !

James Buckham.

SORCERY.

OUTSIDE I heard the muffled beat

Of wintry rain and rising sea,
While in the cozy window seat

She read forgotten tales to me.

The yellow page upon her lap

Was lighted by such evening glow

As lit the dead man s theme, mayhap,
Who sang a thousand years ago.

Her voice in even cadence fell,
Her hand lay gently on the page

That told life s endless miracle
And love s eternal heritage.

While subtle fragrance filled the air
Like incense of a vanished day

Some strange enchantment lingered there
About that sweet old poet s lay.

Twas not alone the mystic spell
Of love lit rhyme and bygone age,

But of the voice and hand as well

That lingered o er the dead man s page.
Albert Bigelow Paine.

MRS. GEORGE BURROUGHS TORR1CY, OK NEW YORK.
From the portrait by George Burroughs Torrey.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XIX. MAY, 1898. No. 2.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

French pictures and oriental porcelains in America Notes on native and foreign painters, with
a series of engravings of representative canvases.

A GREAT SALE OP PORCELAINS.

It takes a .sale like that of the cele
brated collection of ceramics made by the
late Charles A. Dana to show how close
together the art lovers of the world are.
During the days of the exhibition, the
rooms of the American Art Association
were crowded with people, most of whom
knew each other. It was more like a
society event than a public exhibition.

The results of the sale were a little

amusing to those who understood. It
brought the Dana heirs a large percentage
upon the money Mr. Dana invested in
his ceramics ; and considered purely as an
investment, he could hardly have made a
better one. But the public did not buy
with a discrimination that said much for
their knowledge of the subject. Some of
the pieces brought about ten per cent of
their real value, others sold for fifty times
as much as they were worth.

"TIII-: JIKI-.TOX FISHKR.MAN S WOOING.

From the painting by AJfred Guillen.

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" \V.\TKR LI L IKS."
From the painting ly Gabriel Max By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 2$d St ., AVrc ] ork.

It was to be regretted that the collec
tion was scattered, as there is no other
which equaled it from an educational
point of view. In it there could be found
an object lesson in the history of the
world, quite apart from the artistic value of
the plates and jars. Here were porcelains
which had been dug up in Madagascar,

Ceylon, or the Mala}- Archipelago, taken
from graves and the sites of former dwell
ings. These were shown by the side of
the early products of China, and were
seen to be by the same hand. They told
how the trade of China was carried in
ancient times to the shores of India, to
the Red Sea, and to the coast of Africa.

1 66

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"A ROMAN GIRL AND HER BOOKS."
From a, photograph by the Maison Ad. Braun (Braun, Clement &* Co.) after the painting l&gt;y Diana Coomans.

It \vas said by connoisseurs that if one
would know Martabani, that rare old
green porcelain mentioned in the "Ara
bian Nights," he must come to New
York to Mr. Dana s collection.

A great deal of interest centered about
a peachblow vase which was said to be
the famous one sold in New York a few

years ago for eighteen thousand dollars.
Mr. Dana s was a very famous piece,
although disappointing to any but a col
lector ; but it was not the vase of whose
sale so much of a myster\ T was made.
That went to Baltimore. It was sup
posed, until the death of Mr. Walters,
that he owned it ; but it was another

168

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"CHICKS.

From the painting by A. J. KlslryBy permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East ^d Street, New York.

Baltimore collector who paid the aston- them being the property of Mr. Dana,
ishing- price. and the rest belonging to Mr. William

H. Fuller. These pictvires were almost

THE FULLER AXD DANA PICTURES. ever&gt;- one famous. Corot s "Dance of

With the Dana porcelains were exhib- the Loves," one of the best classic com-

ited a small group of paintings, part of positions of the great landscapist, and

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

169

"The Turkey Herder," by Millet, were
the gems of Mr. Dana s small collection.
Mr. Fuller had only three which may be
said to excel these. They were Gains
borough s " Blue Boy," a slight^ differ
ent treatment of the same subject as that
of the world famous "Blue Boy" be
longing to the Duke of Westminster ;
Rousseau s "Charcoal Burner s Hut,"
and Troyon s " Cows at Pasture."

Mr. James Ellsworth, of Chicago, who
is said to be about to bring his pictures
to New York, was the purchaser of the
Troy on. This picture is one of the finest
examples of atmosphere in painting to be
found in the world. It has been in some
famous collections. It was one of the
masterpieces of the Vienna Exposition in
1873, went from there to Baron Lieber-
mann, and then passed to M. Secretan.
The French government has long coveted
it, and it is said that an agent was sent
to New York on the Champagne to pur
chase it ; but the ship met with an acci
dent, and he arrived too late. Rumor
adds that he brought two hundred and
fifty thousand francs with which to
secure it.

Constant Troyon was the son of a china
decorator at the Sevres factory and began
to learn to paint there. Two of his com
panions were Narcisse Diaz and Jules
Dupre, who also decorated china. In
a short time Theodore Rousseau joined
the group, and these friends, all of whom
were to become famous, never lost their
love and close confidence in one another
until death. They were their own in
structors, and each man had three
geniuses for critics. Troyon found early
fame. He exhibited in the Salon in 1832,
when he was twenty two. When he was
twenty nine, the French government
purchased his Salon pictures, and a little
later he received the cross of the Legion
of Honor. But it was not iintil 1848 that
Troyon s visit to Holland put into his
works those elements for which we call
him great today.

His three friends became factors in that
Barbizon group which we hear spoken
of as a " school today. Few of the
people who look at the Millet pictures,
and the thousands of good, bad, and in
different reproductions of them which
flood the world, know much of the Bar

bizon group beyond the fact that Jean
Fran9ois Millet was its genius ; and yet it
was not Millet who was its leader, but
Rousseau. Before these men, the classic
and romantic schools of art had always
been quarreling. One set believed what
the other set did not ; and French art had
become a battleground of conflicting
theories and traditions, all of which were
more or less artificial. It was Rousseau
who led Corot, Diaz, Daubigny, Dupre,
and Millet to Barbizon, in the edge of the
forest of Fontainebleau, and set them to
painting what they saw. It is small
wonder that they sold their pictiires for
little more than bread to keep them alive,
and just as little wonder that a new gen
eration buys their canvases for fabulous
sums.

Rousseau, perhaps the greatest land-
scapist that ever lived, the man who
marked his time, died without knowing
his fame. But he knew that his pictures
were the truest art, and, like Millet, he
went on painting in defiance of the
world. Dupre lived to see his work ap
preciated. Diaz had an element of roman
ticism, of color, of mystery, in his work
which was attractive to the crowd, and
he was always able to sell his pictures,
and honors came to him. He was made a
chevalier of the Legion of Honor as long
ago as 1851, and at the dinner given him
then he arose and drank to "Rousseau,
my master, " to whom he was ever
loyal, although at that time the French
Salon would not accept that master s
pictures.

AN AMERICAN LAXDSCAP1ST.

At the Tooth galleries on Fifth Avenue,
an exhibition of the recent works of Mr.
Henry W. Ranger has been going on. If
we have a living American lamlscapist
worthy to hang beside the Barbizon
painters, it is Mr. Ranger. He has no
doubt been influenced by their work,
though he is in no sense an imitator. His
pictures have wonderful charm and color,
and their composition is harmonious and
full of poetic feeling.

Mr. Ranger s work has grown tremen
dously in the past few } r ears. He went
to France years ago, and came home with
many pictures which were frankly painted
in the Corot manner. But each year his

170

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

work has grown better as it has become
more individual. He paints American
atmosphere now, and his opulence of tint
is in the color scheme known to our
fields and woods. Many of the pictures
he exhibited were the property of well
known collectors, showing that the best
judges are gathering in Mr. Ranger s
work while it is still being produced in
quantity, and before the general public
has come to realize its value.

MISS MARY CASSATT AND HER WORK.

We hear a good many opinions as the
people who attend the Fifth Avenue ex
hibitions go up and down before Miss
Mary Cassatt s paintings, which have
been hanging on the walls of the Durand-
Ruel gallery. The collection consists of
a number of pictures in oil, several in
pastel, and a double row of small etchings,
about half of which have been tinted in
water color.

Miss Cassatt is an amateur artist whose
work has taken on the importance of a
professional. One of the pictures she
exhibited in New York was painted years
ago, and excited some comment at the
time. Another, that of a peasant mother
and child, is said to have been desired by
the French government. They have
some things in the Luxembourg which
are no better. Some of the others seem
to have no possible reason for exist
ence. The kind critic may talk of vi
rility, color, and charm, but the fact
remains that they are hideously ugly,
without the excuse of strong technique.
We do not care particularly for prettiness,
but we do ask for something a little more
interesting than much of Miss Cassatt s
work. Her pictures are striking, but
they leave an effect of eccentricity rather
than one of pleasure or admiration.

BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS.

Many attempts have been made to
illustrate the Bible, but none of them has
been very satisfactory. There have been
editions with pictures by several great
artists, and others illustrated by a single
pencil Dore s, for instance but none
has quite touched the heart of the subject.

Mr. F. V. Du Mond expressed the dif
ficulty when he said that the painter who
took up religious subjects in these days

too often tried to be realistic, when, as a
matter of fact, the only value of such
work lay in expressing the universality of
the theme by connecting it with the lives
of the people of each particular country.
That is what the old masters did. Their
virgins were women of their own time
and land ; the universal spirit of mother
hood was the thing depicted.

Mr. James Tissot, who is now in this
country, is soon to bring here from Lon
don a collection of more than five hundred
paintings which he made in the Holy
Land as illustrations of the story of
Christ. They are very clever pictures,
brilliant of color and full of truth, but
they make the life of Christ more remote
instead of bringing it nearer. Mr. Tissot
went to Palestine and spent months
there painting the scenes of Christ s life
on the very spots where they occurred,
and at the proper season of the year. He
has made a most careful and exhaustive
study of architecture, racial features, and
costume. For instance, instead of the
symbolically clothed Virgin, with her
angel face, and robes of white and blue,
we have a Jewish girl in a gaily striped
dress. His work has been tremendously
praised, but it makes the life of Christ
simply the story of the life and sufferings
of an ancient Jew, living in conditions
which we do not readily understand.

Dagnan-Bouveret, with his modern fig
ures introduced into his picture of Christ
at Emmaus, is much more religious. He
brings the story into today. Tissot
pushes it away from us. But for all that,
America has seen few more interesting
collections of pictures for a long time.

Mrs. Henry M. Stanley, who has been
called the artist laureate of the street
arab, had a peculiar training for her
particular sort of work. She began to
study with Sir Edward Poynter when she
was very young, and then went to Paris,
where she spent three years with Henner.
It was Jules Bastien-Lepage who finally
gave her talent its bias, just as he did
with Marie BashkirtsefF, whose work so
strongly resembled Mrs. Stanley s. Bas-
tien spent a winter painting in Mrs.
Stanley s little studio, and there he
finished his "Flower Girl" and his
" Shoe Black."

CIVIL SERVICE REFORM.

BY LYMAN J. GAGE,

Secretary of the United States Treasury.

How positions in the Treasury Department are procured and retained now, and how it
was done in the days before the civil service law The application of business principles and
common sense to the machinery of the government.

When a removal was made, there was
little chance that the head of the bureau
or department would be able to give the
place left vacant to any particular appli
cant. It was thought, when the law was
passed, that for this reason removals
would be made for cause only. As a
matter of fact, they have been made from
mere caprice, or for the purpose of giving
promotion to persons having political
influence.

Before civil service reform began, the
chief cause of removals was the desire of
men to get appointments through political
influence. To this the man who held a
clerkship had to oppose other influence.
If he was a political appointee, he had to
keep alive his relations with the man or
men who recommended him to place, or
to ingratiate himself with others, so that
their influence might keep him in his
office. If his Senator or Representative,
or whoever his sponsor might be, died or
lost his influence, or if the political com
plexion of the administration changed, the
clerk was sure of his position only so long
as no one having a friend of importance
in the ruling party wanted the office.

The pressure for patronage was at all
times so great that the appointment clerk
was kept continually on the alert to learn
when any man had lost his backing, so
that he might safely be dropped to make
room for some one of the many applicants
on the waiting list. The clerk, in self
defense, had to curry favor continually
with men in power. He had to cultivate
friends, not only in one, but in both polit
ical parties, so that at all times he could
have recommendations on file which would
assure his retention in place.

~E history of the government de-
JL partments at Washington should
furnish the strongest defense of the civil
service law. To go back to the days
when there was no civil service reform
is to find a condition of affairs which
might be characterized in sensational
language. Some of my predecessors in
the office of Secretary of the Treasury
were the victims of that state of affairs,
and I do not propose to make any com
parison between the work now being
done in the Treasury Department for
the enforcement of the civil service
law and that which was done before
my time. Since the law was passed
every Secretary of the Treasury, I sup
pose, has done what he thought was best
for its enforcement. What I am trying
to do represents only my interpretation
of the law s intent.

The rules made by President McKinley
and his immediate predecessors have ex
tended the scope of the civil service law
so greatly that the conditions of today
differ widelj^ from those of any period of
the past. The law now covers most of
the civil service. A few years ago it
protected only a small percentage of the
Treasury employees. Now almost the
entire force is in the classified service.

In this administration, too, an important
step has been taken toward enforcing the
spirit of the law. An order has been
issued by the President requiring that no
removal be made except on charges care
fully and fairly considered. Before this
rule was made, the employee in the classi
fied service had but one safeguard against
the capriciousness or unfairness of his
chief. That safeguard was negative.

172

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Who can imagine anything more pa
thetic than the position of one of these
clerks, watching the death lists in the
newspapers in constant fear that some
man whose influence was helping to keep
him in place might die ; scanning the
election news anxiously to see whether
his friends had been returned to power ;
and finally sitting in nervous dread day
after day, awaiting the time when his
place should be demanded for some
henchman of the party which had tri
umphed at the last election ? Nor could
there be anything more demoralizing
to the efficiency of the public service
than the servility of some of these men
to those in power, unless it was the
arrogance of others, who, knowing the
importance of their political influence,
defied even the heads of bureaus to dis
turb them or to demand of them more
work than they chose to render for the
salaries they drew.

It may surprise some people to hear
that under the spoils system, with every
change of administration, many clerks
were recommended for retention, not by
their friends who had just been defeated
at the polls, but by the leading men of
the triumphant party. For these men,
no doubt, they had rendered personal
service in anticipation of just such an
emergency. It is easily understood of
how little value these clerks were to the
government, since their allegiance was
first to the men who might have a voice
in their retention or removal.

As to the independence of the clerk
with " influence," it is illustrated by the
large number of sinecures known to exist
in the departments before the extension
of the civil service law. Countless well
authenticated stories are told in the
Treasury Department of clerks under the
spoils system, both men and women, who
came and went at their pleasure, and did
as much or as little work as they chose,
secure in the knowledge that Senator
This, or Representative That, or this or
that political leader in the States from
which they came, would support them in
whatever they chose to do.

Under these conditions, the clerk with
out political influence did not only his
own work but that of his fellow em
ployee. He did this double work in fear

and trembling, until there came a demand
for his place from some influential quar
ter. Then, in spite of his faithful
service, he went out of office to make way
for a political place hunter, whose
knowledge or experience of office work
was at best small.

When the civil service law was passed,
it was thought that, with the political
pressure for appointments removed, men
would be permitted to remain in the
service during good behavior. But it was
found that the clerk, while secure against
the pressure for place, was not protected
from the pressure for promotion noi
against the whims of an unfair superior.
The man with political influence who had
secured a place before the civil service
law was extended to cover it, or who had
got into the departments through civil
service examination, was free to use his
influence to gain promotion over men
who had perhaps been working faithfully
and well for many years before he got his
first appointment. And the captious
superior who took a personal dislike to a
clerk was able to dismiss him from place
without giving a reason.

President McKinley s order has given
to the men and women in the civil service
an assurance of fairness in the matter of
removals. It requires that charges should
be filed in writing against any man rec
ommended for dismissal, and that writ
ten copies of these charges should be
submitted to him. If the clerk answers
the charges, and his superior, who pre
ferred them, finds the answer satisfactory,
they go no farther. If the answer is not
satisfactory the charges and the defense
are sent to the head of the department,
and on his judgment the clerk is removed
or retained.

So far as this rule has been applied in
the Treasury Department it has worked
satisfactorily. It has given the clerks
assurance that the government is going
to deal fairly with them, and in return I
trust to find in them a disposition to do
fairly by the government. If they do not,
we shall have to find some one else who
will.

The new rule is not intended for the
protection of the clerks as individuals,
It is meant for the protection of merjt,
and merit only. If a, clerk shows by his

CIVIL SERVICE REFORM.

work that he is unfit for the place he
holds, he will be removed or transferred
to a place for which he is fitted. If he
shows a disposition to .shirk his work,
and not to render a full equivalent for
the salary he receives, he will be subject
to dismissal.

The same rule applies to promotions.
If a clerk is seeking a promotion, he
must earn it. If he wants to keep his
place, he must show that he is better
fitted to hold it than any one else in the
office.

I spoke of the political promotions
which were possible before the President s
order was made. When I took charge of
the Treasury Department, I found that
officials of long experience and of great
worth had been displaced to make room
for men who were of the party last in
power. In some cases, the work of the
places they held was so much beyond
these men that the old incumbents of the
offices, though holding minor clerical
positions, were virtually the bureau
chiefs, and earned the salaries which
their supplanters drew. In these cases,
no ex parte judgment was taken. A
competitive examination was ordered
wherever it was reasonably to be supposed
that the bureau chiefs were not so compe
tent to perform the duties of their offices
as were the men under them. In every
case, the man who gained the highest
average in the examination was made
chief of the bureau, wholly without re
gard to his politics.

The principle of competition has been
carried into the whole question of pro
motions. Whenever a vacancy has oc
curred, a promotion to the position is
made only after an examination has been
ordered, and, wherever practicable, this
examination has been made open to all
the clerks in the department. In every
case the man who made the most credit
able showing in the examination has
won the place. In this way one of the
most important offices in the department
went to a Democrat, a man who had not
even entered the department through a
civil service examination. There have
been many other promotions of Demo
crats.

It has been customary for a long time
to hold examinations for promotions ;

but these examinations, when I took
charge of the department, were so easy
that any one who had ordinary intelli
gence and a slight familiarity with the
department work should have been able
to pass them without difficulty. There
was practically no competition. Under
these conditions, the examinations be
came a mere formality. The examina
tion now held in the Treasury Depart
ment is thorough and practical. No man
who has not a good knowledge of the
department work can hope to pass it ;
and it requires also a wider range of in
formation, which I believe every clerk
should possess.

In the preparation of these examina
tions, and in the revision of the depart
ment s sj-stem of dismissal and pro
motion, I have had the assistance of a
commission composed of one of the assist
ant secretaries of the department, Mr.
Vanderlip, the chief clerk of the depart
ment, and the appointment clerk the
last two old employees, and thoroughly
familiar with all that has been done in
this line during the last twenty five years.
To this commission I delegated the work
of revising the clerical system, with the
following instructions :

Treasury Department,

Office of the Secretary,
Washington, D. C., April 23, 1897.
FRANK A. VANDKRLIP, Private Secretary,
MAJ. FRED BRACKETT, Chief of Appointment

Division, and

THEODORK F. SWAYZE, Chief Clerk.
GENTLEMEN :

You are hereby constituted a special committee
to consider, on my behalf, all applications for
reinstatements to service in the Treasury Depart
ment from those who by previous service are
eligible under the civil service rules.

You will also consult with the various auditors,
deputy auditors, and chiefs of division, for the
purpose of determining- the character, habits,
and efficiency of all employees whose names are
now on the pay rolls of the department, and as to
where and how greater economy and efficiency
may be inaugurated.

You will keep strictly in mind the provisions
of the civil service law and rules which forbid
any consideration of the political or religious
opinions of those who now serve and of those
who seek reinstatement in the service.

It is alleged that these restrictions have here
tofore been violated, and that political influences
have operated to remove worthy and capable
employees, and that vacancies thus created have
been filled with appointees of lesser merit and
efficiency. To the degree that this is true, it is

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

an example to be shunned and not imitated.
The good of the service is to be our only guide.
With this, bear in mind that it is our duty to cure
past injustices, so far as it may be done.

You will now have to consider a list of some
four hundred names of persons seeking rein
statement, and new names are daily added to
that list. It is quite impossible for you to de
termine by general or particular inquiry the
fitness of these applicants, or their relative su
periority, both as compared with one another
and as compared with employees now in the
service ; nor will it do to trust entirely to friendly
testimonials, either verbal or written.

You are, therefore, authorized to prepare a
method of examination sufficient to enable you
to determine the relative qualifications of the
applicants for reinstatement in the several grades
and classes of the service, and suitable to
determine the qualifications of such employees
now in the service as your inquiries may lead
you to believe should be subjected to such
inquiry. In doing this you will give proper
weight to their respective records for diligence
and efficiency while employed in the department.
Persons who have been reduced without any
reason for their reduction being stated, but who
are still in the service, should, if they desire it,
have their cases carefully investigated.

This whole purpose, you will of course under
stand, is a temporary expedient to ascertain the
relative fitness of persons reduced or separated
altogether from the service, compared with
others now in the service, and has nothing to do
with the ordinary promotions, which should
always be made with regard to the relative merit
of those who are in point of service directly in
line for promotion.

Your findings and conclusions in the particu
lars enumerated you will from time to time
report to me.

Respectfully yours,

L,. J. GAGE, Secretary.

The task set before the commission has
been well executed, but the work of re
organizing the clerical force of the depart
ment is slow, and we cannot hope to see it
completed within the four years of this
administration. There are many obstacles
in the commission s path. They show
the difficulties under which the heads of
departments have always labored in their
efforts to apply the civil service law. In
the first place there is the pressure for
appointments, which has been very great
in spite of the well known fact that the
civil service law now extends over ninety
per cent of the department employees.
Then there is the exception in the law in
favor of veterans. More than five hun
dred veterans of the late war, who had
been discharged from their places during
the last administration, applied to me for
reinstatement ; and public opinion would,

no doubt, have upheld rue in removing
the men who had supplanted them. Be
lieving that that would be a violation of
the civil service law, and unjustifiable, I
have found places for these veterans only
as vacancies arose from natural causes.
Their reinstatement has been slow, and at
the same time it has prevented the intro
duction of any fresh blood.

Another difficulty which we had to face
was the accumulation of superannuated
employees in the service. This condition
has existed for fifty years. It has never
been relieved, because no head of the de
partment has been willing to turn out of
office men so old that they were unable
to earn a livelihood elsewhere. I have
not thought it wise to remove these old
employees, because I consider that their
experience and their knowledge of de
partment affairs renders them of great
value to the government ; but, that they
may not be a clog on the service, I have
transferred those who are too old or feeble
for active service to a "roll of honor.
There they will be carried as clerks of the
lowest grade at $900 per annum, and re
quired to render only an equivalent
service.

Another obstacle, which I think wil)
become less serious when the policy of
the department is better understood, is
the disposition of clerks to feel that undei
the law they are secure in the places they
hold, and that they need not render any
more service than is dragged out of them
by their immediate superiors. Every
bureau chief will be held responsible for
the work of those under him. If any one
of them shows a disposition to shirk, I
expect that charges will be preferred
against him, and that he will be re
moved to make room for some one who is
more honest and more ambitious. If this
is not done because of the inefficiency or
indifference of the bureau chief, charges
will be preferred against him, and his
place will be taken by some one more
competent or more conscientious.

What the department greatly needs is
vigorous, active, and ambitious men and
women. If this material cannot be found
in the department, it can be found out
side ; for the government pays better for
the work required than any other ein-
plo} r er. I hope that when it is under-

CIVIL SERVICE REFORM.

stood generally that promotion in the
department is to depend on merit, and
that every clerk is assured of retention so
long as- he earns it by honest work, we
shall be able to recruit a class of men and
women that will give a healthier, more
active tone to the department work.

We have today in the Treasury Depart
ment an assistant secretary who began at
the bottom round of the ladder, coming
into the Treasury Department as a mes
senger boy. I have chosen for my private
secretary a department clerk who entered
the civil service as a laborer, and that in
spite of the fact that the place was an ex-
cepted one and I could have filled it from
the outside. These cases are an example
of what can be done in the department
service. Any young man of intelligence
and aptitude who enters the service with
a determination to work his way up may
hope for a reward.

It has been stated by opponents of the
civil service law that if the matter could
be submitted to a vote of the people of
the United States, the law would be
repealed. I am confident that this is not
so. The law could not live without the
support of the people. There is a certain
class, composed in large part of dis
appointed applicants for office, which is
dissatisfied with its workings. Every
change of administration develops a fresh
outbreak of antagonism among those
people. This feeling undoubtedly has in
fluence it had even stronger influence
under the spoils system in determining
the State elections in the first and even
the second year of a new administration,
when the vote is comparatively small,
and a larger proportion of it than usual
is cast by politicians. I would recommend
to these men the consideration of the fact
that if the law was repealed, and the
"rascals" were turned out regularly
with each change of administration, not
two per cent of the men who voted could
hope to hold office under the government.

But however loudly these men may
clamor, and however great an influence
they may exert at the polls in an " off
year, "they do not represent the judg
ment of the people. They are not busi
ness men, nor are they, as a rule, men
doing clerical work for salaries. These
two classes form a majority of the voting

population of the United States. It is
from them that the civil service law gets
the support which not only keeps it on
the statute books, but upholds the ex
tension of its usefulness every year. With
out that strong moral support from the
people, as I have said, the law could not
last. And I suspect that even the mem
bers of Congress who say the least in its
favor have a hidden admiration for it.
They should have ; for it relieves them
of much of the duty of office seeking
which, before the civil service law went
into effect, must have been a heavy burden.

I am a business man, and have been
for a great many years an employer of
clerical labor. If the two hundred clerks
in the bank of which I was president
had been shifting every four years, or
even with every change in the adminis
tration of the bank, I could not have
answered for its prosperity. Suppose
that when I resigned the presidency of
the bank to come to Washington, my
successor had discharged the cashier and
the tellers and the clerks, many of whom
had been with the institution fifteen or
twenty years, to make places for other
men who were entirely without experi
ence, not only in that bank, but in any
bank possibly strangers to any kind of
clerical work ; in some cases men who
could not add a column of figures cor
rectly or write with accuracy. The
whole concern would have been turned
upside down. The accounts would have
been hopelessly mixed, and the natural
result would have been the withdrawal of
the accounts of our customers.

Suppose that only fifty per cent of the
employees had been dismissed by my
successor. The bank s business would
not have been damaged one half, per
haps, because the clerks remaining would
have helped their new associates to the
performance of their duties ; but its useful
ness would have been .seriously impaired.

Go a little farther, and suppose that the
president of that bank was elected every
four years, and that there was a reason
able assurance that, with every new
incumbent, the clerical force would be
revolutionized. That would give each
clerk a four years tenure of office. Only
in a very exceptional case could he hope
for continued employment for more than

176

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

that period. What amount of energy
would each employee put into his work ?

On the other hand, what amount would
he put in if he was assured of employ
ment during good behavior, with the
certainty of gradual promotion if he
fulfilled his duties honestly and intelli
gently ? I will venture to say that the
efficiency of each clerk would be at least
twenty five per cent more.

I say this with some positiveness be
cause my own progress in life has been
by gradual promotion, gained not
through favor, but supposably as a reward
of hard and efficient work. I can say
from my own experience that if I had not
believed that there was advancement
ahead of me, I should not have labored
half so well. No man of any ambition
and few men are without it is going
to give his best effort to employment
which promises. nothing better than itself,
or which has no stability.

If these things are true of a great bank
ing establishment and its employees,
why not of the government ? We have at
Washington a huge business machine,
with branches all over the United States,
performing a great variety of functions,
and employing not less than sixty thou
sand men and women all the time. There
is only one thing to prevent the perfect
operation of this machine as a business in
stitution the fact that the responsibility
of the employer is shifted to the shoulders
of a great many men who stand in the
relation of trustees. They will discharge
their trust in most instances conscien
tiously, but without the personal zest
which a man puts into the management

of his own business affairs. No man can
have the same feeling about spending the
government s money that he has about
spending his own ; or about requiring a
fair return of labor for salary that he
would have if the clerks were working
for him individually. It is for this rea
son that the government clerk is asked
to work only six and a half hours a day,
when the clerks of business houses in
variably work for eight hours, and some
times for ten and twelve.

But with this exception, business prin
ciples can be applied to the management
of the government s affairs. Some of these
principles are embodied in the civil serv
ice law.

In the demand for a modification of the
law which conies from some quarters, it
is argued that appointments should be
made on political grounds, but with the
requirement of a non competitive ex ami
nation. Under such a system, the ex
aminations might very easily become a
farce, as the examinations for promotioi)
have often been.

Why should the government be satis
fied with anything but the best ? It pays
good wages for labor ; it should get the
best labor that can be had. There is only
one practical* way of selecting the best
by competitive examination. A man s
allegiance to the Republican party or the
Democratic party is no certificate of his
ability to do clerical work satisfactorily .
and if he gains an appointment through
political influence, it is likely that he
will give more of his time and thought to
politics than to the work for which the
government pays him.

Lyman J. Gage

SWEETHEART MINE.

OH, sweetheart mine, the breezes blow

For you their bugles clear and fine.
Around you all the graces grow,

Oh, sweetheart mine !

You have a May day half divine

Of murmuring leaves, with light aglow
The gold of youth s ungathered wine.

A poet with soft locks of snow

Close to your feet has found a shrine,
But madcap Cupid bids him go,

Oh, sweetheart mine !

William Hamilton Plavnc.

A GOOD SITUATION.

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

A young author s ingenious method of obtaining material for his stories, and
how his literary Pegasus ran away with him A love sfory demonstrating the
truth of an old adage concerning edged tools.

is a love story not pure and
simple. Things weren t apt to be
that when Carrol Marks was mixed up in
them.

Carrol wrote stories. You could have
forgiven him for that if he hadn t insisted
on living them, too. When a "good sit
uation" that was his everlasting battle
cry came into his head, he knocked to
gether a few necessary properties, sunk
himself in the hero, and tried it on the
nearest girl or man, to see how it worked
and where it came out, and what people
people really did under given conditions.
Where another fellow would have gone on
a bat, Carrol went off on a plot, and the
results were much more disastrous to the
community. People girls especially
weren t apt to understand that they
were just so many chessmen to him.

Carrol never could be brought to see
the mischief he did. When the climax
was reached, he dropped his pawns and
tumbled headlong into the writing of his
story, and while that was going on the
whole community might hav.e been wiped
out and he wouldn t have noticed or
cared. Life was all fiction to him, and
he couldn t or wouldn t grasp the fact that
to others such as poor little Marguerite
Dale, for instance it was brutal reality.

We were sitting over my fire one howl
ing November night when Carrol began
to grow absent minded, to lean forward
in his chair and stare into the coals, wink
ing rapidly. My heart sank as that of a
Kansan must when he sees a funnel
shaped cloud on the horizon. When
Carrol began to paw the air with his bony
fingers, working them as though checking
off facts on them, and to move his lips
with little nods at intervals by way of
punctuation, I knew that it was all up
with somebody.

In about fifteen minutes he came back
to the present, giving a satisfied thump
on the arm of his chair.

" Here s a good situation, " he said.

" God help the women and children, " ]
muttered unheeded. Nothing short of a
yell of " Murder ! " would have penetrated
Carrol s ears at that stage,

A man, he continued, has for three
years heard people rave about a certain
girl. If he said anybody was pretty o?
clever or fascinating, it was always, ! Oh,
you ought to know Miss Soandso ! or
She isn t in it with Louise "

" Louise ! I exclaimed, starting up

"Well, Mary Jane, anything. They re
always telling him that he and she an
just made for each other, and she gets to
be a part of his life without his ever hav
ing seen her. In his mind be holds long
conversations with her, he saves her life
he makes love to her, he marries her,
all without so much as a photograph to
give him a clue. When he s sitting like
this by the fire, he pulls her down on the
arm of his chair and leans his forehead
against her sleeve. Half in fun, he ha?
made her a part of his life. You see ? "

I nodded. That "Louise" still lay
heavily on my mind.

" Well, finally he meets her. "

"And is dreadfully -disappointed, " 1
put in.

" No; this is the hundredth case. He
falls desperately in love with her within
the first five minutes. Outwardly she fits
exactly into this place he has made for her.
He has fame of some kind, so that he is im
portant to her, and they go it rather hard
that first evening. At the end of it he
kisses her. "

" Good work, " I put in.

"No; she s a nice girl. I ll prove
that absolutelv," he insisted. "She is

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

furious, but before she can do airything-
he blurts out the whole thing, half
humorously, yet deadly sincere how he
has been making love to her for three
years, so that this seemed like the climax
rather than the beginning. And mind,
he is an important person. No girl could
resist that."

" No," I had to admit ; but the whole
thing antagonized me.

" As they go on, they find that the3 - be
long to absolutely different spheres they
don t talk the same language. Their tra
ditions, everything, are hopelessly differ
ent. If the\ 7 were not in love with each
other, they would not have a thing in
common. In this one thing they fit each
other exactly, but it is their only point of
contact. Their relations to each other all
this time well, if 3*011 met a person from
Mars, I don t suppose 3-011 d feel bound
by the social laws of either planet. "

"Well?" I said impatient!}-, after a
long pause.

" It would have to work itself out," he
answered, getting tip to go. " Mind,
she s absolutely nice. I suppose it would
end badly. "

"Well, don t name her what you
started to, " I said, tr} ing to make my
tone jocose.

"Oh, the name doesn t matter!" he
answered dreamily. He was beyond actu
alities by that time.

A few nights later I came in to find
Carrol stretched on my divan smoking at
the ceiling.

"That s going to be a great story of
mine, " he announced presentlj r .

I had been so busy that I had forgotten
his incipient plot. I didn t want to hear
about the thing, and said so, without the
slightest effect on Carrol.

1 I ve a good idea for that first scene,
he went on, smiling to himself in a way
that made me want to hit him. "When
lie tells how he has been in love with the
idea of her all these years, she doesn t
give a hint that she has ever even heard of
him. As he is going, something is said
about the time, and she pulls a watch out
of her belt. The back flies open, and out
falls this." He held out to me a small
square of paper. It was a portrait of him
self cut from some magazine.

" What did she do ?" I asked.

"Ran," answered Carrol, more com
placent than ever.

" How vivid it all is to you ! " I said.
"I suppose 3-011 almost feel as if it had
reall}- happened."

He straightened up, looking decided!}
self conscious.

" Oh, -well, I ve thought it over a good
deal, " he said evasive^-.

For a week or so Carrol bothered the
life out of me with the progress of his tale.
Some days he was ludicrous^- depressed.

"She doesn t go all at once, as he
does," he complained. "She hedges
makes him plan and besiege, giving in
just enough to keep him at it. It s more
interesting, but it dela3 S the denoue
ment. "

" What is the denouement? " I asked,
with a yawn.

" Take two people who are intense^ in
love, 3 et clever enough to realize that
they could never be anything but lovers
that a real friendship was impossible
and see where the3 r work out. That would
be the denouement. "

"Mind, she s absolute^ nice," I
quoted.

" Well, she is," he answered with sud
den anger. I never knew him to resent
being teased before.

I/ate one afternoon I came to an unex
pected lull in 1113 work, and that meant
just one thing for me, da3 r or evening a
glimpse of Louise. But I was destined
not to get it, for a polite " Not at home "
closed the door in my face. I was wait
ing on the cqrner for a down car when I
saw some one swing off an up car in front
of her house and run up the steps. As
the vestibule light fell on him, I sawwitli
surprise that it was Carrol Marks. What
was he doing there ? He barely knew
Louise, and she was not at all the kind of

girl he And there I broke off, with a

sickening memory of his accursed story.

I let my car go by, determined to have
it out with Carrol as he came away. The
door opened, I saw his courteous bend of
inquiry ; the stream of light from within
broadened. Then he stepped forward,
and the door closed behind him, leaving
me alone in the November darkness.

Late that night there was a joyous
whistling in the corridor, and a head was
poked into my room.

A GOOD SITUATION.

"You here?" called Carrol s voice.
"That denouement is coming on finely.
Want to hear about it ? "

I kept obstinately silent, and with a
laugh he went across to his own quarters.
Carrol s moods were never affected by the
surrounding atmosphere. Other people s
depression could not dampen his cheer
fulness any more than their gaiety could
drive away his blues.

Miserable days followed for me, and
they were not improved by the little
rumors that began to fly around about
Carrol and Louise. I was terribly tempted
to warn her, for I had not forgotten the
look in the eyes of poor little Marguerite,
the girl who had given Carrol the idea for
his most successful novel. But what
good would it do ? Louise would say I
was jealous and, heaven knows, I was
and refuse to believe in any other motive,
Besides, my pride was too badly hurt by
that little episode at her front door for
me to make any move just yet. If Carrol,
too, had been refused admittance, I could
have fought it out with him then and
there, but as it was, I could only hold
myself aloof. I was too proud to let him
see how sore his victory had left me.

I made one little attempt to set things
straight, for I wrote her a note asking her
to go with me to the opening day of
Merriam s pictures. She wrote back
prettily regretful that she had promised
to go with some one else ; but hoped to
see me soon ; was sorry to have been out
when I called ; and a dozen other friendly
little phrases that would have sent me up
there flying a month before. As it was,
I tore the note into shreds and threw it
into the waste basket. The fact that I
went down on my knees and patiently
fished the fragments out again has no
bearing on this story.

The day after the exhibition, Carrol
came in radiant with a fresh chapter.

"See here," he began. "Take two
people who are utterly uncongenial under
neath, and make them fall in love with
each other don t you think that the love
could conquer the uncongeniality de
velop them into the same kind of people ?

"No, I don t," I answered shortly.
"And they wouldn t after they d been
married three months."

" I ve got some good dialogue for the

story," he went on. Carrol never paid
the slightest attention to what one an
swered him. "I want a light scene to
balance what may come. They are at
a picture exhibition, and she stands in
front of a big painting, her hands on
the rail that protects it. They re beau
tiful, and they re strong ; don t you think
so ? she says. Beautiful, yes ; but not
so strong as these, he answers, putting
his hands beside hers on the railing. J
meant the pictures, she protests, moving
hers away an inch. I don t know. 1
haven t looked at the pictures, he says
Don t you love them, real ones, like
these? she queries. Um. But I love
other things better. Me? she says
Yes, you. His hands have almost
worked their way along to hers. I in so
glad. I love to have you love me, she
says, half under her breath. Her fingers
brush his as she lifts them off, and he sees
stars, but she whirls him into the middle
of the crowd. She doesn t give him

His voice, which had grown vague, sud
denly ran down. He sat staring intc
space, my presence quite forgotten. ](
gave an exasperated kick that sent a chaij
flying, and he pulled himself together, but
he did not go on with the story.

For the next few weeks Carrol, dimly
realizing my unfriendliness, yet too ab
sorbed to bother about the cause of it, left
me alone, and I plodded drearily througl
my days. He came to the surface once
to tell me I looked seedy, and to invite
me to a small New Year s tea just a
dozen girls and men in his rooms. ]
refused as rudely as I knew how, and he
forgot all about me again.

New Year s afternoon I came in wet and
tired and cold, for the snow had turned
into rain, and I had walked a mile or so
before I noticed the change. The sound
of voices and laughter from across the
corridor doubled the forlornness as I shut
the door on myself and began to fling ofl
my soaked clothes. After a few minutes
a strange odor that had been puzzling
me ever since I came in asserted itself
and became a definite question. A sense
of something feminine was on me. I lit
up, to discover on nvy divan a soft, dark
heap of fur and cloth, delicately odorous.
Several elaborate umbrellas leaned against
it, and a pair of absurd little overshoes

i8o

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

stood pigeon toed on the rug. Carrol had
annexed a dressing room in honor of his
tea.

There was no mistaking the fur jacket
that lay on top, with a bunch of violets
pinned on one side, and I had pushed her
sleeves into it so often that it made a fool
of me. Remember, I was lonely and
chilled and unhappy, and had not had a
breath of aii3 thing feminine for six weeks.
I don t know how long I had been drivel
ing over that precious coat when the
sound of voices brought me to my feet
with a sudden realization that a shoeless,
shirt sleeved man was not an addition to
a ladies dressing room. I had barely
time to step behind the portiere of my
closet when the door opened.

"Just till the others go," Carrol said.

" No, I can t," said another voice, that
set my heart pounding. Besides, with
a slight drawl, " don t 3~ou think you ve
gathered material enough by this time ?
I m sure there is a bookful. Really, I ve
taught you all I know about girls in love. "

They were still standing in the door
way. He turned and grasped her shoulder.

"Louise! Have 3-011 been playing
with me?" he said, with a note in his
voice no one had ever heard before.

"Why, to be sure. Wasn t that the
idea?" she said, drawing awa3 r with a
careless shrug. Then, in another tone
she added, " You see, I knew Marguerite
Dale very well." There was a silence
that stung as no words could have, then,
"You d better go back," she said, and
without a word he left her.

She picked up her coat, and stood for a
moment looking around the room. Her
face .softened, and, moving very
cautiously, she straightened the curtains
and pillows. Then, unfastening the vio
lets from her, fur, she tucked them under
the little red cushion, and slipped awa3*.

In three minutes I was coated and
booted and tearing down the stairs. Two
or three carriages in a convivial bunch
testified to the general tone of the affair
within, but the light at the corner showed
a little figure in a sealskin coat, waiting
for a car. She flushed as I came up, but
greeted me gaily.

" Is this a New Year s resolution to be
nice to old friends ? I thought 3 r ou had
forgotten me," she said.

" It s a New Year s resolution to make
you love me, nomatterwho s inthefield,"
I blurted out, still holding her hands.

"I ll see that you don t break it, " said
Louise, letting me look clear down
through her eyes to the secret that lay
beneath.

Later she told me all about it.

" For the first hour or two, he dazzled
me," she confessed. "Why, he simph-
carried me off my feet. I don t wonder

that girls But just before the end of

the evening I suddenly remembered what
I knew and realized what he was t^-ing.
For a second, I was furious. Then I
made up my mind to go on and teach him
a lesson. I think I have. "

"It was pretty rough on me," I com
plained, "to see him admitted when I
got Not at home in the face. "

" How could I dream 3-011 would come
that particular afternoon ?" she protested.
"I expected Carrol and didn t want any
ordinar3 r callers. When I found that you
had been turned awa3*, I could have
howled. It spoiled everything for da3 T s.

"But that picture in 3^oxir watch,"!
said jealous!}-.

" Why, you saw me put it there 3 our-
self, she said. I cut it out of a catalogue
don t yon remember? because I liked
his chin. It was ages ago. I thought of
it bareH in time to let it fiV out. "

"In Carrol s stoty, " I hinted, "he
kissed her that first evening."

"And you think I m that kind of a
girl? "said Louise in a hurt tone and
that was as much of an answer as I could
ever get out of her on that subject.

"It was a dangerous game," I said,
with a long breath of relief. " He de
served it, but what if you d made 3~our-
self care, too ? "

" I had a safeguard against that," was
the satisf3 ing answer.

When I went to my room that night, I
found Carrol stretched on the divan in the
dark. He had not even been smoking.

" Well, " I began cheerfull3 T as I lit up,
" how s the novel ?"

He sat up, looking so desolate that I
felt an unexpected pang of pity for him.
He had stumbled into real life, at last.

"I don t think I ll write that stoiy, "
he said, going heavily back to his own
room.

THE PRAISEMONGERS,

BY JAMES L. FORD.

An arraignment of the practice of indiscriminate and insincere commendation Its disastrous
influence in all branches of art How flattery has ruined many a career that honest criticism
would have helped.

A GREAT many eloquent sermons
have been preached, and a great
many more will be preached in the years
to come, on the sin of malicious speaking
and backbiting, but I have yet to hear
of the apostle of moral philosophy who
will choose for his theme the iniquitous
practice of speaking well of everybody.

This subject is one that commends it
self with peculiar force to the men and
women who are engaged in artistic pur
suits, and in whose lives praise and
blame constitute a much more important
element than in the lives of persons cast
in more commonplace grooves. There is
scarcely one of these artistic professions
that cannot show scores of pitiable human
wrecks, but I defy any one to point
out from among the whole number an
even half dozen who can trace their fall
to adverse criticism or even malicious
personal abuse. At the same time, I will
venture to say that nine tenths of these
failures have been brought about by
the exertions of the jolly, good hearted
praisemongers who have undermined
them with their insidious, insincere flat
tery.

Personally, I am a profound believer in
outspoken and even merciless criticism,
provided it come from an honest heart
through a competent pen. The man who
enacts a part on the stage, or exhibits a
picture in a gallery, or places a book on
the publisher s counter, invites criticism
of his work, and the sooner he is told the
plain truth the better it will be for him.
As for the "feelings" that so many
mushy philosophers are afraid of hurting,
they are seldom more than an outer
cuticle of personal vanity, which any
capable surgeon in moral philosophy will
recommend for total destruction.

There is scarcely a great literary work
that has survived the test of time which
does not contain an attack on something
or somebody. The New Testament, for
example, was not designed to flatter those
to whom it was addressed, nor did Martin
Luther change the course of history by
good hearted praise of existing institu
tions. Dean Swift, Savonarola, Shakspere,
Thackera} which one of these made
himself famous by going about adminis
tering soothing sirup ? And yet I doubt
not that each one of them, as he carried
on his work in behalf of humanity, was
encompassed about by a buzzing swarm
of objectors who softly deprecated, when
out of his hearing, the cruel things he
was saying about living people who had
" feelings " to hurt.

It is by no means unlikely that while
St. Paul was addressing himself to the
Romans there were good hearted, kindly
people who wagged their heads and de
plored the fact that such language could
be used toward such perfect gentlemen as
the Romans. Indeed, it is safe to say
that there were praisemongers waiting to
slap Judas Iscariot on the back and re
mark, "Judas, you done just right "-
that is to say, so long as his thirty pieces
of silver held out.

The literature of the present day is
prepared, to a great extent, with special
reference to the sensibilities of readers,
who must not be annoyed or wrought up,
say the publishers. And that is one reason
why it is not making as deep or as broad
a mark across the face of civilization as it
did under better and freer conditions,
although there is more of it now than
ever before. As to criticism, it is a lost
art. When we are told by our grandsires
that in the old days there were published

182

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

in London, and even in Edinburgh, quar
terly reviews whose opinions carried suffi
cient weight to literal!} make or mar a
writer or a book, we think how strangel}
the world must have wagged in those
days, and smile sardonically as we try to
imagine the effect that a " notice " in the
Critic or Bookman can exert on the career
of a young author of today. For my own
part, when I read of the curious condi
tions of life just prior to the Byronic in
vasion, I wonder how the quarterlies got
along without the publishers advertise
ments.

Surely, then, it is time to expose to
the contumely of an awakened world that
parasitical humbug the praisemonger,
who has for years enjoyed a high reputa
tion, especially among women, because
of his worthless cowardice and insincerity,
traits which in the course of time harden
into a most dangerous form of dishonesty.

" There is one thing I like about that
man. In all the years that I have known
him, I have never heard him speak ill of
a single human being."

That is the sort of praise on which this
particular variety of rascal has fattened
ever since he came into the world the
sort of praise that has not only become
his meat and drink, but has also served
as a buckler of defense when some one
who had suffered through his cowardice
or dishonesty has turned again with the
intention of rending him.

For my own part, I do not like a man
who can go through the world espe
cially this corner of it and always speak
well of everybody. Of course he need
not always tell all the truth about all the
people he knows to everybod} else in
his acquaintance. But if he persistently
speaks well of everybody he must be
either a fool, a knave, an architect, or a
doctor or, in short, someone whose deal
ings are largely with women.

My remarks are not directed against
the man who tries to be charitable, nor
have I any wish to speak well of the sour,
envious, disappointed churl who thinks
and says evil of every one, especially of
those who have been successful. They
are intended for the man who deliber
ately attempts to acquire popularity
by speaking highly of worthless char
acters in the hope that his comments

will be bandied about from one to another
of them. He exclaims, in his open
hearted, genial manner, "What I like
about that man Ferdinand Ward is his
incorruptible honesty ; " or " That Jesse
Pomeroy is a fine young chap. I like
him because he is always so kind to the
little ones." Mark you, this man does
not speak so highly of Ward and Pomeroy
after they have been put in jail and can
be of no further use to him ; but he has
no scruples in recommending them while
they are at large, no matter what he
may know about them.

What is worse, no one will dare to
attack the praisemonger for his dis
honesty. If he were to accuse an inno
cent man of thievery, or go about inti
mating that some reputable citizen had
made away with little children, he would
be rounded up with a short turn, and
compelled to either retract or make good
his assertions. But let us suppose that
on the strength of his genial, cordial
words of commendation some credulous
mother who likes this man because he
always speaks well of everybod}- should
entrust her savings to the care of an un
scrupulous thief, or select Jesse Pomeroy
as a playmate for her little girls, would
any one ever dream of holding this man
of kindly encomium accountable for the
effect of his dishonest words ?

And yet, is it not just as wrong to
knowingly speak well of a rascal as it is
to speak ill of an honest man ?

It is impossible to estimate the injury
that has been sustained by every artistic
calling that is liable to the ruinous attacks
of insincere flatter} . The very moment
that a man makes a successful beginning
as a writer, artist, or actor, the praise-
mongers gather about him to pat him on
the back and assure him that he is the
greatest man of the age. He thinks that
they are his stanch friends. It is im
possible to convince him we are all of us
willing to believe good of ourselves that
they are merely a band of unscrupulous
wreckers who are willing to scuttle the
ship of his achievements for the sake of
whatever flotsam and jetsam in the way
of loans, drinks, and cigars may drift
their way.

A great many years ago, just as I was
begfinninar to " take notice in the world

THE PRAISEMONGERS.

183

of arts and letters that was unfolding
around me, it was the fashion, as I well
remember, for men and women of even
the slightest artistic achievement to wear
a sort of halo on the brow whenever they
took their walks abroad. I remember
also that as I came to know them more
familiarly these halos faded and finally
disappeared altogether, and now there is
scarcely one of my acquaintances who
possesses one. The truth is that the
halos began to lose their luster about the
time that I discovered the sort of company
that their possessors kept. I can well
recall my amazement on more than one
occasion when, having made the acquaint
ance of some man whose work I had long
admired, I found him hobnobbing with a
swarm of utterly worthless characters
whose company he seemed to find entirely
to his liking. I have learned since then
that the scores of little buzzing, adulatory
groups that I have encountered from time
to time, in my little journeys to the homes
of the great, were composed, if not of the
same men, at least of men of precisely the
same class.

There was a time when I regarded these
sycophants with easy tolerance, because
of their unfailing good nature and inex
haustible fund of anecdote. But now I
should look upon them merely as birds of
carrion, were it not that these have the
decency to wait until after death has put
its final seal on a career before beginning
their foul meal, while the human vultures
hurry in with greedy beak at the birth of
genius.

I know of no daintier morsel for the
maws of these oily tongued birds of prey
than the young actor or actress who has
ist achieved success, perhaps after years
)f conscientious, up hill work, and

inds blinking with unaccustomed eyes
ist within the outer rim of the great
chite light of fame. There is no better
lapter in Mr. Joseph Jefferson s auto
biography than the one in which he
urges the young members of his pro
fession to be content with legitimately
won tributes to their art, and not to yield
to the craving for what he calls the
second round of applause, meaning the
worthless commendation of club and cafe
followers.

Let us suppose the case of a young

actor who has just leaped from obscurity
into prominence. The very breeze that
wafts the tidings of his triumph through
the town will also fan the cheeks of the
praisemongers who are lying in wait for
a fresh victim, and by the time he has
read in the daily papers the printed
accounts of his performance of the night
before he won t read anything else that
morning they will be -upon him in a
ravenous flock with, "Old man, you re
great ! I never saw a house as still as it
was in your scene in the second act, but
honestly, I thought they d take the roof
off at the close of the third. Did you see
me standing there pounding away for
dear life with my umbrella ? I broke it
all to smithereens rooting for you !

Naturally enough the young actoi
looks upon all this as a spontaneous
tribute to his genius, and a direct con
firmation of last night s applause and
this morning s papers. He is glad that
these jolly, good hearted fellows, who
had never before evinced any particular
fondness for him, are really so deeply
attached to him that they will cheerfully
accompany him into any caf or restau
rant for the purpose of telling him what
a great man he is. I am free to confess
that I know of no tale that sounds pleas
anter in our ears than that which recites
our own achievements, and it is not sur
prising to find that men and women of
artistic temperament are willing to listen
to it in countless repetition.

This is what Mr. Jefferson meant by
" the second round of applause," and it
is such a pitifully easy thing for a young
artist to fall into the agreeable habit of
buying refreshments for all who join in
it. Let him make a vow never to reward
flattery with a drink, a cigar, or a loan,
and before long he will be able to break
fast by himself in any cafe in town if he
wishes to.

The successful young actress is also ex
posed to the ravages of the praisemongers,
but they are of a different sort. The
friends who have watched her career with
interest, and perhaps with disapproval,
are certain to be proud of her now, and
all of their friends will desire to know
and to flatter her. Impressionable young
men, who are " crazy to know her, " will
be presented, and each one in turn will

1 84

THE MUNSEY MAGAZINE.

assure her of the extraordinary effect that
her acting has had on them. Her rooms
will be redolent with the odor of flowers,
her picture will glisten in the illustrated
periodicals, her praises will be sung by
myriad honeyed tongues. She ma} very
likely believe everything that is told her,
but somehow flattery in her case will be,
at the worst, nothing more than a light
complaint, while with her brother in art
it will take the form of a malignant dis
ease. I am aware that in sa3 T ing this I am
violating one of the most cherished tradi
tions of that twopenn} cynicism of which
certain modern satirists of the lunkhead
school have been so prolific ; but I am
speaking the truth, and in confirmation
of my words I would call attention to the
number of actors, as compared with that of
actresses, w r ho have been literally flattered
down from their high estate within the
past dozen years.

The sort of flattery to which young
writers of fiction are subjected is of a
most dangerous variety, because so much
of it is administered by women who are
perfectly conscienceless in such matters.
Nor am I disposed to blame them, for,
after all, thej- are not our appointed guard
ians. It is so much easier, when they

have nothing at stake, to say pleasant
things to the young men who are so
much sought after because of their fresh
bays, than to burden their lips which
were intended for something very much
prettier with mere idle truths.

There is but one way in which the evil
effects of insincere praise can be avoided.
Let the victim who finds himself sub
jected to it keep his eyes firmly fixed on
the very pinnacles of his art- those
remote, glittering slopes which he should
alwaj S hope to climb. If he be an actor,
let him seek the quiet of a library rather
than the bustle of a cafe", and read and
think, not of himself, but of those who are
far above him. Let him watch the leaders
of his profession and study his art in a
proper spirit, and he will detect a hollow
ring in the flattery that will be addressed
to him at his club that night. If he be a
writer, let him spend an evening with
Thackeray or Nathaniel Hawthorne, and
it will perhaps occur to him that his own
little book of stories so full of local color,
so openly admired by the gushing
women of his acquaintance is not
worthy of a place on the same shelf with
the works of the people who knew how to
write and exercised that function freely.
James L. Ford.

JUST TO BE ALIVE.

BUDS of brimming sweetness bursting everywhere,
Rippling notes of rapture breaking on the air,
Swallows round the barn eaves how they whirl and dive !
Oh, the joy in spring time just to be alive !

Hillsides starred with silver, meadows gemmed with gold ;
Woodland full of music more than it can hold ;
Fleet winged, pulsing jewels how they poise and dart !
Oh, in joy of summer just to have a part !

Dressed in regal splendor valley, plain, and hill ;
Feasts of nature s making spread for all who will ;
Wine of King Frost s vintage gladdening every heart ;
Oh, in autumn s banquet just to have a part!

Arching skies of azure, vast of spotless snow ;
Diamonds by the million in the trees aglow ;
Do&gt;^i the sparkling hillside merry coasters fare ;
Oh, in joy of winter just to have a share !

In this world of beauty naught goes wholly wrong ;
Every sigh of sorrow ends somewhere in song.
Once to feel earth s gladness it is worth the strive ;
Oh, the joy in God s world just to be alive !

Emma C. Dowd.

THE WAY OF A MAN.

THERE was many a rose in the glen today,

As I wandered through ;
And every bud that looked my way

Was rich of hue !

Yet the one in my hand do you understand ?

Not a whit more sweet,

Not quite so fair,
But it grew in the break of the cliff up there !

Catharine YoiDig Glen.

IN THE PUBLIC EYE

TWO AMERICAN ADMIRALS.

No foreign power could successfully in
vade the United States, and very few are
at all open to attack by our soldiers. As
has often been pointed out, if we should
be involved in war, it is almost certain
that the sea would be the chief theater of
hostilities. Hence, when the threatening-
political situation turned all eyes to our
national weapons of offense and defense,
it was the movements of our warships
that were watched most eagerly.

Portraits are given here of two men
who, in case of war with Spain, might
strike the first blows for the Stars and
Stripes Admiral Sicard, who commands

our powerful North Atlantic squadron,
now in Southern waters, and Admiral
Dewey, our chief officer in the Pacific.
The former, tinless incapacitated by the
ill health from which he has been reported
as suffering, would no doubt move straight
upon Cuba and the Spanish fleet. The
latter, at the time of writing, has rendez
voused his squadron at Hongkong,
where he is within striking distance of
Manila. To both men the country would
look with complete confidence.

THE SOX OF STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS.

Though we have forsworn any heredi
tary aristocracy, Americans are always

REAR ADMIRAL GEORGE DEWEY, UNITED STATES NAVY, COMMANDING

THE ASIATIC STATION.
From a photograph by Bell, Washington.

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

187

REAR ADMIRAL MONTGOMERY SICARD, UNITED STATES XAVV, COMMANDING THE
NORTH ATLANTIC STATION.

From a plioiograph by Bell, Washington.

interested in the sons of their famous
men. Colonel Robert M. Douglas, who
was elected a judge of the North Carolina
supreme court last year, is a son of the
late Senator Douglas of Illinois, the
" Little Giant " of ante bellum politics.

North Carolina was the State of Colonel
Douglas mother, who was a Miss Martin,
the grandniece of Governor Alexander
Martin, a prominent Revolutionary sol
dier. Colonel Douglas was born there,
and remained there to make his mother s
family place his home, and to grow up
in a political school opposed to that of
his father. His sympathies from the first
were with the Republican party. During
the war, when he was at school in
Washington, the Confederate authorities
brought suit to confiscate the property
he had inherited, declaring him an " alien
enemy." General Grant was a warm
friend to young Douglas, and when elected
President made him his private secretary.

While serving at the White House,

Colonel Douglas married a daughter of
Judge Dick, of North Carolina. The
judge had been a warm friend of the
young man s father, and the only North
Carolina delegate who did not secede
from the Baltimore convention, in 1860,
when Senator Douglas was nominated
for the Presidency.

"Douglas is modest and frank, and I
like his manliness," General Grant once
said. " His education, his truthfulness,
and his good habits will bring him suc
cess. " The young secretary, who was as
close to the quiet soldier as Alexander
Hamilton to Washington, has verified the
prophetic words of his chief by the stand
ing he has gained, during the last twelve
years, at the bar and on the bench of his
State.

L.ORD CHARLES BERESFORD.

The "fighting Beresfords " are one of
the famous families of England. The
head of the house is the Marquis of

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Waterford, but the present bearer of the
title is a boy of twent}- one, and the men
who do most to keep the name of Beres-
ford before the world are his uncles, Lord
Charles and Lord William, titled only by
courtesy. The latter is well known as a
soldier and a sportsman, and to Ameri
cans as the husband of the former Duchess

took his ship so close under the guns of the
Egyptian forts thatthe rebel gunners could
not depress their muzzles low enough to
hit him, and his daring elicited the signal
of " Well done, Condor! " from the ad
miral of the British fleet. The Salis
bury government s gratification at his
recent political success may not be entirely

COLONEL ROBERT M. DOUGLAS, JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT OF NORTH

CAROLINA, AND SON OF SENATOR STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS, OF ILLINOIS.

From a photograph by Alderman, Greensboro, N. C.

of Maryborough, nee Miss Price, of New
York. The former is one of the most
popularmeninEngland,andrecently made
a somewhat sensational reappearance in
public life by seeking an election to
Parliament as a Conservative in a con-
stituenc} that had been a Liberal strong
hold, and b}* winning, after an exciting
campaign, with just eleven votes to
spare.

Lord Charles Beresford is a sailor by
profession, and has seen plenty of active
service both afloat and ashore. The best
remembered episode of his naval career was
his command of the gunboat Condor at
the bombardment of Alexandria, when he

unmixed, for Lord Charles is no docile
follower of party. He is a strong advo
cate of an active foreign policy, and an
unsparing critic of the weak points in the
British naval and military system. He
declared the other daj r that with interna
tional relations in their present critical
state, a man of war should be building at
ever}- slip on the shores of England.

THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY.

Lyman J. Gage, the official head of the
financial department of the government,
has been characterized as a business man
first and a statesman afterwards. Of the
justice of this description Mr. Gage has

LORD CHARLES BERESFORD, MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR YORK, WHO COMMANDED THE

CONDOR AT ALEXANDRIA.
From a photograph by Lafayette, London.

i go

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

LVMAX J. (,AGK. SECRETARY )K TIIK TREASURY.
From a photograph by Frank Roe Batchelder, I! "ashington.

given evidence in his management of the
vast machine under his charge. He is a
firm believer in the theory that public
business should be conducted upon the
lines that make a private concern efficient
and successful, and that personal fitness,
not partisan politics, should regulate ap
pointments and promotions. How he has
carried out these principles in the Treas
ury Department Mr. Gage tells in an in
teresting paper published elsewhere in
this magazine.

Secretary Gage understands business
life from a long, varied, and successful
experience of it. He has worked his own
way up from the very foot of the ladder.
He was ten years old when he left the
public school at Rome, in central New
York, to become errand boy in a country

store, at five dollars a month. "That
seemed to me quite sufficient, " he says,
"and I went to work. The hours were
long. I opened the shop at six in the
morning and sta} r ed until ten at night. I
did all sorts of work swept out the shop,
and ran errands, and sold things."

Later he was a mail clerk, salesman in
a drug store and a book store, a bookkeeper
in a lumber mill, a porter, and a night
watchman. Once he made a business
venture for himself, buying a sawmill
with three hundred dollars, his entire
savings ; but it proved a failure. All
through his years of struggle he was
studying and reading. Finally he found
a place in a Chicago banking house,
proved, his ability, and won stead}- pro
motion. Last year, when he resigned the

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

191

presidency of the First National Bank of
Chicago to enter the cabinet, he ended a
service of twenty eight years with that
one institution.

Mr. Gage first came prominently before
the county at the time when the World s

it was he who cast the vote of the Empire
State for Lincoln and for Grant, having
served as the electoral college s messenger
in 1860 and again in 1872. It was he, as
a lad of nineteen, who delivered the
Columbia centennial oration, when the

GENERAL STEWART L. WOODFORD, AMERICAN MINISTER TO SPAIN.
From a photograph by Anderson, New York.

Fair project was before Congress. He
was one of the four Chicago men whose
financial backing secured the exposition
for the Lake City.

THE; AMERICAN MINISTER TO SPAIN.

General Stewart L. Woodford, our dip
lomatic representative at Madrid during
a very trying and important crisis, is a
New York lawyer whose career has been
full of incident and of useful public
service. By a rather curious coincidence,

New York college celebrated its hundredth
anniversary in 1854. He saw active
service in the war, having resigned a dis
trict attorneyship to enlist as a private
in the One Hundred and Twenty Seventh
New York regiment, of which he rose to
be lieutenant colenel. He was brevetted
a brigadier general, and acted as military
governor of Charleston and Savannah.
A few years later he figured in another
memorable chapter of metropolitan his
tory, being the Republican candidate for

192

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

GENERAL CHARLES J. PAINE, THE FAMOUS AMERICAN YACHTSMAN.

From a photograph by Aletcalf, P.oston.

the Governorship during the political
regime of William M. Tweed. The Demo
cratic nominee, John T. Hoffman, re
ceived the certificate of election, but the
honesty of the returns was open to ques
tion, and Tweed is said to have confessed,
before his death, that they had been so
tampered with as to reverse the result.

In recent years General Woodford has
been quietly devoting himself to his pro
fession, as a member of the firm of Ritch,
Woodford, Bovee & Wallace, with an
office in Wall Street. He found time,
however, to speak and work for sound
money during the last campaign, as he
had also done some twenty years ago,
during the " fiat money " craze. He is a
close personal and political friend of

Senator Platt, the intimacy dating from
the time when the two men were serving
together in Congress.

A FAMOUS AMERICAN YACHTSMAN.

General Charles J. Paine was one of
Senator Wolcott s associates in last year s
unsuccessful attempt to negotiate an
agreement with the British government
for the increased use of silver coinage ;
but his failure as a monetary commissioner
has not obscured the general s fame as a
yachtsman.

The entire salt water fraternity has the
warmest regard for the man to whose
patriotism and sportsmanship we owe
three successful defenses of the America s
Cup. It was General Paine who built the

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

Mayflower and the Volunteer, and who
formed the syndicate that constructed the
Puritan. He was born in Boston sixty
five years ago, and is a grandson of
Robert Treat Paine, one of the Massachu
setts signers of the Declaration of Inde
pendence. He graduated from Harvard
in the class of 53, and was admitted to
the bar, bvit has done little or nothing in
the way of practice. He inherited a for
tune, and is understood to have largely
increased it by railroad investments.

GERMANY S GRAND OLD MAN.

Nearly five years ago Prince Bismarck
told a visitor at Varzin that he expected to
live no longer than his wife. The Princess
Bismarck died about twelve months later,
but the grand old man of the Sachsenwald
is still in the land of the living, and his
physician, Dr. Schweninger, said recently
that " if his grace was spared political
excitement and all other annoyance, he
would probably see the dawning of the
next century." And Bismarck leads a
very peaceful and serene life nowadays.
There is an army of people to guard him
against interviewers, and to examine his
letters and newspapers in order that noth
ing that might give him a moment s un
easiness shall reach his eye.

Some inquisitive German scientist has
been figuring out the weight of Bismarck s
brain, which he says is 1867 grammes.
In comparison, it may be interesting to
recall that Cromwell s brain weighed
2 333 grammes, and Byron s 2238. On
the other hand, Frederick the Great s
scaled only 1700 grammes, and that of
Immanuel Kant was found to be of ex
actly the same weight as the brain of a
hod carrier who died on the same day,
and whose body chanced to lie on the dis
secting table with that of the great Ger
man philosopher.

As the Czar s two children are both
girls, his brother George is still Czare
vitch, or heir to the throne. A few years
ago it was announced that the young
prince was a doomed victim of consump
tion, but he is now reported as being
stronger, though still very delicate. He
is seldom or never seen in St. Petersburg.
His favorite abode in summer is a castle
in the Caucasus ; in winter he seeks the
4

warm climate of Algiers or the south of
France. He is a young man of very quiet
and studious tastes. His hobby is wood
carving, in which he is very clever. His
uncle, the Prince of Wales, has an elaborate
bookcase which the Czarevitch carved and
put together with his own hands.

* * * *
Among " potentates in business " must

be ranked the Pope, who, according to a
statement in a European contemporary,
regularly sells wine manufactured from
the grapes grown in the ample gardens of
the Vatican. It is only a part of the
the pontifical vintage that finds its way
to market ; some is reserved for the
Pope s own use, and some he sends to
various churches, for use at mass. Last
year eight hogsheads was the total prod
uce of the Vatican vineyard.

* * * *

Even if it be true that Lord Salisbury
intends to resign the British premiership,
he will have held that very onerous and
responsible post longer than any other of
Queen Victoria s ministers except Mr.
Gladstone. The Grand Old Man was
prime minister for more than twelve years.
Lord Salisbury has served for nine, a
trifle more than Lord Palmerston. The
record is held by Mr. Pitt s tenure for
more than seventeen years without a
break, from 1783 to 1801.

* * * *
Queen Victoria never rises at daybreak

now, as she used to do. In former years
she transacted a great deal of her official
business before her early breakfast, but
at seventy nine her seventy ninth birth
day will be the 24th of this month she
finds this impossible. Her breakfast
hour is now the same as the Prince of
Wales ten o clock, and she does no
work before eleven.

* * * *

The Earl of Rosslyn, an impecunious
young British peer who recently went
upon the stage, has started a periodical,
in the first number of which he announces
that " my sister, the Duchess of Suther
land, offers j ou an interesting story, and
among the other writers are the Marquis
of Lome and Ladies Randolph Churchill
and Warwick." It will be interesting to
see how long this organ of the English
nobility will live.

BY EDWIN WILDMAN.

The great northern river and its maze of islands as a summer playground The fine residences
that have been built along the St. Lawrence, its fishing, hunting, and water sports, and the
unique charm of its life and scenery.

THE same characteristic of human
nature that inspired the old Nor
man baron to set up a little feudal realm
of his own seems. to have reappeared in
the present generation among the isl
anders on the St. Lawrence River. The
possessor of an island in this magnificent
waterway is as absolute and independent a
potentate in his domain as ever was the
medieval master of some battlemented
stronghold.

Nature has given, for the use of man, a
bountiful suppl}- of these islands, for they

commence above Clayton, where the St.
Lawrence first issues from Lake Ontario,
and are scattered all along its course as
far as Montreal . Some of them are hardly
large enough for the solitary crane to rest
its single foot upon, while others contain
land enough to make a very productive
farm.

It has only been within recent years
that their beauty, and their advantages
as a resort for the summer, have been
fully appreciated. Previously, and for
years back, the St. Lawrence was looked

ENTRANCE HALL OF THK THOUSAND ISLAND YACHT CLUB HOUSE. ALEXANDRIA KAY.

196

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MANZANITA ISLAND, CHIPPE"\VA BAY, THE RESIDENCE OF MR. JAMES G. KNAPP, OF OGDKNSBURG.

upon as nothing more nor less than a
good hunting and fishing ground. Fish
ing and hunting are still the chief pastimes
of the islanders, and men and women who
spend their summers upon the St. Law
rence, and know how to reap the full
measure of its enjoyment, become
thoroughly in love with the sport its
waters afford. The}- abound with many
kinds of fish, from the little trout, like
perch, the sweetest of all St. Lawrence
fish, to the great forty pound maskalonge,
with whom it is nip and tuck whether he
pulls you into the water or you safely
land him in your boat.

Shooting is almost as favorite a sport
as fishing on the St. Lawrence. The
larger islands and the wild woodland
shores shelter an abundance of game. Of
course the season opens too late for the
transient resorter, but it is not with them
that we are most concerned. The}- fly
by like birds on the wing, in thousands,
on the great steamers and on private
yachts, but the}- are mere transient sight

seers, and do not and cannot comprehend
the real charm of the river. It is true
they fish a bit, and perhaps shoot a couple
of times, but the guides lead them into
easy waters where undesired game or fish
abounds, and the}- go away with a very
superficial idea of the region and its life.

In the St. Lawrence there are probably
more than two thousand islands, the
majority of which are inhabited, par
ticularly the American Islands, as our
government gives absolute possession,
while the Canadian grants only a ninety
nine years lease, reserving the right to
occupy for purposes of defense at an}
time.

There is a charm and fascination about
island life that is almost indescribable,
and that affects all kinds of temperaments.
Whatever one s occupation or profession,
every one at times courts absolute rest
and independence, and these two attri
butes can be more nearly realized on these
water girt bits of earth than anywhere
else. From Clayton down to Ogdens-

198

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE INTERIOR OF CRAG SIDE, THE RESIDENCE OF MR. H. A. LAUGHLIX, OF PITTSBURG.

burg the St. Lawrence is broad, at places
being as much as six miles in width, and
most of the islands are in this stretch.
When the thermometer stands at ninety in
city and country, the fresh, never failing
breezes of the river keep the islander in a
delightful temperature.

It is early in June, if he is wise, that
the islander shakes the dust of the city
from his feet as he alights from the club
train at Clayton. " Kelly" and the serv
ants are there with bundles, dogs, bird
cages, and all the paraphernalia of domes
tic economy. There are numerous ways of
reaching his summer home, and the
method the islander takes depends upon
his belongings on the river. If he is the
owner of one of the many little yachts
that are a part of river life, it awaits him
at the dock, and the trip is simple. If
not, he and his lares and penates board
the Massena, or the Wanderer, and if he
possesses an island with a dock of suffi
cient size, the river steamer lands him at
his own door, bag and baggage.

It does not take long to settle the aver
age river house, and within a day or so
a stranger peeping in might think the
occupants had been there for a month.
Every islander has his little skiff or cat
boat, at least, if not both ; and some have
from one to three steam yachts beside.
The islander usually devotes his first
week to an absolute and unqualified loaf,
in which he is joined by every one in the
famil} 7 . Then the fishing commences.
After an early morning plunge in the
river, tackle is made read}-, and it is a
poor islander who can t bring in a mess
for breakfast.

From Clayton well down to Chippewa
Bay, and bej^ond, the river is like a fairy
land. Each of the thousand and one
islands is lighted up in fantastic imagery,
according to the fancy of its occupants.
Some are brilliantly illumined with de
signs in electrical effects. Plying over
the waters, dodging here and there, the
scores of yachts and row-boats scud hither
and thither, carrying merry parties aim-

200

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

lessly up and down the river, or perhaps
to or from some porch part}- or water car
nival.

Then there are the races, the com
petitors in which are all amateurs, made
np from the islanders who own river
craft. The first race usually comes off at
Ogdensburg, and is under the patronage
of the Ogdensburg Yacht Club. Here

of these are of very handsome build, some
being seagoing crafts, with flush decks
and powerful engines, carrying crews of
eight or ten men. Mr. H. A. Laugh -
lin, of Pittsburg, is the owner of the
"Vesta," one of the largest and fastest
yachts on the river. Mr. Laughlin s
place is Crag Side, Wells Island. Mr.
George C. Boldt, of New York, manager

half raters, cat boats, and St. Lawrence
skiffs usually form the classification.

Brockville, Ontario, is the next trysting
place. Here is located the Brockville
Rowing Club, a patron of all kinds of
water sports. At this meet ^re held four
oared, eight oared, and two oared races,
sailing and paddling canoe races, obstacle
canoe races, skiff races, without rudder or
centerboard, cat races, half rater races,
and all sorts of grotesque water sports.
This program is repeated at Alexandria
Bay some two weeks later, with varia
tions, including an exciting steam j-acht
race. Then the round of sport is carried
on at Chippewa Bay, with the added nov
elty of clay pigeon shooting, rowboat
racing, greased pole walking, and so on.

Following the races there are often as
many as twenty private j-achts. Many

of the Waldorf-Astoria, is the owner of
Heart Island, and has two or three hand
some little yachts, particularly the Heart,
which is the fastest naphtha of its size
in the district. Other places that rank
among the finest on the river are Hope-
well Hall, the residence of Mr. W. C.
Browning, of New York ; the Isle Impe
rial, that of Mr. Rafferty, of Pittsburg;
and The Calumet, which belongs to an
other New Yorker, Mr. Charles G.
Emery, whose yacht Nina is one of the
prettiest of the steam fleet on the St.
Lawrence. Keewaydin is a castle-like
place that provokes a query from every
tourist. It is the home of Mr. J. \V.
Jackson, of Plainfield, New Jersey.

Castle Rest, the residence of the late
George M. Pullman, is a large and stately
structure which stands high upon the

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE THOUSAND ISLAND YACHT CLUB HOUSE, ALEXANDRIA BAY.

rugged side of one of the most conspicu
ous islands in the American channel
above Alexandria Bay. A little naphtha
launch that plied back and forth from the
bay to his island satisfied Mr. Pullman s
modest wants.

The home of the late J. G. Holland,
Bonnycastle, is just below Alexandria Bay,
on the main shore, and is a great show
place. Mrs. Holland still lives there.
Among the other well known places in
the same neighborhood are Fairy Land,
which, with two .steam yachts, the
Louise and the W. B., belongs to Mr.

Charles H. Hayden and Mr. \V. B. Hay-
den, of Columbus, Ohio ; Sport Island,
owned by Mr. E. P. Wilbur, of Bethlehem,
Pennsylvania ; and Comfort Island, the
property of Mr. A. E. Clark, of Chicago.
Another Chicagoan, Mr. D. R. Holden, is
the owner of the Lotus Seeker, the swiftest
steam yacht on the river. Manzanita, a
typical island home, picturesquely situ
ated in Chippewa Bay, belongs to Mr.
James G. Knapp, of Ogdensburg. Miss
May Irwin, the actress, has a pleas
ant domain of her own, which she has
christened Irwin Island. There are liter-

204

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

AN EXCURSION YACHT GOING DOWN LOST CHANNEL IN THE THOUSAND ISLANDS.

ally hundreds of other places, each of
which possesses some more or less distinct
ive charm, scattered along the great
river from Kingston to Montreal.

Xaphtha launches and small sailing craft
are as numerous on the St. Lawrence as
fireflies on a warm night, and are an im
portant element in the islanders amuse
ments. There is almost always a breeze,
and it is a splendid place for boat sailing.

The Thousand Island Yacht Club is a
recent organization which last year built
a large and handsome club house at
Alexandria Bay. Besides a roomy cafe,
the building has a large ballroom beauti
fully finished and decorated, where there
is a dance every Saturday night. The
club has been the means of establishing
closer social relations than have hereto
fore been enjoyed by the islanders, and
has proved a very popular organization.

Poets have rhapsodized about the St.
Lawrence, artists have painted it, and
every one who knows the northern river
has waxed enthusiastic over its beauties.
It gives a life of its own, comparable to
which, in the writer s mind, all other
"outings" must pale into lesser attract
iveness ; but to know what it is, and
what are the allurements that year after
year bring thousands to the river, one
must have summered on its bosom, drunk
in the sweet delights of its heavenl}
nights, plunged into its tempestuous
waves, or skimmed over their placid
depths in a dainty canoe. One must have
held the tiller of its swift little skiffs, or
reveled in the romance of its gorgeous
sunsets as the old king of day fell far off
to the westward and lost himself amid
robes of purple and gold behind the
Laurentian hills.

TWELVE INCH BREECH LOADING MORTARS FOR THE UNITED STATES ARMY-
LENGTH, 12 FEET ; WEIGHT, 14 TONS EACH.

AMERICA S BIG GUNS.

BY GEORGE GRANTHAM BAIN.

How the introduction of the high power rifled cannon made the problem of coast deferse
a pressing one, and how it is being met by the building in the United States of some of the
finest and largest of modern guns.

^ T AHE problem of defending our shores
J_ in time of war was created with the
invention of the modern rifled cannon of
the "built up" type. When the civil
war closed, our coast was well prepared
for defense against the smooth bore can
non then in general use ; but with the
improvement in naval ordnance new needs
arose. We found that our forts, which
were strong enough to stand against the
bombardment of 1860, were no better than
blockhouses before the guns of 1875, that
the cannon mounted in them were no
more effective than popguns against the
modern rifled weapons with which the
navies of the world were being armed.

Science and invention, which had lent
so much of terror to the guns of the
world s navies, had been no less active in
devising means to resist naval assaults.

Torpedoes which could be controlled from
the shore, submarine mines, and floating
batteries had been created to repel an
attack at close range ; and guns as great
as those of the navy, or greater, with
mortars of immense power, had been
planned to keep the enemy at a respectful
distance.

The nations of Europe, always antici
pating the possibility of war, had dis
carded their old naval armament, and
were providing their navies with the most
modern armor and the heaviest of the
new steel guns. Their ships were a men
ace to us at any time when we should
happen on a quarrel with them. What
that quarrel might be no one could fore
tell. No one foresaw the Venezuelan
difficulty, which suddenl}- threatened to
involve us with England. But Washing-

TEN INCH BREECH LOADING RIFLE FOR THE UNITED STATES ARMY LENGTH,
30 FEET; WEIGHT 34 TONS.

2O6

MUNSEY S MAGAZIXK.

ton s injunction, " In time of peace pre
pare for war," was reason enough, in the
judgment of man} men, for equipping
ourselves against all possible danger ;
and so these men urged on Congress the
necessity of rebuilding the navy and re
constructing our coast defenses. They
met strong opposition among the mem-

torpedoes, of about $125,000,000. The
defense of New York State alone, it
estimated, would cost $23,000,000.

"It is of no advantage," said the
board s report, " to conceal the fact that
the ports along our coasts a length of
about four thousand miles not including
Alaska invite naval attack, nor that our

TEX INCH RIFLE AND DISAPPEARING CARRIAGE, BUFEINGTON-CROZIER SYSTEM,
IX 1 OSITION FOR FIRING.

bers whose districts were in the interior
and safe from naval attack, but they pre
vailed in the Fort}* Ninth Congress to the
extent of getting the first appropriations
for the reconstruction of the navy, and
an order for the appointment of a board
to investigate the subject of seacoast de
fense. This board, which was known as
the Endicott Board, was appointed by the
President, by authority of Congress, in
1885. It was composed of officers of the
army and navy.

In 1886 the Endicott Board reported a
scheme of coast defense, calling for an
expenditure of nearly $100,000,000; or,
including floating batteries, mines, and

richest ports, from their great depth of
water and capacity to admit the largest
and most formidable ships, are, of all, the
most defenseless. The property at stake,
exposed to easy capture and destruction,
would amount to billions of dollars, and
the contributions which could be levied
by a hostile fleet upon our seaports should
be reckoned at hundreds of millions."

The board recommended the appropria
tion of $9,000,000 a year for this work
until completion. But Congress, which
had been awakened only momentarily to
the gravity of the situation, did not give
a cent until 1888 ; and in the eight years
from 1 888 to 1895 it appropriated only

CASTING FOR A SIXTEEN INCH RIFLE, THE LARGEST GUN IN THE WORLD.

Tli is ctt sting is noiv being forged in the Bethlehem Iron H orks, where t/te photograph u&lt;as taken. It will be sent to
the It atfri liet Arsenal for finishing, and will be ready hi iSqq.

208

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

$4,700,000; when, if the board s recom
mendations had been followed, supple
mented with an extra appropriation in
the first year, the whole plan of fortifi
cation might have been carried out. The
appropriations made since have been on
a more liberal scale ; but even at the
rate of speed of recent years it would
have been half a century before the coast
defense system was perfected according to
the plans of the Endicott Board, if the
threat of war with Spain had not caused

had a partial equipment of modern guns,
and at all of them the old guns were still in
place, covering the torpedo fields and pro
tecting them from attack.

The most important feature of the coast
defense system is the great modern steel
rifle. The largest of those now in service
on our coast has a bore twelve inches in
diameter. It requires a charge of 520
pounds of powder, and it sends a thou
sand pound projectile to any point within
a range of twelve miles. Even the very

TKN INCH RIFLE AND DISAPPEAR
ING CARRIAGE, BUFFIXGTON-
CROZIER SYSTEM, IN POSITION
FOR LOADING.

Congress to be unexpectedly liberal. By
that time, the scheme of attack and de
fense might have been revolutionized as
it has been in the last fifty years.

The plan of the Endicott Board provided
for fortifications at twent} r seven ports.
At these were to be mounted 677 guns
and 824 mortars. It was estimated by
a Senate committee two years ago that
the amount of property which could be
put under tribute by the fleet of a well
equipped enemy at these seaports was
worth at that time $10,000,000,000.

When the Spanish American crisis
threatened in February last, the govern
ment had reason to congratulate itself
that Congress had not been altogether
remiss in providing money for fortifica
tions. Though a comparatively small
part of the plans had been carried out,
the chief ports of the United States were
prepared against attack. All of them

heavy steel armor with which battle
ships are protected will not resist its
attack. But there is under construction
for the War Department a greater gun
than this. Its bore will be sixteen inches
in diameter, and it will weigh, when com
pleted, a hundred and forty two tons.
" If we can get one shot with a sixteen
inch gun, " General Flagler said to a Sen
ate committee, the vessel is certainly de
stroyed. It is not a question of armor
any longer. We would smash in the side
of the ship. "

It has been estimated that a shot from
the sixteen inch gun will cost the govern
ment a thousand dollars, counting wear
and tear as well as the price of powder
and projectile. But that shot would be a
profitable investment, in time of war, if
it sank an enemy s two million dollar ship.

The making of a sixteen inch gun is
like the making of a ten inch or a twelve

AMERICA S BIG GUNS.

209

inch gun in plan, but it requires heavier
machinery and more material, and is far
more costly. The assembling of the
parts and the machining of the gun are
done by the government at its gun fac
tory attached to Watervliet Arsenal ; but
the casting and forging are intrusted to
contractors.

Gun castings are made from open
hearth steel. The molten metal is drawn
off from the furnace into a traveling tank,
from which it empties into a mold.
When the mold is full, it is put into a
hydraulic press, where, under enormous
pressure from below, the gases are ex
pelled from the metal, and the ingot is
made homogeneous. It is then allowed
to cool, and the top and bottom of the
casting, which contain all the impurities,
are cut away. A hole is bored or punched
through it where the bore of the gun will
be, and it is brought to a high tempera
ture for forging.

The forging of a casting is a kneading
process carried on in a great hydraulic
press. A round steel bar, called a man
drel, is run through the bore, and on this
the glowing steel is pressed out to a
larger diameter and a less thickness,
being turned as the jaws of the press re
lease it. When it has been squeezed to
the right dimensions, it is heated again,
plunged into an oil bath to temper it, and
heated in a wood furnace for annealing.
Then it is cooled once more, and is ready
for machining. Every one of the eleven
main parts of a big gun goes through this
process of forging.

When the forging is complete, the
pieces are put on railroad cars and
shipped to the Watervliet Arsenal. The
forging for the tube of the sixteen inch
gun needed three freight cars of special
build to take it from the furnace to the
factory.

The machining of the great guns re
quires enormous power and tools of tre
mendous strength. The forging for the
tube of a sixteen inch gun weighs forty
two tons ; but there is machinery at
Watervliet capable of handling that great
weight with ease. Steam cranes will lift
it and carry it from place to place ; turn
ing lathes will hold it suspended and make
it revolve ; boring tools will enlarge its
inner diameter, while other tools will pare
5

its outer surface to the dimensions fixed
for it. So accurate is the paring that the
surface of the completed tube does not
vary by the three hundredth part of an
inch from the diameter prescribed.

This accuracy is made necessary by the
scientific construction of the gun. It is,
as has been said, in eleven pieces. On
the tube are imposed a .steel jacket at the
breech, and steel hoops from breech to
muzzle. This is what gives the gun its
name. It is " built up " from trie tube
by shrinking these pieces in place. Each
of them has been forged and machined as
carefully as the tube. Each of them is
heated, so that it expands, and is placed
in a pit. The cold tube is lowered into
the pit until the heated piece is in posi
tion, and is held there until the piece
cools and shrinks into place. In shrink
ing, it not only grips the steel monster so
closely that they cannot be separated, but
it actually compresses the tube, and so
adds to its ability to resist the pressure
of the exploding powder.

After this the powder chamber is boivd
out at the bi eech, the tube is rifled, the
breech mechanism is fitted on, and the
gun is ready to be mounted.

Putting the gun together is a work
of great nicety. So is the forging : and
for that reason the making of great guns
is slow. It takes seven months from the
time when the money is appropriated to
complete an eight inch gun ; ten months
for a ten inch gun ; and more than a year
for a twelve inch gun. The sixteen inch
gun was ordered by Congress more than
two years ago, and it is still only half
finished. It takes less time to break a
great gun up than to make it. With a
pressure of twenty tons to the square inch
in the powder chamber, it is estimated
that after firing five hundred shots its
accuracy will be destroyed.

Great guns are mounted at the entrance
to harbors. They are protected by massi ve
emplacements of sand and cement, the
only effective medium of resistance to the
fire of a modern ship of war. The
muzzle does not show itself as a mark for
an enemy s projectiles. The gun lies be
hind the emplacement until it has been
loaded and aimed, when it rises to the
discharge, and it recoils immediately to
its place of safety.

BY PERCIE W. HART.

How the Greensborough Volunteer Fusileers met a trying situation A story
of England s militiamen, showing that precision in drill and spick and span regi
mentals are not always necessary to the making of good soldiers.

Every British colony has its local citizen
soldiery; and, strange to relate, the majority
of these corps have seen active service.
REMARKS OF A TRAVELER.

ALONG the waterside street of a dis
tant colonial town went a march
ing body of men who at first glance
might have been mistaken for a detach
ment of a garrisoning regiment of British
infantry of the line. They were attired
in the conventional scarlet tunic, with
white braided blue facings, and other
minor attributes of that special variety of
Tommy Atkins ; but a second look showed
something lacking. The belts were de
void of pipe clay, the buttons of polish,
the clothes of individual fitness. More
over, the charmingly irregular squash of
their boots in the black and sticky mud,
coupled with the harsh jangling of un
accustomed and consequently badly worn
accouterments, still further betrayed
their veteran appearance.

" Left wheel ! " cried a young officer,
in squeaky and uncertain tones.

Bven this comparatively simple ma
neuver threw the ranks into confusion, and
as they turned down towards the harbor
front their alignment was enough to
make even a drill instructor smile.

"Halt!"

The shuffle of feet upon the wharf plank
ing gradually subsided.

Upon the left hand side of the dock, with
steam escaping from every valve, lay a
grimy little coastal packet, whose deck was
piled high with a bewildering variety of
cloth and leather traveling bags. Her en
tire crew numbering four, all told were
leaning over the rail nettings, watching
the martial proceedings with an enrap
tured gaze. Connecting the little steam
ship with the wharf was a single plank
.some ten inches in width.

" Baggage all aboard the trooper, sir,
reported a gray haired sergeant major,
coming majesticallj forward to the com
mandant, and bringing his hand to the
salute with an air that only one with his
two score years of service in the regular
army could have acquired.

"Thank you, Mr. er Billson," re
plied Colonel Moriarty. Then, taking a
red bound volume from under his arm
he stepped forward a pace or two a
movement which well nigh caused the
gallant officer s downfall, for, having
neglected to hook up his sword scabbard,
it swung between his legs.

As the sergeant major caught the tot
tering commandant in his arms, he whis
pered in his ear: "Don t ee smile 01
laugh, sir. It ll just kill the little dis
cipline we ve got. "

"Silence in the ranks! * bellowec
Colonel Moriarty, as the first faint snickei
became audible, and at the same time he
fixed his eyes majestically upon his OWE
young son, who in the capacity of drum
mer boy was attached to the expedition

"P raps you d better front the men
sir," meekly suggested the old soldier,
as he looked compassionately towards the
little column, still in " fours " and with
rifles at the shoulder.

"Thanks just what I was about to
do," murmured the commandant apolo-
geticalh , and perhaps not altogether
truthfully ; then to his company : " Front
er stand at ease no, I mean right
dress first. Yes, right dress. Now
stand at ease !"

In spite of the somewhat contradictory
nature of their commander s orders, the
little body of clerks, shopkeepers, and
mechanics quickly adjusted themselves
to the required conditions ; and as the
movement was one of the very few which

ONE OF MANY.

211

they had practised, they now presented a
a thoroughly warlike and inspiring ap
pearance to the assembled crowds of rela
tives and friends.

"Good fer yees, byes. Oi ve seen
worser dhrillin wen I wuz in the owld
Louth militchee, " yelled the Hibernian
engineer of the little leaky pot which
Sergeant Major Billson had dignified by
the name of " trooper."

At this left handed compliment the
crowd guffawed tumultuously, and even
the warriors themselves unbent so far as
to smile. But the commandant picked
his way gingerly towards his veteran
subordinate, his index finger pointing to
the red bound book under his other arm.
-"Look here, Billson, "he commenced
in a guarded undertone ; "I haven t been
able to find anything about the embarka
tion of troops in the regulations. How
do they usually manage it ? "

" Well, of course, if we were a reg ment
o the line, sir," loftily answered the
sergeant major, " we d have our colors to
troop, an our band to play us over the
gangway. But bein as we are only a
single comp ny or squad p raps would
be even nearer right without either
colors or music, we might just as well
march aboard without ceremony.

" Er much obliged, I m sure, ser
geant," muttered the colonel, but never
theless he gazed about in a despair
ing manner, first at the single plank con
necting the steamer with the dock, and
then at the men alongside.

At this moment the civil justice of the
peace who had called them out came
bustling up to the colonel, and, taking
hold of his arm familiarly, drew him a
little to one side. Realizing that the
moment of actual parting was very near,
the wives, parents, sweethearts, brothers,
sisters, and friends of the citizen soldiery
now broke through all conventional
restraints, and to the extreme dismay of
the old sergeant major, he beheld his en
tire squad literally engulfed in a torrent
of sympathetic and excited humanity.

"Do your duty whatever comes,
Charlie. I shall pray for you unceas
ingly, " sobbingly murmured a widowed
mother, as she hung upon the arm of her
only hope in life.

"Don t go on about it. mother, " re

plied the youth in tenderly jovial tones.
" There is no occasion for you to worry.
It s just going to be a little holiday out
ing, and "

" Forty rounds of ball cartridge apiece, "
his rear rank comrade was saying to an
envious younger chum. "We ll make
short work of those rioters, if they only
give us a chance. "

As soon as Justice Brown and Colonel
Moriarty had finished their little confab,
the latter mounted an empty cart which
stood near, and, to the horror of the
strictly disciplined sergeant major, com
menced to make a speech to his troops
and the townspeople.

"Gentlemen er and officers of the
Greensborough Volunteer Fusileers, " was
his rather infelicitous beginning, " as
well as citizens and ladies of Greens-
borough : I thought at least, Justice
Brown and I both thought that of
course you all know what has taken
place. The workmen of the Garford
mines are er officially reported to be in
open rebellion on account of their griev
ances. Life and property are unsafe in
the settlement there. In fact, consider
able blood has been shed already, and a
number of valuable lives lost. As pri
vate citizens we may have our own ideas
about whether they have been er well
treated or not by the company which
employed them ; but as peaceful and law
abiding soldiers " here some slight out
breaks of mirth in the crowd rather dis
composed the speaker "as soldiers, our
duty when called upon in due form b3 T
the civil authorities is to put down riot
ing and rebellion no matter by whom or
what for. I need not say, fellow citizens,
that I am proud of the company which I
have the honor to command for her
majesty. The Greensborough Volunteer
Fusileers under the skilful tutelage of
Sergeant Major Billson late, as } r ou all
know, of the regular army have done
their duty before now and they are
read}- to do it again, I know. "

Under the impression that the colonel
had concluded his speech, the throng of
spectators broke forth into a tumult of
noisy cheering. The officer gesticulated
and his lips kept moving, but his voice
was completely overwhelmed in the tur
moil. Suddenly the keen eyed sergeant

212

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

major stalked majestically clear of the
swaying mass of humanity.

" Shun ! " The rasp-like sound of
his order brought the uniformed ones to
a ramrod erectness in their ranks, and
caused the civilian element to melt away
like snow from a steam pipe.

" And now " the colonel s voice again
became audible "we bid you er good
by ; and we hope that you will have the
pleasure of welcoming us back again safe
and sound inside of two weeks. "

The applause once more broke forth as
the colonel warily caught up his sword
scabbard and jumped off the cart. Then,
after much blowing of the steam whistle
upon the little packet, the dock was par
tially cleared for the embarkation.

Once more the worthy colonel found
himself facing the seeming difficulty of
getting two ranks of men across a single
plank at one and the same time. How to
bring them into single file was something
he did not know, and he had been so de
pendent upon the sergeant major during
the past few hours that he felt it neces-
sary to do something, in order to retain
the latter s respect. Just at this critical
moment a bright idea flashed through
his brain.

"Front rank front rank only, mind
you, boys right turn and follow me, " he
cried, placing himself at the head of the
designated files. Rear rank right turn
and follow the sergeant major. Mr. er
sergeant major, will you kindly lead
the rear rank over the gangplank, after I
have crossed with the front ?

And in this ignominious fashion with
out a single strain of The Girl I Left
Behind Me " or " Annie Laurie " did
the gallant Greensborough Volunteer
Fusileers embark upon the little steam
ship " Ocean Belle, " and set out to dare,
do, and die if need be in the service of
their country and their queen.

#,*...#.-.#

If ever a steamship belied her name,
that steamship must have been the
Ocean Belle. Built at Glasgow where
colonial superstition hath it that this
type of vessel is constructed in mile
lengths and cut off in sizes to suit pur
chasers and brought across tumultuous
seas in a fashion positively miraculous,
she had hitherto served all desired pur

poses. But her passenger carrying
capacity was severely strained by the
presence of the forty two members of the
Greensborough Volunteer Fxisileers
staff, company officers, non commissioned,
and rank and file, together with a some
what dubious musician in the person of
the small drummer boy.

Even the sergeant major gave over his
original intention of establishing a main
guard amidships, and posting deck sen
tries in true trooper style, when he real
ized that life and limb were both in peril
unless one clung fast to some friendly
smoke stack stay or bulwark netting.

To add to their discomfort eight hours
steaming brought them head first into a
howling hurricane, and about midnight
during a perfect salvo from heaven s
artillery Colonel Moriarty found him
self up to his neck in rushing water
With a mighty effort he reached the open
scuttle and got on deck, where he steadied
himself by means of the cabin coamings
Almost simultaneously a figure came to
wards him.

"The master reports propeller shaft
broken ship on a lee shore and God
have mercy on our souls in less than
twenty minutes, sir!" shouted the new
comer, loud enough to be heard above the
roar of wind and waves.

The man who received this startling in
telligence, almost simultaneously with
being rudely awakened from a sound
slumber, blanched visibly ; but he re
turned his warrant officer s salute in ap
proved style, so far as a badly bruised
shoulder and the violent motion of the
craft would permit ; for your Anglo Saxon
catches no disease quicker than that of
soldiering.

Ve-ver-y go-good, s-s-sir, he replied,
in tones not nearly so tremulous as his
knees. " Kind-kindly er order all the
men on deck. Do you thin-think we
can get the boats launched ?

The sergeant major turned about with
out any reference to his usual heel and
toe procedure, and his parting words were
ominous :

" After Delhi andLucknow and Rorke s
Drift, to be drowned like a cat in a bag
with a lot of play soldiers damn it ! "

The colonel heard every word no
doubt it was intended that he should

ONE OF MANY.

213

but weightier events called his attention
elsewhere. When he was again at leisure,
he found himself almost at the other end
of the deck. The steamer had hung her
self upon a ragged reef, and the rending
noises below were far from comforting.

The members of the Greensborough
Volunteer Fusi leers scrambled about the
deck very much after the fashion of a herd
of frightened sheep, and the crew of the
vessel were scarcely better. All about
them was thick, pitchy darkness, il
lumined at brief intervals by ghastly
flashes of lightning.

One of these flashes showed Colonel
Moriarty standing erect upon his feet,
pointing with his drawn sword to the
small expanse of open deck.

"Take your rifles and fall in ! " he
shrieked.

Without a murmur of dissent the little
body quickly stood at parade.

" Married men one pace to the front ! "
came the next quickly uttered command.

Over half of the little corps obeyed the
order. The colonel glared angrily at the
sergeant major.

"You re married, Billson!" he bel
lowed. Step forward !

" Yes, .sir, and so are you, " replied the
warrant officer meekly.

"That s neither here nor there. The
two boats are the only chance. Even the
married men of the company and the
sailors to guide them will overcrowd the
boats. If they reach land and can come
back for more, well and good. If not
well, there ll be but a few mourners in
Green sborough tomorrow. "

The sergeant major answered never a
word, but, after punctiliously saluting,
climbed into the pilot house. He emerged
a few seconds later with a small bundle
under his arm, which he unrolled and
tied to the only available support a
grimy iron stay. The mysterious bundle
was only a poor tawdry ship s flag
a red ensign such as is graciously
permitted to be flown by ordinary British
subjects. However it was he only
" colors " that the Greensboroug-i Volun
teer Fusileers could boast of.

A cheap theatrical move, this of the
old sergeant major s, you think? Ah,
when you have fought and starved,
through sunshine and shadow, amid the

clamor of the conflict and the still more
trying monotony of the bare floored
barracks ; when you have realized the
utter loneliness and helplessness of your
own single individuality, and have known
the cheering thought that around your
"colors " was a tangible earth center, in
which you would never lack a comrade s
brawny arm ; when you can begin to
imagine what his "colors" means to
the British soldier then, and not till
then, can you appreciate the glow of
satisfaction that filled Sergeant Major
Billson s heart as he stepped back along
side of his commandant after knotting the
bit of bunting to the wave washed stay.

Never before so far as local tradition
runs had two wooden skiffs carried
twenty three men and one boy to safety
upon that rugged coast, and such a thing
will probably never occur again.

But it took time.

When Colonel Moriarty felt the settling
of the vessel and .saw 7 a mountain of rag
ing foam bearing down upon them, he
knew quite well what was coming.
Moreover, he had no occasion to refer to
either the sergeant major or to his
pocket copy of the queen s rules and
regulations for the army in order to find
out what was the proper thing to do
under the circumstances.

" Shun ! " he called, in tones that
would have sent envy to the heart of a
field marshal. The little band of Greens-
borough Volunteer Fusileers who were so
unfortunate as to be unmarried some
thing less than a score in number with
their sergeant major upon the right flank,
straightened up ;:nd dressed far more
accurately than they had ever done at
annual inspection.

" Soldiers, salute your colors ! Present
arms ! The colonel s sword hilt came
with a sweep to his lips in perfect har
mony with the clank of the rifles falling
to the armed salute. And the sergeant
major s rugged old face glowed with
pride as the deck was swept from under
their feet.

* * * *

For even such an imheard of colonial
corps as the Greensborough Volunteer
Fusileers sometimes brings no dishonor
iipon the blue facings and scarlet tunics
of a line regiment.

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

BY FRANK A. MUNSEY.

An address delivered at Ottawa, on the JOth of March, 1898, at the annual meeting of th&lt;

Press Association of Canada.

A FEW generations back the American,
4% and especially the New Englander,
was dominated by two great, overshadow
ing purposes in life getting on in the
world, and getting into Heaven. Every
thing centered in these two ideas. They
were so great, so broad, so far reaching,
that they were his very life. They were
the first thoughts that confronted him on
waking in the morning, and the last
thoughts in his mind before falling asleep
at night. No sacrifice, no deprivation,
no hardship, was too great if it would help
him to get on in the world ; few sacrifices
were too great if they would insure his
getting into Heaven. They were serious
problems, and he faced them as a strong,
brave man faces serious problems. He
had no time for amusement ; his nature
did not require it. His pleasure and
perhaps it was as satisfying to his tem
perament as the pleasure we get from life
today was found in constantly lifting
himself by his own innate energy to a
higher level. In the language attributed
to an eminent statesman, this serious,
sturdy old American seen his duty and
he done it."

A desire for strict accuracy in this
definition compels me to emphasize the
order in which I pi ace these two great life
purposes. Getting on in the world, it
will be observed, is first.

Today our views of life are not quite
like those of the early American. We
are dominated by a wider range of pur
poses, chief among which are getting on
in the world, getting a good time out of
the world, and some way, somehow, get
ting into Heaven. We are quite as keen
in the matter of getting on in the world as
were our ancestors. I assume, too, that
this purpose is equally strong with the
people of Canada with the journalists
of Canada in particular. And it is on

the problem of getting on in journalism
that I have jotted down a few random
thoughts. I could hardly discuss seri
ously the problem of getting into
Heaven.

My own theory of getting on in jour
nalism is a very simple one. In a word
it is to give a bigger value for a given sura
of money than can be had for a like
sum of money in any other publicatiot
anywhere. This theory is not one that
would make all of you gentlemen rich
and for the reason that many of you, }
assume, are to a greater or less degree
competitors. But this theory follower
out to a fine conclusion would make some
of you rich beyond all question. Any
policy that will materially help one jour
nal is pretty apt to do so at the cost of
competing journal.

The publishing business as a whole is
not taken seriously in the sense, for in
stance, that railroading is. No man eve?
expects to get his original investment
out of a railroad. He couldn t do it if he
tried to. The money that goes intc
building the road bed has gone beyond
recovery. The railroad builder knows
this, and "still he goes on with his work.
He goes on with it because he has faitt
in the enterprise. It is something to last
throughout time to be a permanent,
substantial, dividend paying investment,
He does not put out his capital with a
string attached to it with which to draw
it back. He knows that it will never
come back, and yet he has the faith to
invest it, to plant it, bury it.

The newspaper man, on the other hand,
rarely sends out a dollar without a string
attached to it. He is unwilling to invest
anything until he has figured out pretty
clearly just how he can get back the orig
inal dollar, and with it a profit. He
hasn t the faith to bury it as the railroad

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

215

man buries it. If he had he would reason
precisely as the railroad man reasons,
and would build precisely as the railroad
man builds.

Most men, it seems to me, are too
much afraid of making mistakes. I like
men who make mistakes, who have the
dash, the energy, the warm blood in their
veins, to make mistakes. Everything in
life is more or less of a gamble. Timidity
never accomplished anything in this
world. Faith is the mainspring of enter
prise. Mistakes make the game interest
ing. They lift it above the dead level,
stimulate imagination, and keep hope
young.

More good thoughts have perished than
have ever seen the light of day. It is
the easiest thing in the world to reason
the merit all out of a new idea. The man
who "gets there " is the man who has
the courage to make the plunge when the
thought is fresh in his mind to strike
while the iron is hot. Ideas, like time
and tide, wait for nobody. They must
be taken at the flood. The man who at
tempts to argue all the way to the finish is
lost. Difficulties are at their worst in the
perspective. The plunge is the vital
thing the beginning, the life. Faith
and experience will take care of the rest.
The world s real benefactors are its brave
men, the men who have the soul to do and
to dare, to risk everything, fortune, repu
tation, and life itself.

I don t believe at all in the sure thing
theory; I don t believe at all in the
theory of getting something for nothing.
The- man who seeks big rewards should
take big chances, should give up an ample
equivalent in brain force, thought, energy,
money, for everything he gets. The man
who rises above the surface makes no end
of mistakes ; the drone, alone, makes no
mistakes.

One of the worst mistakes the world
makes is its horror of making mistakes.
This very thing is one of the greatest
possible menaces to intelligent, conscien
tious legislation. The legislator is so
trammeled by the feeling that he must
never make a mistake, that he must
always be consistent, that a large per
centage of his value to the state is lost.
The straitjacket of public opinion, nar
row, xinwise, intolerant public opinion,

that does not allow its representatives
the freedom of the man of affairs, blocks
the wheels of progressive, businesslike
legislation. The lawyer and the doctor
and the business man make mistakes.
Why, then, shouldn t the legislator make
mistakes? Why shouldn t he vote to
morrow to repeal the act for which he
votes today, if tomorrow brings him addi
tional light upon the subject, if to
morrow s experience demonstrates to him
that his reasoning of today was wrong ?
Imagination does not carry with unerring
accuracy. Experience alone determines
whether a thing is right or not.

There are certain eternal principles
that enter into the wise conduct of busi
ness certain lines that must win out.
Get your business on these lines and hold
.strictly to them regardless of what this
one or that one may say, regardless of
what is or what has been, and hold to
them with the faith and the grasp that
know no weakening, and you will win
out.

To sit in your office and resolve to give
a bigger, better publication for a given
sum of monejr than your competitor
gives is easy. To put this resolution
into practice, and still win out, is the
rub. It can be done in only one way,
and that is by a broad, aggressive, gen
erous policy a policy that looks wholly
to the future and knows no present. The
best equipment will break the heart of
any competitor. It sets a pace that he
cannot follow. Make j^our equipment as
perfect a machine as money and brains
and experience can make. By equipment
I mean not only your printing plant, but
your entire organization editorial, count
ing room, circulation, advertising one
great big modern engine, all parts of
which work in perfect harmony. With
such an equipment you can issue at a
profit a brighter, bigger, abler journal
than it is possible for your competitor,
with an inferior equipment, to issue and
live.

The people have a keen sense of com
parative values. They can be deceived
for a time, but not all the time. The
publication that gives them what they
want, and gives it to them in largest
measure for a given sum of money, will
have their support. It may not come in

216

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

a day, or a month, or a year, but it will
come in the end to an absolute certainty.

It is every man s duty to his family
and to himself to buy where he can buy
the lowest, to buy where his dollar will
bring him the biggest value. This holds
equally true in the non essentials as with
the essentials of life ; equally true with
the luxuries as with the necessities. It
applies to newspapers and magazines as
it does to groceries and to dry goods.
The day for big profits has gone by.
Volume is the modern theory. The old
idea of seeing how much profit the people
will stand without open rebellion is out
of date. Big profits invite competition,
and are almost certain to bring it. Small
profits are sure to lessen competition.
Indeed, it is possible to reduce competi
tion to a point where it does not compete.

There is no grasp like the grasp of
lower prices. These are the cords of
steel that bind a community alike to a
shop or to a publishing house, and all the
favoritism in the world, and all the rela
tionship in the world, and all the force
of established custom in the world, and
all the political pulls and all the other
pulls of one kind and another in the
world, cannot live a minute beside lower
prices.

An increase in value for the same price
is, in fact, a reduction- in price. Make it
possible for the consumer s dollar to do
the work of a dollar and a half, and you
have enriched him and made him your
friend. He is not slow to recognize it.
You have done something for him, some
thing for the world.

It is wise to think all the way around
the circle. The man who simply looks
ahead and pays no attention to the fellow
behind him is taking long chances. The
world moves constantly forward. Every
thing in all lines is getting to be better
and better. The people expect more and
demand more. The newspaper that is as
good this year as it was last must be
better than it was last year. It may be
that the fellow in the rear has a clearer
appreciation of this fact than the man in
the lead. If so, it would be easy to guess
the latter s finish.

As I look over the field of journalism, I
am impressed with the feeling that many
publishers I had almost said most pub

lishers have a far too sacred regard for
the advertiser. He is a little tin god in
their eyes. They bow down to him, wor
ship him. They yield to his imperious
demands, and truckle to his eccentricities.
Independence, dignity, the publication
itself, all fall down before him. The best
space is given up to him. The reader is
nothing ; the advertiser everything.

What a pitiable mistake ; what a short
sighted, weak, unwise policy. The true
journalist knows no advertiser in the
editing of his journal. He knows only
the reader and the reader s interests,
The news has the best place in his paper.
It is not sunk beneath some ugly pill ad
vertisement. It has the top of the col
umn and all the desirable columns.

The reader .should be first, last, and all
the time in the thoughts of the editor.
A newspaper should be made for the
people not for the advertiser. And the
newspaper that is made for the people
will have the circulation, and circulation
compels the recognition of the advertiser.
The advertiser has no sentiment. He
buys advertising space as he would buy
wheat. He spends his money where he
can make a profit, and he makes his prof
it where he reaches the people.

I would not wish to be understood to
mean that the advertiser should be treated
cavalierly or indifferently. There would
be no sense in this, no business in it.
The advertiser is as important to the
newspaper as the newspaper is to the ad
vertiser. But the first duty of a pub
lisher is to make a newspaper in the best
possible sense, and then give the adver
tiser the best possible treatment consist
ent with the first rate editing of his pub
lication.

I wonder if you have ever noticed how
the people tie to the successful journal.
They won t have the bankrupt journal.
It doesn t so much matter to them
whether the manufacturer of the boots
they wear is making or losing money,
but it does matter a good deal to them
whether the newspaper on which they
rety for news, and to a greater or less ex
tent rely for guidance, is a successful
business enterprise. The impression
somehow gets hold of them that the un
successful publication cannot afford to
buy the best news, cannot afford to have

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

217

the best talent on its editorial staff, and
at a hundred points is at such a disadvan
tage that it cannot be as reliable as the
profitable and well established journal.
To secure public confidence, then, a pub
lication must be made a financial suc
cess.

The most dangerous condition a pub
lication can be in is to be on the verge of
paying. On such propositions I have
seen fortunes wrecked, hopes burned out,
and youth turned to old age. They are
men killers, heart breakers. To keep on
paying deficits week after week, month
after month, and year after year, is dense
folly. A million dollars is squandered
annually at this sort of thing in New
York City alone. It would not surprise
me if the figures could well nigh be
doubled. And in our entire country I
should estimate that the annual loss
the money absolutely squandered in
paying deficits on periodicals that are on
the verge of paying, mounts up to the
enormous figure of perhaps ten million
dollars, possibly a great deal more.

There are but two things to do when a
publication is in this condition : either
kill it outright at a single stroke, or at
a single stroke spend money enough on
it to force it over into the paying column.
Money put into paying deficits is lost
forever ; money put into intelligent, ag
gressive management is capital well in
vested.

I don t quite know how it may strike
you, but it strikes me that it is better to
pursue a proposition to the very finish
and lose than to abandon it with yet so
much as one possible move left. In the
one idea there is the stuff that moves the
world bravery, courage, sincerity ; in
the other there is disappointment, timid
ity, failure. In the one men become like
iron ; in the other like lead.

I have no faith in freak journalism.
It suggests a disordered, impracticable,
irrational mind. The people don t want
it, and won t have it. It belongs to the
"long felt want" class where the
" want " is felt only in the mind of the
publisher. Too much good, sound com
mon sense cannot be put into journalism.
Freakishness will go better in other
things than in journalism. A man does
not so much mind if the grocer puts up his

pound of coffee in a square or an oblong
package, but he does mind a good deal
about having a knock kneed, wall eyed,
grotesque, inane newspaper.

I cannot speak intelligently of the
journalism of Canada. I have not had
the time nor the opportunity to study it.
But of our own journalism, on the other
side of the border, I can speak from pretty
deep convictions. I should not wish to
be regarded as a dreamer, a dyspeptic, or
a mugwump, when I say that the jour
nalism of today lacks seriousness. It
has become to a great extent purely
a commercial proposition business jour
nalism. And on these lines competition
has been so fierce that every conceivable
method has been resorted to for circula
tion building. Individuality has counted
for nothing. The counting room has
dominated everything. The policy of
the paper has given way to it. The
editor has been subservient to it. Every
thing for the columns of the paper, news
and editorials alike, has been weighed and
measured by the counting room scales.

That making money should be the first
principle of doing business may well hold
good in journalism as in other things, and
yet journalism can hardly be put on the
same plane. There is a responsibility on
the editor from which the manufacturer
is free. A plow, a steam pump, or a loco
motive does not mold public opinion
brings no influence to bear upon the
trend of popular thought. It sets no
standard of taste, preaches no phase of
ethics ; but not so with the newspaper.
However much he may wish to do so, the
editor cannot free himself from exerting
an influence upon the minds of the peo
ple. His columns are accepted by thou
sands as their guide and oracle.

Counting room journalism was not
known to William Cullen Bryant, Henry
J. Raymond, Sam Bowles, or Horace Gree-
ley. Greeley, in particular, did not know
that he had a counting room. He gave
no thought to that side of journalism.
He studied the people ; he studied prin
ciples, and according to the light he had,
he aimed, through his journal, to lead his
fellow men to a higher and better plane of
life. He was always serious, always
honest. He never weighed in the balance
a bit of news, or an editorial, or a sugges-

218

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

tion, to see whether it meant the loss or
the gain of a subscriber. With him it
was a question of what was right, of what
made strong, honest, serious journalism.

Where are the Greele} T s today ? Where
are the Bowleses and the Raymonds and
the Bryants today ? The personality in
journalism the man whose individual
personality stood out for his newspaper
the bold, fearless, actual personality of
flesh and blood, of courage and principle
practically disappeared with the pass
ing of these men. Dana was the last of
national stature, the last of the old school,
whose editorial* work was characterized
by ripe scholarship, and whose policy was
independent of all counting room influ
ences.

I think it is safe to say that the elder
Bennett was the founder of counting
room journalism I do^not mean count
ing room journalism in its latest and
most extreme form ; but w T ith him began
the theory, in America, at least, of busi
ness journalism. To Pulitzer belongs
the credit of developing counting room
journalism as we know it now. It can
hardly be supposed that the elder Ben
nett s mind reached out to the " yellow "
journalism of today. Measured from the
commercial standpoint, and from the
standpoint of a great newspaper in the
news sense, James Gordon Bennett, Sr. ,
had the finest newspaper instinct of any
man of his day, and perhaps of any man
either before or since his day, in America.

But Pulitzer as a business journalist
pure and simple, as an exponent of count
ing room journalism in its perfection, is
the greatest genius in the history of
newspaper men on this side of the Atlan
tic, if not in the entire world. There are few
leaders, and a world of imitators ; success
is always imitated. Pulitzer s remark
able financial success was the beginning
of a new era in our journalism. It is a
kind of journalism that will not last. It
will not last, because it is not serious. It
is hysterical, sensational, untrue. It will
not last, becaiise the people know it is not
true ; and only sincerity, and the reflec
tion of life as it is, can last in journalism
as in anything else. With the passing
of the new journalism we shall have
a better journalism than we would have
had if there had been no new journalism.

The new journalism, grotesque and ab
surd as it sometimes is, is better than
stagnant, stupid journalism. In the one
there is growth ; in the other there is no
growth, nothing but sluggishness and
decay.

I am not at all disposed to believe that
the journalism of the world is going to
the " demnition bowwows. "Yellow "
journalism has gone about as far as it can
go. There are few sensations that it has
not worked up. It cannot well be made
more bulky ; it cannot, without enlarging
its pages, increase the size of its scare
heads, and it cannot make its illustra
tions more horror stirring. If, however,
the people have not had enough of it they
will continue to demand it. When they
have had enough they will take the matter
into their own hands and regulate it as
they regulate everything else. I am a
firm believer in the serious, sober sense
of the people. " Bluffs " go for a little
while, and they sometimes go more
easily, more quickly, than serious, sound
common sense, but serious, sound, com
mon sense is in at the finish, and
" bluffs " never.

If I interpret the feeling of the people
at all accurately, there is today a strong,
certain demand for a better class of jo\ir-
nalism a journalism that shall be serious,
honest, straightforward, concrete a jour
nalism with a Greeley at the head of it.

I don t quite know when the custom of
elaborating news began, but it has been
carried to such a point that a trivial
item can easily be padded out to a three
column sensation with heartrending
scare head. The fact itself and the
fact is what the reader wants is lost,
and the whole thing becomes garbled,
distorted, inaccurate, dishonest.

It seems to me that beyond everything
else, beyond every other consideration,
news should be strictly accurate, and
should be told in the briefest possible
space. I do not mean so brief as to give
a mere outline, an imperfect idea, but
with just words enough to present a faith
ful picture in a graceful and pleasing-
way.

One of the worst menaces to true jour
nalism, it seems to me, is the system of
paying reporters on space. It can mean
nothing else but prolixity, elaboration,

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

219

and padding. No busy man can read a
great metropolitan paper in a day ; no one
could read a Sunday paper in a week.

All that I have said could well be set
down as mere theory. Anybody can
theorize everybody does. To talk of
myself is not a pleasant thing to do ; I
have always aimed to avoid it. I have
never advertised myself; I have given all
my thought, all my energy, to my busi
ness. What I have done means little to
me ; what I hope to do means everything.
The past is dead ; the future is full of
mysterj , hope, aspiration, victories to be
won. But to give life, vigor, virility,
backing, to what I have said to you,
gentlemen, I must say something about
my own experience in the publishing
business.

Fifteen years ago I went to New York
from Augusta, Maine, to begin the pub
lication of a boys paper THE ARGOSY.
My capital consisted of a very large stock
of enthusiasm, a grip partial!} filled
with manuscripts, and forty dollars in
my pocket. An acquaintance of mine in
Maine had agreed to join me in the enter
prise and to put into it twenty five
hundred dollars. I had already spent
five or six hundred dollars of my own
money for manuscripts. I had kept my
plans a pretty close secret. They were
not published until the very day I left
for New York. Then it was that every
body shrugged his shoulders, every
body said there could be nothing but
failure, everybody said I was a fool, and
everybody was right. The unanimity of
opinion on this point was so unbroken,
was so outspoken, that my partner be
came alarmed, and when I wrote him to
send on the money in accordance with
his agreement he simply ignored the
whole matter.

My experience in the business world
was small at that time. I knew that
whatever I agreed to do would be done at
any cost, and I supposed that other men
had the same regard for their word. I
was not unaccustomed to thinking. I
had perhaps done more thinking than
most very young men. But never until
then had I been brought face to face with
a problem that demanded quite such con
crete thinking. There was no way to
convert my grip of manuscripts into cash

at any price. There was no turning back,
and I would not have turned back if I
could. I engaged a little room for an
office, bought an eight dollar table and a
couple of wooden chairs, paper, pens, and
ink. I had a basis to work from now,
and I took tip the problem with all seri
ousness. At the end of a few days, or
a week at most, my plans were well per
fected. As I saw it then, I needed only
capital. I was rich in inexperience the
very vastness of this inexperience, as I
look back upon it, appals me even now.
One day I met an ambitious publisher. 1
told him what I was doing. He pro
posed that I let him bring out the publi
cation, and that I manage it for him. 1
accepted the proposition.

At the end of five months the pub
lisher failed, not, I fancy, wholly because
of my extravagance or inexperience. I
had turned over to him all my manu
scripts, and one day when the financial
situation became a good deal strained
with him he came to me and borrowed
whatever money I had saved in excess of
my living expenses, and my living ex
penses at that time were not excessive
When the crash came he owed me a thou
sand dollars. Again I found myself
thrown upon my own resources, and my
available funds were about the same as
my cash capital when I landed in New
York at best not over fifty dollars. The
outlook was appalling. THK ARGOSY
was to be sold or stopped altogether
All my hopes were centered in it. The
upshot was that I gave my claim of one
thousand dollars for it. It had made little
headway. By means of prizes of one
kind and another the publisher had got
together quite a list of subscriptions,
which had to be carried out. The money
had come in and had been used up. The
weekly sale on news stands amounted to
little or nothing. I had no credit, and
the failure of my predecessor placed me at
once at a disadvantage. I borrowed three
hundred dollars from a friend, and then
began such a struggle for existence as
few publishers have ever faced.

It was summer, when the publishing
business is at its worst, when reading is at
itslowestebb, when advertising is not mov
ing. It would be a long story to tell the de
tails of this frightful period. I did every-

220

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

thing myself, was office boy, porter, editor,
art editor, bookkeeper, circulation man
ager, advertising manager, and financier.
But it was during these days that I
learned the fundamental principles of the
publishing business learned all sides of
the business learned it as no man can
learn it without a similar experience. I
was not influenced by conventionality.
My methods were all 1113- own. After a few
months I began to get just a little bit of
credit. I guarded it sacredly. I never
allowed a promise to be broken. I met
every engagement. Gradually my line
of credit grew. At the end of three years
I found myself owing about five thou
sand dollars. ~My credit was my cap
ital. It came slowly, and therefore I
moved slowlj 7 . During all this time I
had given up my entire life to the busi
ness. I rarely, if ever, went out in
the evening. I spent the time in m} r
room writing. I had already written
and published one long story. It was
well received. I did not write stories
because I preferred to do so, or because I
thought I could write better stories than
those of the established authors. I wrote
them because I had to have them, and I
had little money with which to buy
them.

During all these desperate days there
was one thought of which I never allowed
myself to lose sight one guiding, eter
nal principle yzr-y/ life and then growth,
but life at all hazards.

I now began another long story, and I
made it as strong as I could make it in
the opening chapters. I burned a good
deal of midnight oil on it. I believed
that I had in it the elements that would
appeal to bo3^s, and I felt that at last my
credit had reached the point where I
could afford to put it to the test. Up to
this time the business had been losing
ground a little each year. During the
winter it would forge ahead a trifle, but
in the long, hot months of summer it
would drop back more than it had gained.

On this new story I distributed about
one hundred thousand sample sheets
giving the opening chapters, and spent
considerable money in newspaper adver
tising. The total outlay for advertising
and sample sheets ran my indebtedness
up to fifteen or sixteen thousand dollars,

but the result of this advertising so far
increased the circulation of THE ARGOSY
that it now paid me a net profit of some
thing like one hundred dollars a week.
This was the first genuine success I had
had, the first time the business was legiti
mately in the paying column, and hope
bounded and broadened.

At last I had a tangible success, and I
saw the way to a greater success. I
finished that story during the summer,
and in the fall, with the opening of the
reading season, I began a business cam
paign that in its intensity crowded a life
work into a few months.

I had reduced my indebtedness at this
time to about twelve thousand dollars.
This indebtedness, then, constituted my
cash capital, ifj ou will so regard it, for
the campaign ahead of me, during which
time I spent ninety five thousand dollars
in advertising. I put out eleven million
five hundred thousand sample copies.
I covered the country with traveling
men from Maine to Nebraska and from
New Orleans to St. Paul. Beyond Ne
braska I used the mails. I kept on
the road fifteen to twenty men, and
every man emploj ed from one to a
dozen helpers in putting out these
sample sheets. I had no organization
at the time, no editorial force, no
bookkeeper, and until then I had never
indulged in the luxury of a typewriter.
I laid out the rout es for the men, deter
mined just how many sample sheets
should go into each town, and wrote
every man a letter every day that was
designed to fill him with enthusiasm and
renewed energy. I not only wrote these
men, but I wrote newsdealers ever} where
as well. I did 1113- own editorial work, I
kept my own accounts, I looked after the
manufacturing, I bought all the paper, I
attended to the shipping, to freight bills,
and with all, did the financiering
ninety five thousand dollars in financier
ing in five months.

The expenses of men on the road, ship
ping expenses, office expenses, and manu
facturing expenses literally burned up
money. The cry was money, money,
money, all the time. But some way,
somehow, I always managed to get it to
gether. I had no backer. I have never
known such a luxury. I bought paper

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

221

on time, I gave notes, I discounted notes.
I had a bank account in Maine, one in
New York, and another in Chicago. I kept
thousands of dollars in the air between
these three banks. All in all, it was a
dizzy, dazzling, daring game, a game to
live for, to die for, a royal, glorious
game.

It was during this fiercely dramatic
period that I wrote The Boy Broker
a story that sent the circulation of THE
ARGOSY bounding forward to the tune of
twenty thousand. It was midnight
work. I closed this campaign early in
May. It had lasted five months. I
went into it with a net income of a
hundred dollars a week ; I came out of
it with a net income of fifteen hundred
dollars a week.

I felt now that there were great big
possibilities before me. I didn t buy a
steam yacht, I didn t set up a racing
stable, I didn t indulge in any skyrocket
display that so often follows a somewhat
sudden success. My ambition was to
build bigger. I devoted the summer to
strengthening the publication, and made
my plans for a yet greater campaign dur
ing the coming winter. As soon as cold
weather came I began advertising again.
I spent twenty thousand dollars and
stopped suddenly. I had expected to
spend five times this amount, but twenty
thousand dollars told the story just as
well as two hundred thousand dollars
would have told it.

The tide had turned, the weekly paper
was doomed, but I did not know this, I
did not recognize the truth. I hadn t
paid the price. Truth conies high the
truth that a man digs out of the solid
rock. I thought it was the juvenile paper
in particular that was doomed. I had a
great big income still. I did not care
anything for money. I wanted to be a
factor in the publishing world. I
reasoned that if I could use my income to
establish an adult publication I should
have something permanent, and would
not care what became of THE ARGOSY. I
had been in the publishing business long
enough to know the fallacy of tying to
a juvenile publication.

Acting on my reasoning I began the
publication of an adult journal, which I
called MUNSEY S WEEKLY. I published it

for two years and a little more at a cost
of over one hundred thousand dollars in
cash. But the cost in disappointments,
in wear and tear, in gray matter, in lost
opportunities, can never be estimated,
could never be made up if I were to live
a thousand years. There are some things
men can never get back.

I began to discern the truth now. At
last it was plain that the trouble with
THE ARGOSY two years before was the
doom of the weekly publication in Amer
ica rather than the doom of juvenile
journalism in particular. I believe I was
one of the first men to recognize this fact;
many men have not recognized it even
yet. The great big daily with its illus
trations and fiction, and the mammoth
Sunday issue screaming with pictures,
together with the syndicate system, had
practically driven the weekly of national
circulation out of the field. To be sure,
there were then, and there are still, a few
old strong weeklies that hold on mainly
from a large advertising patronage, and
because they have been household com
panions for generations. Such publica
tions, however, cannot be taken as true
criterions.

When I had become convinced beyond
all question that I was pulling directly
against the tide I changed MUNSEY S
WEEKi/vrtoMuNSEY s MAGAZINE. Though
the weekly had cost me a small fortune it
was worth little or nothing in dollars and
cents as the foundation for a magazine,
but in sentiment it represented all that it
had cost me. I converted it into a maga
zine that I might save it. To have lost
it, with all that it represented to me,
would have been like losing my life.
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE in point of senti
ment, then, started with a great big capital,
and sentiment to some natures is about
as tangible as anything else.

The magazine business was new to me.
I knew nothing of it. All my experience
had been in the weekly field. I started
the magazine at the conventional price of
twenty five cents. I continued it for two
years at this price, and I continued it at
a loss. During this time I studied the
magazine situation pretty thoroughly ; I
studied magazines and I studied the peo
ple. I became convinced that twenty
five cents was too much money for a

222

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

magazine. I saw only one obstacle in the
way of making and marketing a first rate
magazine at ten cents. That obstacle was
the American News Company a colossus
which no one had ever 3 T et been able to
surmount or circumvent.

However, I made so bold as to discuss
the matter with the management of the
American News Compan}* not once, but
half a dozen times. They said that the
idea was preposterous ; that a first rate
magazine could never be published in this
country at ten cents ; that the conditions
of trade were all against it ; that it was
utter folly and nonsense to attempt it.
They did not say in so many words that
no magazine should ever be published in
America at ten cents it was not neces
sary to put it quite so baldly. They held
the entire periodical trade of the country
tightly in their grasp. They were ab
solute dictators in the publishing field.
They made whatever price to the pub
lisher pleased their fancy. There was no
appeal, no opposition, no way to get
around them. It was accept their terms
or abandon the enterprise.

This \vasthesituation when I discussed
the ten cent price with them. Their
ultimatum was that they would pay me
but four and a half cents for my maga
zine. At the close of this final interview I
went to my office, and at once wrote the
American News Company a letter, in
which I said in substance :

The next number the October number of
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE will be issued at ten cents,
the price I have discussed with you. Inasmuch
as there is so wide a difference between the price
you are willing to pay me for the magazine and
what I regard as a right price, there is little like
lihood of our doing business together. Should
you have occasion, however, to fill any orders
for MUXSEY S MAGAZINE, the price to you will
be six and a half cents. Kindly make a note of
this fact.

I then sent out about ten thousand
notices to newsdealers, stating that the
price of MUNSEY S MAGAZINE would be
changed from twenty five cents to ten
cents beginning with the October
number, and that there was little like
lihood that they could get the maga
zine from their news company, but
that it could be had direct from the
publisher at seven cents net in New
York, transportation to be paid by the

dealer. I supplemented this notice with
a good man} personal letters to dealers
whom I happened to know, but the whole
ten thousand circular letters and the per
sonal letters to dealers did not result in
bringing in orders for one hundred copies
of the magazine. Notwithstanding this,
at the end of ten days or two weeks after
my first letter to the American News
Compam r , I wrote them again, saying :

Inasmuch as I am getting up a^good deal better
magazine than I had at first intended, I find that
it will be necessary to make the price to you,
should you have occasion to fill any orders, seven
cents instead of six and a half cents, the price
named in my last letter to 3-011.

M} first letter had received no response ;
iii} second letter received a very prompt
response in the person of a high official
in the American News Company. I was
a good deal surprised at the promptness
of this response. I did not know then
what I know now namely, that the
American News Company had received
orders from dealers from all over the
country for thousands and thousands of
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE at the new price.
This representative from the news com
pany came to make terms with me. He
was a very charming man, and he handled
his commission diplomatically. He said
that we had done business for a good
while together, and that his people were
anxious to avoid any break between us ;
that they had gone over the situation
with great care, and had decided to meet
me on a higher price. I never learned
what that price was. I did not care what
it was. My answer was that the Ameri
can News Company had had a chance to
make terms with me, but that they wanted
it all and had forced me to take the posi
tion I had taken, and having taken it I
thought I would see what there was in it.

I should not wish to give the impres
sion that the management of the Ameri
can News Company are all tj rants. On
the contrary, they are all good fellows-
clever, clean cut business men. But they
stood for a great big monopoly, and in
monopoly there is always t} 7 ranny.
Everything is from the point of view :
With no opposition in the field, and none
possible, oppressive prices were but
natural prices. I make this reference to
the American News Company, not to pic-

GETTING ON IN JOURNALISM.

223

ture them as unnaturally monopolistic,
but to give you a mere suggestion, and
without going into lengthy details only a
mere suggestion can be given, of some of
the difficulties in pioneering the ten cent
magazine.

But the controversy was not alone
with the American News Company.
Every dealer protested at the price. He
said he was buying weekly papers for six
and six and a half cents, and that seven
cents plus transportation for a magazine
meant ruin and an advance all along the
line on weekly papers. He declared he
would not handle MUNSEY S MAGAZINE;
unless he could get it through his news
company as he got his other publications ;
that he would not go to the trouble to
send direct to me for it.

I took no issue with him on these
points. I simply told him what I had
for him and left the rest to the people.
All I had to say I said to the people. I
came out with large, strong advertise
ments in all the daily papers and maga
zines. I told the people what I had for
them. Day after day these advertisements
appeared in the daily press, and each one
stated that MUNSEY S MAGAZINE could be
had from all newsdealers. I knew, of
course, that the magazine was not on sale
at any news stand, but I knew with equal
certainty that it would be on sale at all
news stands. The price and the bold ad
vertising excited curiosity. There was
at once a strong, unyielding demand from
the public. Dealers had to have the
magazine. They wrote to their news
company for it once, twice, three times,
but could get neither magazine nor any
response whatever to their letters. All
orders for MUNSEY S MAGAZINE were
totally ignored. This was the line of
warfare. Finally the dealers came to me
for it.

I had printed as a first edition at the
new price twenty thousand copies. With
no visible market this might have been
regarded as a trifle reckless, but at the
end of ten days I was compelled to go to
press on a second edition. Before the
month was over I printed four editions,
running the circulation up to a total of
forty thousand for October. I printed
sixty thousand for November, one hun
dred thousand for December, one hun

dred and twenty five thousand for Jan
uary, and one hundred and fifty thousand
for February. The circulation bounded
forward at this tremendous pace until a
total of seven hundred thousand was
reached.

This was the beginning of the ten cent
magazine. It was our success in our
effort to deal direct with the trade that
made it possible. At four and a half cents
it was not possible. Somebody would
have had to do just what I did do, or
the people would not be reading a ten
cent magazine today.

As soon as it was demonstrated that I
had won on our lines, then the American
News Company sought to foster opposi
tion, and instead of paying four and a hall
cents, the maximum price they would pay
me, they began paying five and aalf cents
and are today paying from five and a half
cents to perhaps as much as six cents a
copy for ten cent magazines. They pay me
for whatever number they take sevec
cents, the same price at which we sell tc
the retailer seven cents net in New York
This is our price per copy for one copy 01
a million, for the retailer and the whole
saler alike. We are today, as we were at
the outset, our own wholesalers. We
own our own news company, and pay
tribute to no one.

To make the situation more dramatic,
it so happened that during this campaign
I was again writing a serial stor}*-
" Derringforth. " It was appearing in
the magazine. The work on this story,
as on " The Boy Broker, " was midnight
work after long, fierce days at my office.

I wish to say here that it was not the
ten cent price alone that commended
MTJNSEY S MAGAZINE to the people. It
was the magazine itself. The price
merely gave it an audience. Conven
tionality had given place to fresher ideas.
The people saw in it what they wanted,
and they always buy what they want
when they can buy it at a right price,
Ten cents was a right price a wonder, a
marvel, at the time.

That was four years ago. Toda}
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE has a circulation in
excess of the combined circulation of
Harper s, Scribner s, and The Century
multiplied by two, and but for the other
ten cent magazines in the field, all fol-

22 4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

lowers of MUNSEY S and made possible
by reason of MUNSEY S, we should have
more circulation on MUNSEY S alone
than all the other legitimate maga
zines of the country put together.
A single edition of MUNSEY S MAGAZINE
today weighs more than three hundred
tons, and to my best belief we are
the largest consumers of book papers
of any one publishing house in the
world.

From a magazine of about one hundred
reading pages at that time we have grad
ually enlarged it to one hundred and
sixty reading pages. It is now the size
of the thirty five cent magazines. In en
larging the magazine from time to time I
have had two distinct purposes in view :
First, to give more and more, and
always more, for the money ; and second,
to get beyond competition. At one time
ten cent magazines were springing up
everywhere like mushrooms ; they are
not springing up so numerously now.
The road is a bit rocky, and the climb a
bit forbidding.

I did not go into this contest with the
American News Company without due
appreciation of what it meant. I knew
their power, with their millions of capital
and their forty to fifty branches. I knew
the history of the wrecks on the beach
the men who had attempted to ignore
them and deal direct with the trade.

My capital was all on the wrong side
of the ledger, and it was very much on
the wrong side of the ledger. I had been
facing losses great, big, heavy losses
for four, solid, unbroken years, but there
are times when combinations, conditions,
decision, can do what capital cannot do,
and I felt that with the ten cent price,
and with the magazine I had in mind, and
with the experience I had had both in pub
lishing and in business, the combinations
were in my hands which would enable me
to win out. I believed then, as I believe
now, and as I have urged upon you gen
tlemen, I believed in the sober sense of
the people. I relied on them, banked
ever3~ thing on them ; you can rely on
them, bank everything on them.

TIDINGS OF THE PAST.

I THOUGHT as I leaned from my casement,
And felt the wind coolingly blow,

That it blew fresh to me

From far over the sea,
The sea of the long, long ago.

And through the white line of the breakers
Which dashed on the rocks of today
With a dissonant roar,
There came to the shore
A message for me from youth s May ;

That it brought me the tidings I longed for,
Which had in the past been delayed,

Of the days that had flown

Ere their glories were known,
And lost were the splendors displayed.

There came the glad sound of youth s laughter
That followed the e er ready jest,

And the song sung by Love

To a window above
As his heart throbbed with hope in his breast.

But came, too, a feeling of sorrow
Aye, grief follows .joy ! for I know
That the billows now bound
O er my youth, which was drowned
In the sea of the long, long ago.

Wood Levette Wilson.

5E/YTE/1CE

MISCHIEVOUS Cupid, once upon a day,
While looking for a target for his dart,

Caught sight of me, and then to my dismay
Aimed straight and true and pierced me to the
heart.

His wanton cruelty I swore he d rue.

I tried him ; judge and jury both was I ;
And "guilty" was the verdict stern but true;

Without delay I sentenced him to die.

But all my bitter wrath was changed to joy,
When my sweetheart, appealing, took his

part,
And now he s "up for life" the roguish

boy,

Imprisoned here forever in my heart!

D. Z.

14Ff-/

A PORTRAIT STUDY.
From an etching by Pun! C. Hellcn.

A PARISIAN ETCHER.

The clever dry point etchings of Paul C. Helleu, who has made his mark in the French art
of the day by the beauty of his work and its originality of theme and style.

AST spring the French government
purchased from the exhibition of
the National Fine Art Society a painting
that was much talked about by artists.
It was one of three exhibited there by
Paul C. Helleu, all of them showing
views in the grounds of Versailles. The
one the authorities selected was a poetic
treatment of the old pond, given with all
the delicacy of the eighteenth century
feeling the feeling we know in Watteau s
pictures illuminated by the keen intelli
gence which we call essentially modern.
It was painted by a man who, although
still young, has made himself representa
tive of a certain class of art in France.

The National Fine Art Society, whose
exhibition is known as the Salon of the
Champs de Mans, to distinguish it from
the Salon in the Champs Elysees, broke
away from the older bod\- on a question
of aims. In the beginning there was a
good deal of feeling between the two sets,
each of which includes men of first rate
fame ; but as years have gone by, they
have come to see that each has its place.
The difference between the two bodies
might be widelj" defined as the difference
between the romantic and the classical.
The old Salon clings to form, the new to
color. To the new body belong men like
Puvis de Chavannes, who only needs the

" OKI KXDED DIGNITY."

From an etching by rani t". Hcllen.

A PARISIAN ETCHER.

229

CLEMENTINE."

From an ctcliiiig by rani ( . //&lt;//&lt;//.

calm gaze of the future to show him as
great a man as any. Zorn, whose portraits
were one of the sensations of our World s
Fair, and Tissot, widelj r known for his
realistic pictures of the life of Christ, be
long to the 3 ounger society. Helleu, who
was a pupil and friend of Tissot, natur

ally went there as well, although as an
etcher he has the power of both schools.

For several years he has been known in
France for his work in this field, but it
was not until an exhibition of his prints
was given in England, not long ago, that
he became popular outside of his own

" A SCHOOLGIRL.
From an etching fry Paul C. Helleu.

A PARISIAN ETCHER.

231

"IX THE LOUVRE."

l- i-oin an elcliiiig by Paul C. Helle

country. Then the critics, finding him,
as the\ r had found Whistler years before,
a young man who had done a great num
ber of plates, every one with its own
peculiar distinction, called all the world

to come and look at them. They said :
"Here is a modern of moderns, a man
with a new way of looking at the world. "
Nearly all of Helleu s etchings are of
figures, and the character of his work can

232

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

hardl}- be understood without some knowl
edge of his medium. Almost all of it is
what is known as dry point etching.
The dry point is a steel instrument which

upon the copper. Natural!} , where the
needle goes it leaves a tiny, rough ridge
by its side, and this, taking the ink,
prints a velvety black. When the artist

is used for scratching directly upon the desires to give the gray tone which can

" WAITING."

From an etching by Paul C. Hcllcit.

copper plate. It is commonly known to
the casual reader that etching proper is
prodiiced by covering a copper plate with
wax or varnish, drawing the picture upon
this surface, and then using a corrosive
acid to eat away the exposed lines. The
dry point w r as originally used by men
like Rembrandt to enliven and sharpen
their work after the acid had done its
work. Helleu does not touch his plate
with wax or acid, but engraves directly

be so often noticed in Helleu s plates, he
wipes this away.

No work that an artist can do is more
fascinating to a lover of form and bril
liant effect than this. M. Helleu began
it for his own pleasure, and in it has
found fame. He has finished almost a.
hundred plates, any one of which is full
of beauty and style. Working as he
does, rapidly a dry point etching can
be finished like a sketch lie is able to-

PEACE.

233

grasp effects impossible to the painter.
Before he began this work, or at least
before the public was taken into his con
fidence, he had made a great many por
traits in pastel. When he took up etch
ing, he retained the tricks and nianners
of a portrait maker, so that his plates give
you the vivid impression of an individu
ality.

A great deal about the artist is told by
the subjects he selects. He always takes
beautiful, refined interiors, and each of
what we may almost call his characters is
well bred and natural, and possesses all
the spontaneity of an arrested action. He
has a dash which places every one of his
people in the center of an incident. He
is the farthest from the " literary artist,"
the man who must tell a story by
his picture, but he does something a
great deal better. He suggests a thousand
stories, according to the mind of the
looker on.

Notwithstanding its effect of brilliant
style, his work can be analyzed. It is

done by the most approved and solid
methods, the scientific and logical
methods, which command the admiration
of his fellow artists. He is not a trick
ster, with meretricious brilliancy, but a
man whose work will live. His lines are
full of a seeming simplicity, which is in
truth a delicate and most subtle art. His
arrangement of color effects, or what cor
responds to them in these etchings, is as
studied and careful as in a painting. For
example, in the etching reproduced on
page 230, the jar behind the head of the
young girl gleams as softly in its un
touched whiteness as if it had been the
pnxhict of hours of work instead of hours
of thoiight.

Sometimes, in the treatment of detail,
there is a suggestion of Ingres. But
always Helleu is original and full of
charm, not only to the artist, but to the
multitude of people who are not educated
in art, but who, after all, being ignorant
of fads and fashions in art, are the great
jury which gives a man fame.

PEACE.

SHE is forging heavy armor, she is casting mighty guns ;

On the anvils of her sword smiths half a thousand hammers fall ;
From the mother arms that hold them she persuades her noblest sons,

To teach them to be leaders of the legions at her call.

Her ships are on the ocean with her word to all the world ;

Her fortresses are arming, though their fronts are green with turf ;
They fly her gorgeous flag that s now a hundred years unfurled ;

And they speak a common language, on the shore or on the surf.

In her secret laboratories she is toiling day and night ;

She is mixing, grinding, burning, seeking some more deadly force
That shall heed not space nor substance, yet perform her work aright

When she speeds her dreadful messengers of order on their course.

And her smile is on the wheat field, and her promise moves the loom ;

In the miner s humble cabin she sets plenty on the board ;
On the cheeks of budding maidenhood she paints a richer bloom ;

And the miser grows more careless of his closely cherished hoard.

So she makes her children happy, and she smiles when they rejoice ;

But she wastes no hour nor moment, on the gundeck or the field ;
She is busy, busy, busy, and her sweet and gracious voice

Has a ring of sterner purpose than her words have yet revealed.

Love and life and laughter fill our days with sweetness and delight,

While she works and watches, smoothing all the pathways where we plod ;

She will fashion out our future, and we trust it to her might
Like as children trust a mother, for her mission is from God.

Frank Roe Batchclder.

ill-: ANGEL OF DEATH STAYING THE HAND OK THE SCULPTOR.

From a photograph by the Carbon Studio, New York Copyright, 1894, by Daniel Chester French

DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, SCULPTOR.

A typical representative of the younger school of American sculpture French s most notable
statues and monuments, and the striking originality and variety of his work.

JUST out of the city of Boston, amid
the seclusion of Forest Hills Ceme
tery, there stands the most striking
and original piece of sculpture yet created
by an American. Perhaps the youth
whose burial place it marks did not ac
complish his ambition in life, but Martin
Milniore did not live in vain if the world
only remembers him by the monument
over his grave " The Angel of Death
Staying- the Hand of the Sculptor, by
Daniel Chester French.

Martin Milmore was a young- Boston
sculptor whose most notable work was
the Soldiers Monument, which stands on
the Common of his native city. Pos
sessed of a steadily growing talent in his
profession, this artist seemed likely to

attain high rank in the plastic art of his
country. Death, however, stayed his
hand and he dropped his chisel with his
ideals unfulfilled.

A glance at the engraving of the group
on this page shows the feeling and senti
ment of Mr. French s conception, and the
power and beaut3 of the completed work.
The motif of the group is the pathos and
mystery of death. We see the youth full
of virility and enthusiastic in his art.
He is working on a low relief, a sphinx,
the personification of mystery. Then
Death approaches the boy. The sculptor
has not portra3~ed her as a hideous and
dreadful monster. Rather, she comes as
a beautiful woman in full maturity to per
form her allotted and inevitable duty with

DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, SCULPTOR.

2 35

a sense of tender sadness. Her hand But her face is shaded by somber folds of

does not snatch the chisel from the youth, drapery, and its expression, as we can

She tempers the sting of fate with gentle discern it, portrays only the accomplish-

sympatlw. Would that we might know ment of her duty. The dark angel calls

why she calls the worker to a new task, the youth home as the wistful mother

HUilUira

" GALLAUUET AND HIS FIRST DEAF MUTE PUPIL."
From the Gallaudet Monument in M ashington.

236

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

seeks her child ; but whither he is going
we know not.

This memorial to Martin Milmore has
an international reputation. It was ex
hibited in the Paris Salon of 1891, and,
although it was very unfavorably placed,

of his neighbors. The author of "Little
Women" saw the boy s real worth, and
encouraged him in the profession he
would choose. It was at her suggestion
that he entered the Boston School of Fine
Arts. Then }-oung French met J. Q. A.

"PATRIOTISM," "ERIN," AND "POETRY."

From the John Boyle O Reilly Monument in Boston.

it received a gold medal of honor at the
hands of the judges, and the most un
stinted praise from artists and critics, as
it justly deserved.

Mr. French is a New Englander by
birth. At eighteen he went from his
native town, Exeter, New Hampshire, to
the famous old village of Concord, near
Boston, and there he first developed the
idea that he wanted to be a sculptor. lie
was most fortunate in possessing the
close friendship of that friend to all young
people, Miss Louisa Alcott, who was one

Ward, the well known sculptor, and be
came his pupil ; and although he studied
but one month with Mr. Ward, it was
there that he laid the foundation of his
success.

But the desire to accomplish something
great burned within the young artist s
heart. The love he bore his adopted town
of Concord, coupled with the feeling of
patriotism, which had been enhanced by
living amid the scenes of the first struggle
for American freedom, prompted him to
offer as a gift a statue of "The Minute

STATUE OF THOMAS STARK KING, OKATOK AND AUTHOR.
Modeled by Daniel Chester French and erected in San Francisco.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

]

"CHILD ANGELS."
From the Clark Monument, Forest Hills Cemetery, Boston.

Man," to be placed on the very spot gathering of New England people. French
where the shot was fired that was heard had done his work without an} remunera-
round the world." tion, but the people of Concord were so

On his twenty fifth birthday, the statue well pleased with the monument to the
was unveiled before a representative memory of those who fell at the old

bridge, that they voted its designer a
| thousand dollars.

v -^.. i i French went to Florence after this, and

had the good fortune to study under two
of his famous counts-men, Thomas Ball

" INDIAN CORN."
Modeled l&lt;y Daniel Chester French for the Chicago World s Fair.

DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, SCULPTOR.

2 39

and Preston Powers. His foreign studies,
however, were brief. "Altogether," he
says, "I have spent only three years
abroad, and I m proud to say that I m an
American artist."

One day, after Mr. French had returned
home, and had settled in New York, he
was sitting in his studio and reading,
with some amusement, a letter he had
received from an old man in Boston who
wanted him to make a statue. Letters of
this kind come in numbers to well known
sculptors, but when they are answered
with an estimate of the cost of the work
the presumptive clients are seldom heard
from again. Not that sculptors are ex
orbitant, but those who are uninformed in
such matters have very vague ideas as to

door. On its being opened, he saw an
old man, whom he invited in, and asked to
what he could attribute the pleasure of this
call. The aged visitor proved to be the
correspondent from Boston, who had been
asked by Mr. French to come to New York

STATUE OF JOHN HARVARD, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, CAMBRIDGE.
Modeled by Daniel Chester French, and presented to the University by Samuel J. Bridge.

the expense involved, and fail to realize
the far cry between the artist and the
artisan, the genius and the ordinary stone
pointer. Mr. French had replied to his
Boston correspondent, and thought that
negotiations would probably end there ;
but he happened to pick up the letter again ,
and was looking over it when he heard
some one coming slowly up his studio
stairs. Presently the labored footsteps
ceased, and a timid knock came at the

if he really wanted a statue and cared to
pay the price asked.

The sequel to this story is soon tokl.
By the side of Memorial Hall, in Cam
bridge, there is a seated statue of the
founder of the university, John Harvard.
The visitor to Mr. French s studio was
Saniutl J. Bridge, and this was his gift to
his alma mater.

Another of French s statues is of a man
who in his wav was as much of a libera-

240

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

tor as the immortal Lincoln. Dr. Thomas
H. Gallaudet struck the shackles from
our unfortunate fellow creatures whom
fate has sentenced to an earthl}* solitude
the deaf mutes. The work to which this

ANGEL FROM THE CHAPMAN" MEMORIAL, MILWAUKEE.
Modeled by Daniel Chester French.

noble man gave his whole life is splendidh"
immortalized in the group of the teacher
and his first pupil. The master has his
arm about the poor little unfortunate,
and with his other hand is showing her
the letter A of the sign language. The
wistful expression on the child s face
seems to bear with it the eager look of an
explorer who from the heights sees before
him a new country opening to his view.
Five years ago the Chicago World s

Fair showed to the whole world, and to
ourselves, the tremendous plrysical re
sources of our country, and, at the same
time, it proved that America is taking her
proper stand in the arts. To the painter
there was given his due, of course,
but it was the two kindred arts of
architecture and sculpture that
made the White City what it will
ever remain in the minds of all who
saw it, the most beautiful spot
that has been created by man since
the coming of Christianity.

Our native sculptors wrought
many works for the Fair ; and now,
when it has taken its place in
history, and is only an epoch in the
story of America, a few of the statues
which beautified this fair}"land are
fortunately preserved to us. Fore
most among the gems of sculpture
from the great exposition are the
works of Daniel Chester French.
His "Republic" of the Peristyle is
as famous as the Bartholdi statue
in the harbor of New York. The
Columbus Quadriga is another of
Mr. French s most representative
works. Every one remembers the
group Columbus riding in honor
in the chariot, the maidens leading
the horses. The whole work is full
of what the Westerners called
snap and go. At the same time,
it does not lose anj- of the creator s
art of dignified and graceful group
ing and posing of the various
figures.

Four other statues by the same
sculptor stood about the Court of
Honor, and all were much admired.
" Indian Corn, " engraved on page
238, was one of them. The animal
figures in these groups, and in the
Columbus Quadriga, are the work
of Mr. Edward C. Potter, with whose
cooperation Mr. French has had great
success, the one modeling the animals
and the other the human figures.

Another memorial designed by Mr.
French is the Boston monument to the
memory of John Boyle O Reilly, the poet
and man of letters. In this, as in the
relief of " Death and the Sculptor," Mr.
French has created a work of art that will
keep alive the name of O Reilly when the

DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, SCULPTOR.

241

writings of the Irish American litterateur
are read no more.

Thomas Starr King, the well remem
bered citizen of San Francisco, whose war
time oratory and writings did much to
keep alive California s loyalty to the
Union, is the subject of one of Mr.
French s statues, which was set up in his
honor by the Golden Gate City.

Among the notable features of the dec
oration of the new National Libraiy at
Washington is French s statue of
Herodotus. The best artists of America
were called in to beautify this splendid
building, and the resulting works of
architecture, sculpture, and mural paint
ing, grand as the}" are, do not overshadow
the figure of the Father of History, which
by its individuality of pose and handling
discloses the identity of its creator.

The two basreliefs on page 238, repre
senting kneeling child angels, are parts
of the Clark memorial in the Forest Hills
Cemetery. The other angel figure on
page 240 is from the Chapman memorial,
both of which works are French s.

So much for what the artist has accom
plished. A visit to the sculptor s studio
discovers a man on the. bright side of
forty five, who welcomes you with a
genial, quiet manner, and chats about his
new commissions without the .slightest
evidence of pride in his success. His
latest completed work was a statue of
Rufus Choate, which will shortly be un
veiled in Boston. He now has in hand a
monument to Grant, to be erected in Phil
adelphia. Another, to which Mr. Edward
C. Potter will add the strength of his animal
modeling, is the gift to the Paris Exposi
tion of 1900 by the women of America,
an equestrian statue of Washington. Mr.
French is also working upon three bronze
doors for the Boston Public Library, which
will represent nearly life sized figures
of "Wisdom and Knowledge," "Truth
and Fiction, "and " Music and Poetry. "

Finally the sculptor refers to a work
into which he is entering not only with
the interest he takes in all his commis
sions, but with a tender affection for the
man in whose memory the monument is
to be erected, Richard M. Hunt. The
memorial to the famous New York archi
tect will combine architecture and sculp
ture, and Mr. Bruce Price has been chosen

as the sculptor s collaborator. It will be
a notable addition to the public monu
ments of New York.

To the mind of an artist of Mr. French s
temperament this factor, a citv s adorn-

" HERODOTUS."

Modeled by Daniel Chester French for the Con
gressional L ibrary, II "asJiinfton.

ment, is most important. A metropolis
should not bend all its energies to money
getting. Yet we must do something
more than erect schools and colleges,
libraries and museums, for the people s
education and moral advancement. We
must adorn these buildings and our parks
and squares with monuments to the
nation s great, which will inspire in the
American heart a true appreciation of
patriotism and artistic beauty.

AN AMERICAN CATHEDRAL.

BY THE RIGHT REV. HENRY C. POTTER, D.D.,
BISHOP OF NEW YORK.

Bishop Potter points out that America has fine dwelling houses, gorgeous hotels, and huge,
commercial structures, but almost no worthy churches The great cathedral now building in
New York, and what it will stand for in the life of the metropolis.

THE story of
in various
nation is made
For a lonsr time

a nation maybe written

ways; for the life of a

up of many elements.

a great share of any

PORCH AT THK NORTHWEST ENTRANCE.

people s history was to be found in its
wars. In ages when peace and progress
were mainly dependent upon physical
prowess, the records of battles and con
quests, the long and bloody roster of
territory overrun and tribes conquered
and subdued, made up a large part, if not
the largest part, of a nation s annals.
Then, after it had vindicated its rights
to be, it began, first, to till the soil ; and
then to build its houses, and shops,
and then sanctuaries of religion and
philanthropy. The order has not always
been precisely the same, but it is along
lines such as these that civic, munici
pal, national activities have been wont
to move.

It has not been greatly different in
such a nation as ours. The early history
of the founders of the republic was one
of struggle and privation. Out of
savage hands, out of the hard grasp of
adverse conditions of climate and soil,
they snatched their farms and gardens,
and then the} built their modest homes,
and, as characteristic of our more
modern civilization, created their mills
and factories and steam and water
roads. Along with these, but not often
abreast of them, there went the building
of schools and churches ; but for a long
time the schools were very cheap, and
the churches were very plain.

vSo far as the latter were concerned,
there was u ndoubtedly one very potential

AN AMERICAN CATHEDRAL.

243

reason, which has not even now
ceased to be influential, and which
largely explains a bareness and bar
renness of grace and ornament that
in some aspects is almost pathetic.
Our fathers at any rate, the earliest
and the sturdiest of them came to
these shores in a mood of strong recoil
from externalism in religion, of
which, here at any rate, they declared
they would have none. They were
Puritans, they were Quakers, they
were Huguenots ; but whatever they
were, the} r were wear} and impatient
of a conception of religion which
made it to consist largel) T in costly
and splendid ceremonial, and in a
pampered and indolent hierarchy.
From these things, and from every
thing that seemed to them to be
identified with these things, their
revolt was vehement, if not extrav
agant. And so we have, or have
had, in America, whether in Puritan
New England, or Presb} - terian Vir
ginia, or among the Methodists and
Baptists of the South and West, a
certain stern impatience of the deco
rative in church architecture, and of
all, or almost all, that was stately or
splendid or costly in the structure
and adornment of places of worship.

Meantime, a change had been going
on in the land, whose signs today are
manifold on eve^ hand. The wealth
of the nation had grown by leaps
and bounds ; and, not unnaturally,
its first structural manifestations
were in the people s homes. We can
all remember when, in our inland
communities, the first imposing
structure was the dwelling house of
the rich man of the place. In orna
mental and pretentious character
istics, its relative proportions often
eclipsed those of the village meeting
house or the town hall. These were
plain to austerity, and bleak in their
destitution of any structural en
richment.

The advance has moved, since its first
beginnings, and is still moving upon
much the same lines. Foreigners who
have visited this country have been chiefly
impressed, thus far, with our domestic
architecture. In that thev have seen,

ONE BAY OF THli CHOIR.

the} think, very interesting and unique
illustrations of a felicitous adaptabilit}^
to climate and the various conditions of
modern life, and a clever ingrafting of
earlier types of household architecture
upon certain features which are distinctly

?44

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

AN EXTERIOR BUTTRESS.

our own. Grace, substance, utility, and
a presiding good taste have dominated
much that we have done, and have made
it distinctively our own.

Less can be said for our architectural
achievements in other fields, though in
some of these the note of excellence is not
wholly wanting. Buildings dedicated to
the purposes of trade and commerce began
by being ugly, and have proceeded in
many instances only to become huge.
There has been in numerous cases, and
lately more and more conspicuously, a
tendency to costly ornamentation, espe

cially as to their interiors, which
often seems incongruous and some
times vulgar. This is conspicuously
true of buildings where, under our
modern modes of living, families are
herded together in what are known as
apartment houses, and in hotels. In
these latter, in our greater cities, the
strife to excel in glitter and splendor
has been almost grotesque and often
melancholy. For it cannot be denied
that even the temporary housing of
people, the large majority of whom
are wholly unwonted to them, in huge
caravansaries where the marble halls
and corridors, the frescos and hang
ings, and ornaments of even- kind, are
of almost palatial splendor, has edu
cated men and women to impatience
with modest surroundings, to extrav
agance, and to wanton and reckless
living. Some day some thoughtful
person will find it worth while to trace
the story of those who are housed in
palatial hotels, and to show what is
the reflex influence upon them of their
surroundings.

Meanwhile the competition in archi
tectural achievement has affected our
public buildings, though not in so
large a degree nor with such striking
results. The best of them is the late
Mr. Richardson s courthouse in Pitts-
burg, and perhaps Messrs. McKim,
Mead & White s public library in Bos
ton. Some fine collegiate buildings
we have, though here our architectural
glories are not many ; and we have
one or two noble churches not

But as yet religion waits for its
worthy expression in material form,
and has nothing of which we may boast.
\Ve have been too busy or, we may say,
too hard pushed to rear anything note
worthy or memorable for God, though
we have made it up, many people think,
by raising a great many cheap church
buildings, and a great many hospitals,
orphan asylums, and refuges for all sorts
and conditions of halt and blind and
otherwise disabled human beings. These
have not been beautiful, perhaps, but
the} r have been useful ; and it is an open
question with man}- whether they are not
all that we need to build.

AN AMERICAN CATHEDRAL.

2 45

They would be if man were made up higher than I ;" and they never will have

only of brain and body. But the sources an}-. A race without a religion is an in-

of nourishment that feed and succor these conceivable anomaly, and a grotesque

have not thus far proved sufficient for impossibility. There never was one,

looJi^ /v*5r!ri .v & .

rump -

THE CHOIR, SEEN FROM THE CENTER OF THE CATHEDRAL.

humanity ; and they never will. Our there never will be one. Faith in the

splendid homes, our stately libraries, onr Divine Fatherhood, and fellowship in the

costly as3 lums, have no message to that Divine Brotherhood, have made the world

in man which wrung from David the cr}-, what it is today in all its best and most

" Out of the deep have I called unto Thee, benignant attitudes, and, like everything

O I.ord!" " I v ift me to the Rock that is else of enduring value and influence, it

246

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

GROUND PLAN FOR THE CATHKDRAL OF ST. JOHN THE DIVINE, NEW YORK.

must have its visible expression in wor
ship, in creeds, in structures.

And hence the necessity there is no
other word, and I use it advisedly for a
cathedral. Am I misrepresenting what I
may call the public or social manifesta
tions of religion, its organized expression,
as it widely prevails among iis, when I
say that the church, in the popular con
ception, consists mainly of a huge audi
torium, with a platform and a more or
less dramatic performer, and a congrega

tional parlor, and a parish kitchen ? I
recognize cordially the earnest purpose to
get hold of people out of which most of
this has come. But it is well to recognize
something else, and that is that religion
has never survived anywhere without the
due recognition and conservation of the
instinct of worship. That lies at the
basis of it, always and everywhere. First
there must be something that moves us
to that upward reaching thought out of
which comes penitence, and praj er, and

* ^jy & ^xesK

THE CHOIR, WHICH IS TO BE COMPLETED FIRST.

AN AMERICAN CATHEDRAL.

247

faith, and all the rest. But a diet kitchen
will not do that, nor anything that ap
peals onl}- to the utilitarian side of life.

I appeal to any candid experience
whether there is not, on the other hand,
something else that does. I ask those
who remember Rouen, or Durham, or
Salisbury, whether, when first they en
tered some such noble sanctuar}^, there
was not that in its proportions, its ar
rangements, its whole atmosphere,
which made it, in a sense that it had
never been before, their impulse to kneel ?
We ma}- protest that this is mere re
ligious estheticism, and in one sense it
is ; but until we have divorced the soul
and the body, the eye and the mind,
the imagination and the senses, we can
not leave it out of account.

We Americans are said to be the most
irreverent people in the world, and of the
substantial truth of that accusation
there cannot be the smallest doubt. But
did it ever occur to us to ask how it has
come about ? It is time to stop talking
about the influence of Puritan traditions
to descendants who are so remote from
those traditions as to be unable to dis
tinguish between the austerity that
hated ceremonialism, and the debonair
indifferentism that dismisses the simplest
elements of religious decorum.

We have little reverence because we
have but a poor environment in which
to learn it. The vast majority of church
buildings in America are utterly un-
suggestive of the idea of worship. There
is nothing in them to hush speech, to
uncover the head, to bend the knee.
And, as a matter of fact, they were
designed for nothing of the sort. They
are expedients devised for a certain use,
and that use is one which, under any
honest construction of it, involves an
utterly fragmentary conception of the
Christian religion.

Surely about one thing there can be
no doubt, and that is that the noblest
ideas should have the noblest expres
sion. But what are the noblest ideas
if they are not those which ally man to a
nobler and diviner future ? It is in vain
that a clever skepticism comic and, for
sooth, textually critical in the latest and
noisiest exhibition of it among us it is in
vain that such a skepticism dispenses

A STAIRCASE TURRKT.

with God, and tells us that it has looked
into the bottom of the analytical chemist s
crucible and found no soul. Out from the
despair of the present the heart travels as
by a mathematical law along the ascend-

248

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ing arc of faith until it reaches the vision
of the kingdom that is to be. And the
witness of that kingdom its visible ex
pression in stone and color, in form and
dimensions, in position and dignity is
that not of the smallest possible conse
quence, while yon are taking infinite
pains with your child s bedroom that it

effect, let us have churches which are
cheap expedients, and that in the poverty
of their every attribute express the poverty
of our conceptions of reverence, of majesty,
of worship. But let us build our own
palaces as if, indeed, we ourselves were
kings."

I submit that in such a situation the ca-

v &gt;^ m

GENERAL VIEW OK THE CATHEDRAL, FROM THE SOUTHWEST.

shall have its face to the sun, or with
your stables that they shall be well
drained ?

There is something, when we stop to
think of it, in the relative cost and thought
that men spend on the places in which
they sleep, and eat, and lounge, and
trade on a club, a hotel, a theater, a
bank on the one hand, and on a house
for the worship of the Arbiter of one s
eternal destiny on the other, which must
strike an angel, if he is capable of such
an emotion, with a sense of pathetic
humor. And we are, many of us, so en
tirely clear about it. " Yes, " we say in

thedral, instead of being an anachronism,
is a long neglected witness which we may
sorely need. The greatest ages of the
world, the greatest nations of the world,
have not been those that built only for
their own comfort or amusement ; and it
is simply inevitable that a great idea
meanly housed, and meanly expressed in
those forms in which we express reverence
for our heroes and love for our dead, and
loyalty to ovir country in which, in a
word, we express toward our best and
greatest among our fellow men, or toward
human institutions, veneration and affec
tion and patriotism it is inevitable, I

AN AMERICAN CATHEDRAL.

249

say, that a great idea thus meanly
treated will come to be meanly esteemed.

We are fond of speaking, on the one
hand, of what is archaic and superannu
ated, and of our cisatlantic wants and
conditions as being, on the other hand,
somehow absolutely unique and excep
tional. But they are not. America wants,
I suppose, honestj r and integrity and
faith quite as nuich, and indeed rather
more, than she wants electric railvva3 s
and a protective tariff. And if so, she
wants the visible institutions which at
once testify to and bear witness of these
things, and that in their most majestic
and convincing proportions.

It would be an interesting question, if
a foreigner were asked where in America
he had seen any visible structure which
impressively witnessed to religion, and
which compared worthily with the enor
mous buildings reared for other purposes,
or with similar structures in other lands
it would be interesting, I repeat, if some
what humiliating, to hear what he would
say. For, in fact, there are not five
church edifices in the United States
which for dignity, monumental gran
deur, and nobility of conception or pro
portion are worthy of being mentioned.
And it would seem to be worth while to
consider whether, the country having
spent the first four hundred years of its
existence in making itself extremel}- rich
and extremely comfortable, it might not
be well to set about building at least
one noble structure which did not weave,
or print, or mold, or feed, or lodge, save
as it wove the garment of an immortal
hope, and fed, and formed, and housed
those creatures of a yet loftier destiny who
are immortal. In one word, it can hardly
be urged that a cathedral is out of date
until it is admitted that it is out of date
to believe in God and to worship Him.

The illustrations which accompany this
article will help to tell to the eye some
thing of one effort which is making, in
the city of New York, to give visible
expression to that belief and worship.
Within the past few years three blocks of
land have been secured and paid for, near
the northwest corner of the Central Park,
lying between One Hxindred and Tenth
and One Hundred and Thirteenth Streets,

and between Amsterdam Avenue and
Morningside Park, for this purpose. It
is a site of preeminent dignity and ample
proportions, overlooking the whole city,
and yet close to those " Harlem flats, " as
our fathers called them, which are likely
one day to be, with their vast apartment
houses already accumulating upon them,
the most dense!} 7 populated portion of the
city. On this site, excavations have
been made for the Choir and Tower,
and the walls of these are slowly rising
into space. The architects of the struc
ture are Messrs. Heins & La Farge, and
their vast and impressive designs the
building will be between four and five
hundred feet in length have won wide
recognition and appreciation.

They do not depart radically from the
accepted norm or type of a cathedral, and
yet they include features of individual
and original interest. In accordance with
a suggestion of the writer, seven Chapels
of Tongues will surround the great Choir,
in which on each Lord s Day will be a
service in seven different langxtages ; so
that the stranger and the foreigner may
worship " in his own tongue wherein he
was born, " until, as it were, over that
bridge he passes into the great cathedral
itself, to join there in the worship and
tongue of his adopted land.

In this connection, the wide grounds of
the cathedral will afford a breathing and
resting place for mothers and their chil
dren, workmen and their wives, and all
others who may come up out of the more
crowded life of the great city below them.
In the midst of that, in its most con
gested neighborhood, already stands the
pro cathedral, with its schools, gym
nasium, community house, and other
agencies for reaching and helping the
manifold life about it. For, for these
supremely the people, all of them, of
whatever kindred and tongue and condi
tion who will turn their feet thitherward
the new cathedral is rising, to be, so far
as it may, the worthy and enduring wit
ness of Him Who came to transform and
ennoble human society, and Who, speak
ing through His first disciples to all men
everywhere has .said : "Come unto me
I will give you rest ;" and "All ye are
brethren ! "

Henry C. Potter.

THE CASTLE INN.*

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Mr. Weyman, whose "Gentleman of France" created a new school of
historical romance, has found in the England of George ffl a field for a story
that is no less strong in action, and much stronger in its treatment of the
human drama of character and emotion, than his tales of French history.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

IN the spring of 1767, on bis way from Bath, L,ord Chatham, the great English statesman, stops
at the Castle Inn, at Marlborough, where he is detained by an attack of the gout. While here he
sends for Sir George Soane, a young knight who has squandered his fortune at the gaming tables,
to inform him that a claimant has appeared for the ^"50,000 which were left with him by his grand
father in trust for the heirs of his uncle Anthony Soane, and which, according to the terms of the
will, would have become Soane s own in nine months more. Sir George ar-ives in time to find
Lady Dunl orough, the mother of a man whom he has recently wounded in a duel, vehemently
denouncing as impostors a party of three who have taken possession of Soane s rooms. Sir George
recognizes them as Julia Masterson, a young girl reputed to be the daughter of a dead college
servant at Oxford, her mother, and an attorney named Fishwick, who once rendered some slight
professional services to him. Though ignorant of the cause of their presence, the shrewish vis
countess is repugnant to him, so, to her great disgust, he sides with the humbler travelers, and
relinquishes his rooms to them.

As if to annoy Lady Dunborough still further, her son now comes to the Castle in search of Julia,
of whom he is deeply enamored, and her attempted interference so enrages him that, when he
finally secures speech with the girl and she refuses him, he vows he will carry her off by force. In
the mean time, ignorant that she is the mysterious claimant and his uncle s heir, Soane also falls
in love with Julia, and asks her to be his wife ; but she tells him that she will give him her
answer on the morrow. Sir George goes to his estates at Estcombe in the early morning, and when
he returns to the Castle he finds the house in an uproar, for the girl has been abducted. Then, foi
the first time, Soaue learns who Julia is and why she is there. To avert suspicion from her son,
Lady Dunborough strives to have Sir George detained, but her efforts prove futile, and accompanied
by his servant and Mr. Fishwick, the young knight sets out in pursuit. A clue lie finds indicates that
the abductors are making for Bristol, and they follow the road in that direction, drawing rein in
Chippenham.

XVIII (Continued). and helpers paused to listen, or stared at the

heaving flanks of the riders horses " did

A COACH one of the night coaches we meet a closed chaise and four tonight?"

out of Bristol was standing before " We met a chaise and four at Cold As-

the inn at Chippenham, the horses ton," the guard answered, ruminating,

smoking, the lamps flaring cheerfully, a " But twas Squire Norris of Sheldon, and

crowd round it; the driver had just unbuck- there was no one but the squire in it. And

led his reins and flung them either way. a chaise and four at Marshfield, but that was

Sir George pushed his horse up to the splin- a burying party from Batheaston, going

ter bar and hailed him, asking where he had home very merry. No other, closed or

met a closed chaise and four, traveling Bris- open, that I can mind, sir, this side of Dun-

tol way at speed. geon Cross, and that is but two miles out of

" A closed chaise and four? " the man Bristol."

answered, looking down at the pafty; and "They are an hour and a half in front of

then, recognizing Sir George, "I beg your us!" Sir George cried eagerly. "Will a

honor s pardon," he said. " Here, Jere- guinea improve your memory? "

my " to the guard, while the stable man " Aye, sir, but twon t make it," the coach-

* Copyright, i8q8, by Stanley J. Vl eyman.

THE CASTLE INN.

251

man answered, grinning. " Jeremy is right.
I mind no others. What will your honor
want with them? "

" They have carried off a young lady,"
Mr. Fish wick cried shrilly " Sir George s
kinswoman! "

" To be sure!" ejaculated the driver, amid
a murmur of astonishment; and the crowd,
which had grown rapidly since their arrival,
pressed nearer to listen. " Where from,
sir, if I may make so bold? "

" From the Castle at Marlborough."

" Dear me, dear me, there is audacious
ness! If you like! And you ha followed
them so far, sir? "

Sir George nodded, and turned to the
crowd. " A guinea for news! " he cried.
" Who saw them go through Chip n am?"

He had not long to wait for the answer.
" They never went through Chip n am,"
hiccuped a thick voice from the rear of the
press.

" They came this way out of Calne," Sir
George retorted, singling the speaker out,
and signing to the people to make way so
that he might get at him.

" Aye, but they never came to Chip
n am," the fellow answered, leering at him
with drunken wisdom. " D you see that,
master?"

" Which way, then?" Soane cried impa
tiently. " Which way did they go? "

But the man only lurched a step nearer.

That s telling!" he said, with a beery
smile. " You want to be as wise as I be!"

Jeremy, the guard, seized him by the col
lar and shook him. " You drunken fool!"
he said, " d ye know that this is Sir George
Soane of Estcombe? Answer him, you
swine, or you ll be in the cage in a one,
two! "

" You let me be! " the man whined, strug
gling to release himself. " It s no business
of yours. Let me be, master! "

Sir George raised his whip in his wrath;
but he lowered it again with a groan. " Can
no one make him speak?" he said, looking
round. The man was staggering and lurch
ing to and fro in the guard s grasp.

" His wife, but she is to Marshfield, nurs
ing her sister," answered one. " But give
him his guinea, Sir George. Twill save
time, maybe."

Soane flung it to him. " There ! " he said.
" Now speak! "

" That sh better! " the man muttered.
" That s talking! Now I ll tell you. You
go back to Devizes corner corner of the
road to De-vizes you you understand?
There was a car-car-carriage there without
lights an hour back. It was waiting under
the hedge. I saw it and I I know what s
what! "

Sir George flung a guinea to the guard,
and wheeled his horse about. In the act of
turning his eye fell on the lawyer s steed,
which, chosen for sobriety rather than stay
ing powers, was on the point of foundering.
"Get another," he cried; " and follow! "

Mr. Fishwick uttered a wail of despair.
To be left to follow to follow alone, in the-
dark, through unknown roads, with scarce a
clue, and on a strange horse the prospect
might have appalled a hardier man. Fortu
nately he was saved from it by Sir George s
servant, a stolid, silent man, who might be
warranted to ride twenty miles without
speaking. " Here, take mine, sir," he said.
I must stop to get a lanthorn; we shall
need one now. Do you go with his honor."

Mr. Fishwick slid down and was hoisted
into the other s saddle. By the time this was
done Sir George was almost lost in the
gloom at the farther end of the street. But
anything rather than be left behind, so the
lawyer laid on his whip in a way that would
have astonished him a few hours before, and
overtook his leader as he emerged from the
town. They rode without speaking, until
they had retraced their steps to the foot of
the hill and could discern a little higher on
the ascent the turn for Devizes.

It is possible that Sir George hoped to find
the chaise still lurking in the shelter of the
hedge, for as he rode up to the corner he
drew a pistol from his holster and took his
horse by the head. If so, he was disap
pointed. The moon had risen so high that
its cold light disclosed the whole width of
the roadway, leaving no place in which even
a dog could lie hidden. Nor, as far as the
eye could travel along the pale strip of road
that ran southward, was there any move
ment or sign of life.

Sir George dropped from his saddle and,
stooping, sought for proof of the toper s
story. He had no difficulty in finding it.
There were the deep, narrow ruts which the
wheels of a chaise long stationary had made
in the turf at the side of the road, and south
of them was a plat of poached ground w 7 here
the horses had stood and shifted their feet
uneasily. He walked forward, and by the
moonlight traced the dusty indents of the
wheels until they exchanged the sward for
the hard road. There they were lost in
other tracks, but the inference was plain.
The chaise had gone south to Devizes.

For the first time Sir George felt the full
horror of uncertainty. He climbed into his
saddle and sat looking across the waste with
eyes of misery, asking himself whither and
for what! Whither had they taken her, and
why? The Bristol road once left, his theory
was at fault; he had no clue, and presently
felt, where time was life and more than life,

252

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the slough of horrible conjecture rise to his
very lips.

Only one thing, one certain thing, re
mained the road; the pale ribbon running
southwards under the stars. He must cling
to that. The chaise had gone that way, and
though the double might be no more than a
trick to throw pursuers off the trail, though
the first dark lane, the first roadside tavern,
the first solitary farm house, might swallow
the unhappy girl and the wretches who had
her in their power, what other clue had he?
What other chance but to track the chaise
that way, though every check, every minute
of uncertainty, of thought, of hesitation and
a hundred such there must be in a tithe of
the miles racked him with fears and dread
ful surmises?

There was no other. The wind sweeping
across the downs on the western extremity
of which he stood, looking over the lower
ground about the Avon brought the dis
tant howl of a dog to his ears, and chilled his
blood heated with riding. An owl beating
the fields for mice sailed overhead; a hare
rustled through the fence. The stars above
were awake; in the intense silence of the up
land he could almost hear the great spheres
throb as they swept through space! But the
human world slept; and while it slept what
work of darkness might not be doing? That
scream, shrill and ear piercing, that sud
denly rent the night thank God, it was only
a rabbit s death cry, but it left the sweat on
his brow. After that he could, he would,
wait for nothing and no man! Lanthorn or
no lanthorn, he must be moving. He raised
his whip, then let it fall again as his ear
caught far away the first faint hoof beats of
a horse traveling the road at headlong
speed.

The sound was very distant at first, but it
grew rapidly, and presently filled the night.
It came from the direction of Chippenham.
Mr. Fishwick, who had not dared to inter
rupt his companion s calculations, heard the
sound with relief; and looking for the first
gleam of the lanthorn, wondered how the
servant, riding at that pace, kept it alight,
and whether the man had news that he gal
loped so furiously. But Sir George sat ar
rested in his saddle, listening, listening in
tently, until the rider was within a hundred
yards or less. Then, as his ear told him that
the horse s speed was slackening, he seized
Mr. Fishwick s rein and, backing their
horses nearer the hedge, again drew a pistol
from his holster.

The startled lawyer discerned what he did,
looked in his face, and saw that his eyes were
glittering with excitement. But having no
ear for hoof beats Mr. Fishwick did not him
self understand what was afoot until the rider

appeared at the road end and, coming plump
upon them, drew rein.

Then Sir George s voice rang out, grim
and ominous. " Good evening, Mr. Dun-
borough," he said and raised his hat,
" Well met! We are traveling the same
road and, if you please, will do the rest of
our journey together."

XIX.

UNDER the smoothness of Sir George s
words, under the subtle mockery of his man
ner, throbbed a volcano of passion and ven
geance. But this was for the lawyer only,
even as he alone saw the faint gleam of
moonlight on the pistol barrel that lurked
behind his companion s thigh. For Mr.
Dunborough, it were hard to imagine a man
more completely taken by surprise. He
swore one great oath, for he saw at least that
the meeting boded him no good; then he
sat motionless in his saddle, his left hand
on the pommel, his right held stiffly by his
side. The moon, which of the two hung a
little at Sir George s back, shone only on the
lower part of Dunborough s face, and by
leaving his eyes in the shadow of his hat
gave the others to conjecture what he would
do next. It is probable that Sir George,
whose hand and pistol were ready, was in
different; perhaps he would have hailed with
satisfaction an excuse for vengeance. But
Mr. Fishwick, the pacific witness of this
strange meeting, awaited the issue with star
ing eyes, his heart in his mouth, and he was
not a little relieved when the silence, which
the heavy breathing of Mr. Dunborough s
horse did but intensify, was broken on the
last comer s side by nothing worse than a
constrained laugh.

" Travel together? " he said, with an awk
ward assumption of jauntiness. " That de
pends on the road we are going."

" Oh, we are going the same road," Sir
George answered, in the mocking tone he
had used before.

" You are very clever," Mr. Dunborough
retorted, striving to hide his uneasiness,
" but if you know that, sir, you have the ad
vantage of me."

" I have," said Sir George; and laughed
rudely.

Dunborough stared, finding in the other s
manner fresh ground for misgiving. At last.
" As you please," he said contemptuously.
"I am for Calne. The road is public."

" We are not going to Calne," said Sir
George.

Mr. Dunborough swore. " You are
damned impertinent! " he said, reining back
his horse. " And may go to the devil your
own way. For me, I am going to Calne."

THE CASTLE INN.

2 53

" No," said Sir George, " you are not
going to Calne. She has not gone Calne
way."

Mr. Dunborough drew in his breath
quickly. Hitherto lie had been uncertain
what the other knew, and how far the meet
ing was accidental; now, forgetful of what
his words implied and anxious only to say
something that might cover his embarrass
ment, " Oh," he said, " you are you are
going in search of her? "

" Yes," said Sir George mockingly; we
are going in search of her. And we want
to know where she is."

" Where she is? "

" Yes, where she is. That is it: where she
is. You were to meet her here, you know.
You are late and she has gone; but you will
know whither."

Mr. Dunborough stared; then in a tem
pest of wrath and chagrin, " Curse you! " he
cried furiously. " As you know so much,
you can find out the rest! "

" I could," said Sir George slowly; " but
I prefer that you should help me. And you
will."

"Will what?"

" Will help me, sir! " Sir George answered
quickly " to find the lady we are seeking."

" I ll be hanged if I will! " cried Dunbor
ough, raging.

" You ll be hanged if you won t," said Sir
George, in a changed tone; and he laughed
contemptuously hanged by the neck until
you are dead, Mr. Dunborough if money
can bring it about. You fool ! " he continued,
with a sudden flash of the ferocity that had
all along underlain his sarcasm. " We have
got enough from your own lips to hang
you; and if more be wanted your people will
peach on you. You have put your neck into
the halter, and there is only one way, if one,
in which you can take it out. Think, man,
think before you speak again." he continued
savagely; " for my patience is nearly at an
end, and I would sooner see you hang than
not! And look you, leave your reins alone,
for if you try to turn, by God, I ll shoot you
like the dog you are! "

Whether he thought the advice good or
bad, Mr. Dunborough took it, and there was
a long silence. In the distance the hoof
beats of the servant s horse, approaching
from the direction of Chippenham, broke the
stillness of the moonlit country; but round
the three men who sat motionless in their
saddles, glaring at one another and awaiting
the word for action, was a kind of barrier, a
breathlessness born of expectation. At
length Dunborough spoke.

" What do you want? " he said in a low
tone, his voice confessing his defeat. " If
she is not here, I do not know where she is."

" That is for you," Sir George answered,
with a grim coolness that astonished Mr.
Fishwick. " It is not I who will hang if
aught happen to her."

Again there was silence. Then in a voice
choked with rage Mr. Dunborough cried,
" But if I do not know?"

" The worse for you," said Sir George.
He was sorely tempted to put the muzzle of
a pistol to the other s head and risk all. But
he fancied that he knew his man and that in
this way only could he be effectually cowed,
and he restrained himself.

" She should be here that is all I know.
She should have been here," Mr. Dunbor
ough continued sulkily, " at eight."

" Why here? "

" The fools would not take her through
Chippenham without me. Now you know."

" It is ten now."

" Well, curse you ! " the younger man an
swered, flaring up again, " could I help it if
my horse fell? Do you think I should be
sitting here to be rough ridden by you if it
were not for this? " He raised his right
arm, or rather his shoulder, with a stiff
movement; they saw that the arm was bound
to his side. " But for that, she would be in
Bristol by now," he continued disdainfully;
" and you might whistle for her. But, Lord,
here is a pother about a college wench!

" She is Sir George Soane s cousin! " cried
the lawyer, scarcely controlling his indigna
tion in the wretch s presence.

" And rny promised wife," Sir George
said, with grimness.

Dunborough cried out in his astonish
ment. " It is a lie!" he said.

" As you please," Sir George answered.

At that a chill such as he had never known
before gripped Mr. Dunborough s heart. He
had thought himself in an unpleasant fix be
fore, and that to escape scot free he must
eat humble pie with a bad grace; but on this
a secret terror, such as sometimes takes pos
session of a bold man who finds himself help
less and in peril, seized on him. Given arms
and the chance to use them he would have
led the forlornest of hopes, charged a bat
tery, or fired a magazine. But the species
of danger in which he now found himself
with a gallows and a silk rope in prospect,
his fate to be determined by the very scoun
drels he had hired shook even his obsti
nacy. He looked about him; the servant had
come up with his lanthorn, and was waiting
a little apart.

Mr. Dunborough found his lips dry, his
throat husky. " What do you want? " he
muttered, his voice changed. " I have told
you all I know. Likely enough they have
taken her back to get themselves out of the
scrape."

254

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" They have not," said the lawyer. " We
have come that way, and must have met
them."

" They may be in Chippenham."

" They are not. We have inquired."

" Then they must have taken this road.
Curse you, don t you see that I cannot get
out of my saddle to look?" he continued
ferociously.

" They have gone this way. Have you
any devil s shop down the road?" Sir George
asked, signing to the servant to draw up.

" Not I."

" Then, we must track them. If they
dared not face Chippenham, they will not
venture through Devizes. It is possible that
they are making for Bristol by crossroads.
There is a bridge over the Avon at Leek-
ham, somewhere on our right, and a road to
it through Pewsey Forest."

" That will be it! " cried Mr. Dunborough,
slapping his thigh. " That is their game,
depend upon it! "

Sir George did not answer him, but
nodded to the servant. " Go on with the
light," he said. " Try every turning for
wheels, but lose no time. This gentleman
will accompany us, but I will wait on him."

The man obeyed quickly, the lawyer going
with him. The other two brought up the
rear; and in that order they started, riding
in silence. For a mile or more the servant
held the road at a steady trot; then, signing
to those behind him to halt, he pulled up at
the mouth of a by road leading westwards
from the highway. He moved the light once
or twice across the ground, and cried that
the wheels had gone that way; then got
briskly to his saddle again and swung along
the lane at a trot, the others following in
single file, Sir George last.

So far they had maintained a fair pace, and
lost little time. But the party had not pro
ceeded a quarter of a mile along the lane
before the scene changed; the trot became a
walk. Clouds had come over the face of the
moon; the night had grown very dark. The
riders were no longer on the open downs,
but in a miry, narrow by road, running across
wastes and through low coppices, the ground
sloping gently to the Avon. In one place
the track was so closely shadowed by trees
as to be as dark as a pit. In another it tan,
unfenced and scarcely traceable, across a
fen studded with water pools, whence
startled ducks squattered up unseen. Every
where they stumbled; once a horse fell.
Over such ground, founderous and scored
knee deep with ruts, it was plain that no
wheeled carriage could move quickly; and
the pursuers had this to cheer them. But
the darkness of the night, no less than the
dreary glimpses of wood and water which

everywhere met the eye when the moon for
a moment emerged, the solitude of this
marshy tract, the absence of house or village,
the gloomy plash of the horses feet, the very
moaning of the wind among the trees, sug
gested ideas and misgivings which Sir
George strove in vain to suppress. They
would recur and beset him. Why had the
scoundrels gone this way? Were they really
bound for Bristol, or for some den of vil
lainy, some thieves house or low tavern, in
the old forest?

At times these fears stung him out of all
patience; and he cried to the man with the
light to go faster, faster! Again, the whole
seemed unreal, the dragging, wearying pur
suit a nightmare; and the shadowy woods
and gleaming water pools, the gurgling
noises of the marsh, the stumbling horses,
the fear, the danger, all grew to be the crea
tures of a disordered fancy. It was an im
mense joy to him when, at the end of an
hour and a half of this anxious plodding the
lawyer cried, "The road! The road!" and
one by one the riders emerged with grunts
of relief on a sound causeway that appeared
to run in the same general direction. To
make sure that the pursued had nowhere
evaded them, the tracks of the chaise wheels
were sought and found; and forward the
four went again, the heart of one, at least,
lighter in his breast. Presently they plunged
through a ford, a mill race roaring in the
darkness on their left; then they rode a mile
through the gloom of an oak wood, a part
no doubt of old Pewsey. But, this passed ;
they were on Leckham bridge almost before
they knew it, and across the Avon, and
mounting the slope on the other side by
Leckham church.

There were houses abutting on the road
here, black overhanging masses against a
gray sky, and the riders looked, wavered,
and drew rein. Before any spoke, however,
an unseen shutter creaked open, and a voice
from the darkness cried, " Hallo! "

Sir George found speech to answer.
" Yes," he said. " What is it? " The law
yer was out of breath, and clinging to the
mane in sheer weariness.

" Be you after a chaise driving to the
devil? "

" Yes, yes," Sir George answered eagerly.
" Has it passed, my man? "

" Aye, sure, Corsham way, for Bath most
like. I knew twould be followed. Is t a
murder, gentlemen?"

" Yes," Sir George cried hurriedly, " and
worse! How far ahead are they? "

" About half an hour, no more, and whip
ping and spurring as if the old one was after
them. My old woman s sick, and the apoth
ecary from

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255

" Is it straight on? "

" Aye, to be sure, straight on and the
apothecary from Corsham, as I was saying,
he said, said he, as soon as he saw her "

But his listeners were away again; the old
man s words were lost in the scramble and
clatter of the horses shoes as they sprang
forward up the hill. In a moment the still
ness and the dark shapes of the houses were
exchanged for the open country, the rush
of wind in the riders faces, and the pound
ing of hoofs on the hard road. For a brief
while the sky cleared and the moon shone
out, and they rode as easily as in the day.
At the pace at which they were now moving
Sir George calculated that they must come
up with the fugitives in an hour or less; but
the reckoning was no sooner made than the
horses, jaded by the heavy ground through
which they had straggled, began again to
flag and droop their heads. The pace grew
less and less; and though Sir George
whipped and spurred, Corsham Corner was
reached, and Pickwick village, on the Bath
road, and still they saw no chaise ahead.

It was now past midnight, and it seemed
to some that they had been riding an eter
nity; yet even these roused at sight of the
great western highway. The night coaches
had long gone eastwards, and the road, so
busy by day, stretched before them dim,
shadowy, and empty, as solitary in the dark
ness as the remotest lane. But the knowl
edge that Bath lay at the end of it and no
more than nine miles away and that there
they could procure aid, fresh horses, and
willing helpers, put new life even into the
most weary. Even Mr. Fishwick, now
groaning with fatigue and now crying, " Oh,
dear! Oh, dear! " as he bumped in a way
that at another time must have drawn laugh
ter from a stone, took fresh heart of grace;
while Sir George settled down to a dogged
jog that had something ferocious in its de
termination. If he could not trot, he would
amble; if he could not amble, he would walk;
if his horse could not walk, he would go on
his feet. He still kept eye and ear bent for
ward; but in effect he had given up hope of
overtaking the quarry before it reached
Bath, and was taken by surprise when the
servant, who rode first and had eased his
horse to a walk at the foot of Haslebury Hill,
drew rein and cried to the others to listen.

For a moment the heavy breathing of the
four horses covered all other sounds. Then
in the darkness and the distance, as if on the
summit of the rise before them, a wheel
creaked as it grated over a stone. A few
seconds and the sound was repeated; then all
was silent. The chaise had passed over the
crest and was descending the other side.

Oblivious of everything except that Julia

was now within his reach, forgetful even of
Dunborough, by whose side he had steadily
ridden all night in silence, but with many a
look askance Sir George drove his horse
forward, scrambled and trotted desperately
up the hill, and, gaining the summit a score
of yards in front of his companions, crossed
the brow and drew rein to listen. He had
not been mistaken. He could hear the
wheels creaking and the wheelers stumbling
and slipping in the darkness below him; and
with a cry he launched his horse down the
descent.

Whether the people with the chaise heard
the cry or not, they appeared to take the
alarm at the same moment. He heard a
whip crack, the carriage bound forward, the
horses break into a reckless canter. But if
they recked little, he recked less; already he
was plunging down the hill after them, his
beast almost pitching on its head with every
stride. The huntsman knows, however, that
many stumbles go to a fall. The bottom was
gained in safety by both, and across the flat
they went, the chaise bounding and rattling
behind the scared horses. Now Sir George
had a glimpse of the black mass through the
gloom, now it seemed to be gaining on him,
now it was gone, and now again he drew up
to it and the dim outline bulked bigger and
plainer, and bigger and plainer, until he was
close upon it, and the cracking whips and
the shouts of the postboys rose above the
din of hoofs and wheels. The carriage was
swaying perilously, but Sir George saw with
a cry of triumph that the ground was rising,
and that up the hill he must win; and, taking
his horse by the head, he lifted it on by sheer
strength until his stirrup was abreast of the
hind wheels. A moment, and he made out
the bobbing figure of the leading postboy,
and, drawing his pistol, cried him to stop.

The answer was a blinding flash of light
and a shot. Sir George s horse swerved to
the right, and, plunging headlong into the
ditch, flung its rider six paces over its head.

The servant and Mr. Dunborough were no
more than forty yards behind him when he
fell; and in five seconds the man had sprung
from his saddle, let his horse go, and was at
his master s side. There were trees there,
and the darkness in the shadow where Sir
George lay across the roots of one of them
was intense. The man could not see his
face, nor how he lay, nor if he was injured;
and calling and getting no answer, he took
fright and cried to Mr. Dunborough to get
help.

But Mr. Dunborough had ridden straight
on without pausing or drawing rein; and
finding himself deserted, the man wrung his
hands in terror. He had only Mr. Fishwick
to look to now, and he was still some way

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

behind. Trembling, the servant knelt and
groped for his master s face; to his joy,
before he had found it, Sir George gasped,
moved, and sat up, and, muttering an inco
herent word or two, in a minute had suffi
ciently recovered himself to rise with help.
He had fallen clear of the horse on the edge
of the ditch, and the shock had taken his
breath; otherwise he was more shaken than
hurt

As soon as his wits and wind came back
to him, " Why why have you not fol
lowed? " he gasped.

" Twill be all right, sir; all right, sir," the
servant answered, thinking only of him.

"But after them, man, after them! Where
is Fishwick? "

" Coming, sir, he is coming," the man an
swered, to soothe him, and remained where
he was. Sir George was still so shaken that
he could not stand alone, and the servant did
not know what to think. " Are you sure
you are not hurt, sir?" he continued anx
iously.

" No, no! And Mr. Dunborough? Is

" He went on after them, sir."

" Went on after them? "

" Yes, sir; he did not stop."

"He has gone on after them?" Sir

George cried. " But " and with that

word it flashed on him, and on the servant,
and on Mr. Fishwick, who had just jogged
up and dismounted, what had happened.
The carriage and Julia Julia still in the
hands of her captors were gone. And with
them was gone Mr. Dunborough! Gone
far out of hearing, for as the three stood to
gether in the blackness of the trees, unable
to see one another s faces, the night was
silent round them. The rattle of wheels, the
hoof beats of horses, had died away in the
distance.

XX.

IT was such a position as tries a man to
the uttermost, and it was to Sir George s
credit that, duped and defeated as scarce any
man ever was, astonishingly tricked in the
moment of success, and physically shaken
by his fall, he neither broke into execrations
nor shed unmanly tears. He groaned, it is
true, and his arm pressed more heavily on
the servant s shoulder, as he listened, and
listened in vain, for sign or sound of the
runaways. But he still commanded himself.
and in face of how great a misfortune! A
more futile, a more wretched end to an ex
pedition it was impossible to conceive. The
villains had outpaced, outfought, and out-
maneuvered them, and even now were roll
ing merrily on to Bath; while he. who a few

minutes before had held the game in his
hands, lay belated here without horses and
without hope, in a wretched plight, his every
moment embittered by the thought of his
mistress fate.

In such crises to give the devil his due
the lessons of the gaming table, dearly
bought as they are, stand a man in stead.
Sir George s fancy pictured Julia prisoner,
trembling and disheveled, perhaps even
gagged and bound by the coarse hands of
the brutes who had her in their power; and
the picture was one to drive a helpless man
mad. Had he dwelt on it long and done
nothing it might have crazed him. But in
his life he had lost and won great sums at a
coup, and learned to do the one and the
other with the same smile it was the cultus
and form of his time and class. Therefore,
while Mr. Fishwick wrung his hands and
lamented, and the servant swore, Sir
George s heart bled indeed, but it was
silently and inwardly; and meanwhile he
thought, calculated the odds and the dis
tance to Bath and the distance to Bristol,
noted the time, and finally with sudden
energy called on the men to move on. " We
must get to Bath," he said. " We will be
upsets with the villains yet. But we must
get to Bath. What horses have we? "

Mr. Fishwick, who up to this point had
played his part like a man, wailed that his
horse was dead lame and could not stir a
step. The lawyer was sore, stiff, and beyond
belief weary; and this last mishap, this ter
rible buffet from the hand of fortune, left
him cowed and spiritless.

" Horses or no horses, we must get to
Bath," Sir George answered feverishly.

On this the servant made an attempt to
drag Sir George s from the ditch, but the
poor creature would not budge, and in the
darkness it was impossible to discover
whether it was wounded or not. Mr. Fish-
wick s was dead lame; the man s had wan
dered away. It proved that there was noth
ing for it but to walk. Dejectedly the three
took the road, and trudged wearily through
the darkness. They would reach Bathford
village the man believed, in a rnile and a half.

That being settled, not a word was said,
for who could give any comfort? Now and
then, as they plodded laboriously up the hill
beyond Kingsdown, the servant uttered a
low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr.
Fishwick sighed in sheer exhaustion. It
was a strange and dreary position for men
whose ordinary lives ran through the lighted
places of the world. The wind swept sadly
over the dark fields. The mud clung to the
squelching, dragging boots; now Mr. Fish
wick was within an ace of the ditch on one
side, now on the other, and now he brought

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257

up heavily against one of his companions.
At length the servant gave him an arm, and
thus linked together they reached the crest
of the hill and, after taking a moment to
breathe, began the descent.

They were within two or three hundred
paces of Bathford and the bridge over the
Avon when the servant cried out that some
one was awake in the village, for he saw a
light. A little nearer and all saw the light,
which grew larger as they approached, but
was sometimes obscured. Finally, when they
had come within a hundred yards of it, they
discovered that it proceeded not from a win
dow, but from a lanthorn set down in the
village street, and surrounded by five or six
persons whose movements to and fro
caused the temporary eclipses they had no
ticed. What the men were doing was not
at once clear; but in the background rose
the dark mass of a post chaise, and seeing
that and one other thing Sir George ut
tered a low exclamation and felt for his
hilt.

The other thing was Mr. Dunborough,
who, seated at his ease on the step of the
post chaise, appeared to be telling a story,
while he nursed his injured arm. His audi
ence, who seemed to have been only lately
roused from their beds for they were half
dressed were so deeply engrossed in what
he was narrating that the approach of our
party was unnoticed; and Sir George was
in the middle of the circle, his hand on the
speaker s shoulder, and his point at his
breast, before a man could move in his de
fense.

" You villain! " Soane cried, all the
misery, all the labor, all the burning fears,
of the night turning his blood to fire, " you
shall pay me now! Eet a man stir and I will
spit you like the dog you are! Where is
she? Where is she? For by heaven, if you
do not give her up I will kill you with my
own hand! "

Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other s
face, laughed.

That laugh startled Sir George more than
the fiercest movement, the wildest oath.
His point wavered and dropped. " My
God! " he cried, staring at Dunborough.
" What is it? What do you mean?"

" That is better," Mr. Dunborough said,
nodding complacently, but not moving a
finger. " Keep to that and we shall deal."

" What is it, man? What does it mean? "
Sir George repeated. He was all of a trem
ble and could scarcely stand.

" Better and better," said Mr. Dunbor
ough, nodding his approval. " Keep to
that, and your mouth shut, and you shall
know all that I know. It is precious little
at best. I spurred and they spurred, I

spurred and they spurred there you have
it. When I got up and shouted to them to
stop, I suppose they took me for you, and
thought I should stick to them and take
them in Bath. So they put on the pace a bit,
and drew ahead as they came to the houses
here, and then began to pull in recognizing
me, as I thought. But when I came up, fit
and ready to curse their heads off for giving
me so much trouble, the fools had cut the
leaders traces and were off with them, and
left me the old rattletrap there."

Sir George s face lightened; he took two
steps forward, and laid his hand on the
chaise door.

" Just so," said Mr. Dunborough, nod
ding coolly. " That was my id^a. I did
the same. But Lord, what their game is I
don t know! It was empty."

"Empty!" Sir George cried.

" As empty as it is now," Mr. Dunbor
ough answered, shrugging his shoulders.
"As empty as a bad nut! If you are not
satisfied, look for yourself," he continued,
rising that Sir George might come at the
door.

Soane, with a sharp movement, plucked
the door of the chaise open, and called
hoarsely for a light. A big, dingy man in
a wrap rascal coat, which left his brawny
neck exposed and betrayed that under the
coat he had nothing on but his shirt, held
up a lanthorn. Its light was scarcely needed.
Sir George s hand, not less than his eyes,
told him that the carriage, a big, roomy post
chaise, well cushioned and padded, was
empty.

Aghast and incredulous; Soane turned on
Mr. Dunborough. " You know better," he
said furiously. " She was here and you sent
her on with them! "

Mr. Dunborough pointed to the man in
the wrap rascal. " That man was up as soon
as I was," he said. " Ask him, if you don t
believe me. He opened the chaise door."

Sir George turned to the man, who, re
moving the shining leather cap that suffi
ciently marked him for a smith, slowly
scratched his head. The other men pressed
up behind him to hear, the group growing
larger every moment as one and another,
awakened by the light and the hubbub, came
out of his house and joined it. Even women
were beginning to appear on the outskirts
of the crowd, their heads muffled in hoods.

" The carriage was empty, sure enough,
your honor," the smith said. " There is no
manner of doubt about that. I heard the
wheels coming, and looked out and saw it
stop and the men go off. There was no
woman with them."

" How many were they?" Sir George
asked sharply. The man seemed honest.

M UXSKY S MAGAZINE.

" Well, there were two went off with the
horses," the smith answered, " and two
again slipped off on foot by the lane tween
the houses there. I saw no more, your
honor, and there were no more."

" Are you sure,". Sir George asked eagerly,
" that no one of the four was a woman? "

The smith grinned. " How am I to
know? " he answered, with a chuckle.
" That s none of my business. All I can .say
is, they were all dressed man fashion. And
they all went willing, for they went one by
one, as you may say."

" Two on foot? "

By the lane there. I never said no
otherwise. Seemingly they were the two on
the carriage."

" And you saw no lady? " Sir George per
sisted, still incredulous.

" There was no lady," the man answered
simply. " I came out, and the gentleman
there was swearing and trying the door. I
forced it with my chisel and you may see the
mark on the break of the lock now."

" Then we have been tricked," Sir George
cried furiously; " we have followed the
wrong carriage."

" Not you, sir," the smith answered.
Twas fitted up for the job, or I should not
have had to force the door. If twere not
got ready for a job of this kind, why a half
inch shutter inside the canvas blinds and
the bolt outside s well as a lock? Mark that
door! D you ever see the like of that on an
honest carriage? Why, tis naught but a
prison! "

He held up the light inside the carriage,
and Sir George, the crowd pressing forward
to look over his shoulder, saw that it was
as the man said. And something more Sir
George saw and pounced on it greedily.
At the foot of the doorway, between the
floor of the carriage and the straw mat that
covered it, the corner of a black silk ker
chief showed itself. How it came to be in
that position, whether it had been kicked
thither by accident or thrust under the mat
on purpose, it was impossible to say. But
there it was, and as Sir George held it up
to the lanthorn jealously interposing him
self between it and the curious eyes of the
crowd he felt something hard inside the
folds and saw thr.t the corners were knotted.
He uttered an exclamation.

" More room, good people, more room! "
he cried.

" Your honor ha got something? " said
the smith; and then to the crowd. " Here
you, keep back, will you! " he continued
" and give the gentleman room to breathe.
Or will you ha the constable fetched? -.-

" I be here," cried a weakly voice from
the skirts of the crowd.

Aye, so be Easter! " the smith retorted
gruffly, as a puny atomy of a man with a
stick and lanthorn was pushed with diffi
culty to the front. " But so being you arc
here, supposing you put Joe Hincks a foot or
two back, and let the gentleman have elbow
room."

There was a laugh at this, for Joe Hincks
was a giant a little taller than the smith.
None the less the hint had the desired effect.
The crowd fell back a little. Meanwhile, Sir
George, the general attention diverted from
him, had untied the knot. When the smith
turned to him again, it was to find him star
ing with a blank face at a plain black snuff
box, which was all he had found in the ker
chief.

"Sakes!" said the smith, "whose is
that?"

" I don t know," Sir George answered
grimly, and shot a glance of suspicion at
Mr. Dunborough, who was leaning against
the fore wheel.

But that gentleman shrugged his shoul
ders. " You need not look at me," he said.
" It is not my box; I have mine here."

" Whose is it? "

Mr. Dunborough raised his eyebrows and
did not answer.

"Do you know? " Sir George persisted
fiercely.

" No, I don t; I know no more about it
than you do."

" Maybe the lady took snuff?" the smith
said cautiously.

Many ladies did, but not this one; and Sir
George sniffed his contempt. He turned the
box over and over in his hand. It was a
plain black box, of smooth enamel, about
two inches long.

" I believe I have seen one like it," said
Mr. Dunborough, yawning; " but I m
hanged if I can tell where."

" Has your honor looked inside? " the
smith asked. " Maybe there is a note in
it."

Sir George cut him short with an exclama
tion, and held the box up to the light.
" There is something scratched on it," he
said..

There was. When he held the box close
to the lanthorn, words rudely scratched on
the enamel, as if with the point of a pin, be
came visible; visible, but not immediately
legible, so scratchy were the letters and im
perfectly formed the strokes. It was not
until the fourth or fifth time of reading that
Sir George made out the following scrawl :

" Take to Fishwick, Castle, Marlboro .
Help! Julia."

On that it would be difficult to describe
Sir George s emotions. The box. with its
pitiful, scarce articulate cry. brought the

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259

girl s helpless position, her distress, her ter
ror, more clearly to his mind than all that
had gone before. Nor to his mind only, but
to his heart; so that he scarcely asked him
self why the appeal was not made to him, or
whence came this box which was plainly a
man s and still had some snuff in it or even
whither she had been so completely spirited
away in a night that there remained of her
no more than this and the black kerchief, and
about the carriage a fragrance of her per
ceptible only by a lover s senses. A whirl of
pity and rage pity for her, rage against her
persecutors swept such questions from his
mind. He was shaken by gusty impulses,
now to strike Mr. Dunborough across his
smirking face, now to give some frenzied
order, now to do some foolish act that must
expose him to disgrace. He had much ado
even not to break into hysterical weeping or
into a torrent of frantic oaths. The exer
tions of the night, following on a day spent
in the saddle, the tortures of fear and sus
pense, this last disappointment, the shock of
his fall all had told on him; and it was well
that at this crisis Mr. Fishwick was at his
elbow.

For the lawyer saw his face and read it
aright, and, interposing, suggested an ad
journment to the inn, adding that while they
talked the matter over and refreshed them
selves a messenger could go to Bath and
bring back new horses; in that way they
might still be in Bristol by eight in the
morning.

" Bristol!" Sir George muttered, passing
his hand across his brow. " Bristol? But
she is not wi,.h them. We don t know where
she is."

Mr. Fishwick was himself sick with
fatigue; but he knew what to do and did it.
He passed his arm through Sir George s,
and signed to the smith to lead the way to
the inn. The man did so, the crowd made
way for them; Mr. Dunborough and the
servant followed. In less than a minute the
three gentlemen stood together in the sanded
taproom at the tavern. The landlord hung
a lamp on a hook in the whitewashed wall;
its glare fell strongly on their features, and
for the first time that night showed the three
clearly to one another.

Assuredly, even in that poor place, light
had seldom fallen on persons in a more piti
able plight. Of the three, Sir George alone
stood erect, his glittering eyes and twitching
nostrils belying the deadly pallor of his face.
He was splashed with mud from head to foot,
his coat was plastered where he had fallen,
his cravat was torn and open at the throat.
He still held his naked sword in his hand;
apparently he had forgotten that he held it.
Mr. Dunborough was in scarce better condi

tion. White and shaken, his hand bound to
his side, he had dropped at once into a chair;
and sat, his free hand plunged into his
breeches pocket, his head sunk on his breast.
Mr. Fishwick, a pale image of himself, his
knees trembling with exhaustion, leaned
against the wall. The adventures of the
night had let none of the travelers escape.

The landlord and his wife could be heard
in the kitchen drawing ale and clattering
plates, while the voices of the constable and
his gossips, drawling their wonder and sur
mises, filled the passage. Sir George was
the first to speak.

"Bristol!" he said dully. "Why Bris
tol?"

" Because the villains who have escaped us
here," the lawyer answered, " we shall find
there. And they will know what has become
of her."

" But shall we find them? "

" Mr. Dunborough will find them."

" Ha!" said Sir George, with a somber
glance. " So he will."

Mr. Dunborough spoke with sudden fury.
" I wish to heaven that I had never heard
the girl s name! " he said. " How do I
know where she is? "

" You will have to know," Sir George mut
tered between his teeth.

" Fine talk! " Mr. Dunborough retorted,
with a faint attempt at a sneer, " when you
know as well as I do, that I have no more
idea where the girl is or what has become
of her than that snuff box. And damn me! "
he continued sharply, his eyes on the box,
which Sir George still held in his hand,
" whose is the snuff box, and how did she
get it? That is what I want to know! , And
why did she leave it in the carriage? If we
had found it dropped in the road, now, and
that kerchief round it, I could understand
that! But in the carriage! Pho! I believe
I am not the only one in this! "

XXI.

THE man whose work took him that
eventful evening to the summit of the
Druid s Mound, and whose tale aroused the
Castle Inn ten minutes later, had seen
aright, but he had not seen all. Had he
waited another minute, he would have
marked a fresh actor appear at Manton
Corner, would have witnessed the second
scene in that ar f , and had that to tell, when
he descended, which must have allayed in a
degree not only the general alarm, but Sir
George s private apprehensions.

It is when the mind is braced to meet one
emergency that it falls the easiest prey to
the unexpected. Julia was no coward.
But as she loitered along the green lane be-

26o

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

yond the churchyard in the gentle hour be
fore sunset, her whole being was set on the
coming of the lover for whom she waited.
As she thought on the avowal she would
make to him, and conned the words she
would speak, her cheeks, though she be
lieved herself alone, burned with happy
blushes; her lips breathed more quickly,
her body swayed involuntarily in the direc
tion whence he who had chosen and hon
ored her would come! The soft glow which
overspread the wolds, as the sun went down
and left the vale to peace and rest, was not
more real than the happiness that thrilled
her. She thanked God, and her lover. Her
heart overnowed in a tender ecstasy. In the
peace that lay round her, she who had
flouted Sir George, who had mocked and
tormented him, in fancy kissed his feet.

In such a mood as this she had neither
eyes nor ears for anything but the coming of
her lover. Reaching the corner, and jeal
ous that none but he should see the happy
shining of her eyes nor he until he stood
beside her she turned to walk back, in a
very luxury of anticipation. Her lot was
wonderful to her; blessed was she among
women, she sang in her heart.

And then, without the least warning, the
grating of a stone or the sound of a foot
step, a violent arm clutched her waist from
behind; something thick, rough, suffocat
ing, fell on her head, enveloped and
blinded her. The shock of the surprise was
so great and complete that for a moment
breath and even the instinct of resistance
failed her; and she had been forced several
steps, in what direction she had no idea,
before sense and horror awoke together,
and, wresting herself by the effort of a strong
woman from the grasp that confined her, she
freed her mouth sufficiently to scream.

Twice and shrilly; the next moment, and
before she could entirely rid herself of the
folds that still blinded her, a remorseless
grip closed round her neck, and another
round her waist; and choking and terrified,
vainly struggling and fighting, she felt her
self hurried along. Coarse voices sounded
in her ears, imprecating vengeance on her
if she screamed again and then for a mo
ment her course was stayed. She fancied
that she heard a shout, the rush and scramble

of feet in the road, new curses and impreca
tions. The grasp on her waist relaxed, and,
seizing her opportunity, she strove with the
strength of despair to wrest herself from the
hands that still held the covering over her
head. Instead, she felt herself lifted up
bodily, something struck her sharply on the
knee; the next moment she fell violently and
all huddled up on a yielding surface it
was the seat of a carriage, but she did not
know that.

The shock was no slight one, but she
struggled up breathless, and with scarce the
loss of an instant; and heard, as she tore
the covering from her head, a report as of a
pistol shot. The next moment she lost her
footing and fell back. Fortunately she
alighted on the place from which she had
just raised herself, and was not hurt. The
jolt, however, which had jerked her from her
feet, no less than the subsequent motion, in
formed her where she was. Even before she
had entirely released her head from the en
tangling folds of the cloak so as to look
about her, she knew that she was in a car
riage, whirled along behind swift horses;
and that the peril was real, and not of the
moment, momentary.

This was horror enough. But it was not
all. As soon as her eyes began to penetrate
the gloom of the closely shut carriage, she
shrank into her corner. She checked the
r sing sob that preluded a storm of rage and
tears, stayed the frenzied impulse to shriek,
to beat on the doors, to do anything that
might scare her captors; and she sat frozen,
staring, motionless. On the seat beside
her, almost touching her, was a man.

In the dim light it was not easy to make
out more than his figure. He sat huddled
up in his corner, his wig awry, one hand to
his face; gazing at her, she fancied, between
his fingers, enjoying the play of her rage,
her agitation, her disorder. He did not
move, but, in the circumstances, that he was
a man was enough. The violence with
which she had been treated, the audacity of
such an outrage in daylight and on the high
way, the closed and darkened carriage, the
speed at which they traveled, all were
grounds for alarm as serious as a woman
could feel; and Julia, though she was a brave
woman, felt a sudden horror come over her.

(To be continued.)

INCARNATION.

FROM fields of amaranth and asphodel

An angel hand let drop a bud to earth ;
Within a poet s heart the blossom fell,

When lo, a sweet and deathless song had birth !

Clarence 1 nnv

OPPORTUNITY S BALD SPOT.

BY CLARINDA PENDLETON LAMAR.

How a susceptible college man emulated a storied hero, and dared death for
his lady s favor To all of -which there is a denouement showing that history
sometimes repeats itself.

What is thy name ? "
Opportunity, controller of all things."
Why wearest thou thy hair long in front?"
That I may be seized by him who approaches me."
By Zeus I And thou art bald behind ? "
Because once I have passed with my winged feet, no one
may seize me there."

\A7HEN Rawley first came to Salem he
was of an unspotted innocence that
gladdened one s heart and the sophomore
class to contemplate. He suffered many
things of many students, in consequence,
and spent all he had; but he was nothing
worse for that, but rather bettered, for char
acter is formed in this little village hid away
in the heart of the West Virginian hills, and
students learn there many things besides
Latin and Greek.

Salem is a little world in itself, and its life
centers in the college towering on the slope
above it, toward which the eyes of the vil
lage are turned as the sunflower to the sun.
The honor men are honored and the base
ball pitcher adored on its single street, and
a college man is more of a figure here than
any minister or Congressman on the streets
of the nation s capital. The most thorough
and lasting training which the undergrad
uate received, however, in the old days when
Rawley was a student there, was at the
hands of Miss Cordelia March, the daugh
ter of the professor of mathematics, and a
thoroughly seasoned college belle. " Ad
junct professor of courtship," Ballinger
called her she had discarded Ballinger in
his junior year and the name clung to her,
because the young men went through a
course of love making under her tuition
and graduated from her classes as regu
larly as they did from her father s.

Miss Cordelia was a large, blond, splen
did creature, with eyes that seemed to melt
by their own fire, and a voice that searched
out the weak spot in every man s nature and
made one cry before he knew it. She looked
over the field at the beginning of each ses
sion and picked out her men, and she
brought them down with a certainty that
no amount of glass ball or clay pigeon prac
tice could assure to any other marksman.

To this day there are grizzled planters in

Virginia and the blue grass region of Ken
tucky who carry an old daguerreotype of
Cordelia March in some inner pocket her
reign was before the days of photography
and who never meet a Salemite anywhere
without leading the talk round to her. For,
once she had captured a man, he was hers
for four years or for life, according to her
fancy that is, all but Rawley; he was the
only one who ever slipped through her
fingers. You can hear the story of how it
all happened today, if you chance to visit
Salem, and talk to any of its old inhabitants.

Rawley was no trouble at all to catch; he
surrendered at sight, and she seemed to
undervalue him from that moment, as
though his worth was measured by the ease
of his conquest. For two years she made
him a spectacle to the gods and such fishes
as swam in Tuscora Creek and took any in
terest in the matter.

There was never a self respecting dog who
would fetch and carry as Rawley did for
Miss Cordelia; there never was a cat as in
genious in torturing a mouse as was Miss
Cordelia in making Rawley suffer. He
sang serenades under her window when the
thermometer was at zero, and she only
laughed at him and explained to his class
mates how he caught cold. He sent her
flowers, which she gave to the orators of the
debating societies. He wrote her pitiful
little verses, which she read aloud to a room
ful of students, who set them to music and
sang them under his window. He made en
gagements with her for the various college
festivities weeks in advance, and at the last
moment she threw him over for some other
man.

As a result of this constant dancing at
tendance upon her whims and caprices,
Rawley was most disgracefully pitched at
the end of his sophomore year, which
brought him a delightful interview with the
faculty, and another with his father a few
days later. Salem shook its head dubiously
over him when he went home that vaca
tion, and predicted that a wise parent would
send him elsewhere; but he came back in the
fall, looking a little more serious, perhaps,

262

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

but otherwise unchanged. Being very
much occupied with a certain long haired
Virginian men wore long hair in those
days Miss Cordelia had no time to notice
him, so he crept out from between her paws
a little, and devoted himself to Greek roots
with unwonted assiduity.

As the weeks passed she seemed to miss
the incense of his devotion, and called him
back imperiously; and he came, though with
a certain reluctance.

" You don t really want me," he pleaded.
" There arc so many others, and you like
them all better. The old man was awfully
cut up about my marks last year, and I
promised I would try to study."

Now, if there was any one thing Miss Cor
delia resented more than a failure to capture
a man, it was his escape after conquest; so
she put Rawley through his paces ruthlessly,
and exhibited him for the benefit and enter
tainment of the college. Indeed, she
doubled his labors to pay for his brief vaca
tion.

Such a surfeit of flattery and devotion
caused her appetite to lose its edge appar
ently, for she was continually inventing
things of a high and unusual flavor to tempt
it again. She liked to hear for she seldom
read stories of the beautiful women of the
past, and what men had done for love of
them, but it hurt her to think that any
woman had ever tasted a sweeter triumph
or drained a cup of deeper devotion than
she daily drank. To those who watched the
game with interest, she seemed to be put
ting Rawley upon his mettle, like a rider
who urges his horse to take a higher leap
than any other steed has ever attempted.
But for once she raised the bar a little too
high.

It was in the year of the " big freeze,"
which old Salcmites still recall with a cer
tain pride, as if they were indirectly con
cerned in it. The snow fell and froze, and
fell and froze again, till there was such
sleighing as the meteors may enjoy when
they skate over a well beaten cloud bank.
Women walked about the village with their
long dresses trailing behind them they
wore long dresses then and shook off the
dry particles of snow when they came in, as
if it had been sand. The Ohio River was
one block of ice from Pittsburg to Cincin
nati ; men drove across it and up and down
it in wagons as if it had been a dirt road.

But in February came a thaw. It rained
for days, and then the sun came out bright
and warm. The hillsides streamed with
water, and McCulloch s Run and Tuscora
Creek broke up in a crash of snow and ice
and went tearing down to the Ohio, dash
ing their muddy waves and ice blocks

against it till its coat of mail heaved and
gave way, with a roar and a rush that could
be heard for miles.

That was long before the railroad on the
Virginia side of the river, and for a time the
people of Salem were cut off from the rest
of the world as completely as if the waters
had risen and engulfed it.

Salem is several miles from the river, and
upon one of the balmy, spring-like days
which followed the rain, a party of young
people rode down to the Belle Riviere to see
it. Miss Cordelia was one of them, and so
was Rawley, though he did not ride with her.
She had chosen for her escort the long
haired Virginian, who amused her with tales
of fair women and gallant knights tales
that fired her imagination and made her
heart burn with envy.

That day he had told her the story of De
Lorge and his lady s glove.

" When he had brought it back from the
arena," concluded the Virginian, " he flung
it in her face. But if it had been your glove,
Miss Cordelia " he gave her a tender
glance " I think he would have thought it
well worth the price to be permitted to kiss
the hand that threw it."

Miss Cordelia smiled a pleased smile, but
for all the Virginian s smooth tongue she
did not believe he would risk his life for any
glove of hers. Rawley might yes, she be
lieved Rawley work 1 --she would like to put
him to the test and outdo the beauty of
King Francis court.

They heard the voice of the river crying
and groaning long before they reached it;
but when they skirted the base of the last
hill and came suddenly upon it, grinding
against its banks, and turning huge blocks
of ice over and over as a child trundles a
hoop, they reined their horses and stood
gazing mutely at the monster writhing and
struggling before them.

Then suddenly an idea occurred to Miss
Cordelia.

" Do you think any one would dare to
cross on that heaving, crashing mass of
ice? " she said.

They all looked at her.

" One might, for a great stake a man s
life, perhaps," one said.

" Or a woman s love," she added, below
her breath.

Rawley had been drawn irresistibly to her
side when the party stopped, and he heard
her.

" Would you go if I sent you? " she whis
pered; and at the look in his eyes she turned
to the little company.

" There is something in that old station
over there " she pointed with her whip
across the river " something that I want

OPPORTUNITY S BALD SPOT.

263

very much. It has been waiting for me
there ever since the ice broke up."

She turned as she spoke, and looked at
Rawley.

" I will go and get it for you," he said,
dismounting.

They all cried out at him, and the men
tried to catch at the skirts of his coat; but
like a flash he eluded them, disappeared
over the face of the bluff upon which they
stood, and presently appeared again, run
ning, jumping, leaping, from block to block
of the treacherous ice.

The river is narrow at that point, though
it runs swift and deep, and the floating ice
heaps were separated by smaller spaces of
open water than below, where the river
widens. It was not long, though it seemed
hours, that they watched him with fixed
eyes, and no sound, save occasionally a long
drawn " Ah! " as he stumbled, fell, and
caught himself again. Then they saw him
climb the bank on the opposite shore, and
disappear into the low wooden station.

When he started to cross again, the man
nearest the river put his hand to his mouth,
trumpet-wise, and called to him to go back,
and all the others shouted and waved their
hands. But he did not see them, or, if he
did, he did not heed; it is certain that he
did not see what they saw; a huge mass of
ice urged rapidly down the river, sweeping
all obstacles before it, and leaving a broad
path of open water in its wake.

It was passing swiftly through the nar
row point where Rawley had crossed, to the
more open water beyond, and he was upon
it, leaping, jumping, as before, when sud
denly he saw the danger he was in. He ran
with might and main, stumbling, stagger
ing, almost falling, toward the spot where
the thread of open water between him and
the shore ice was widening into a ribbon
a band a broad stream. He reached it.
hesitated, looked back, then stooped for a
spring. The watchers on the bank closed
their eyes in horror.

Then there was a cry, and they looked to
see the huge mass nearing open water, the
river trundling its ice blocks as before, and
Rawley nowhere.

The men made a rush for the bank, and
the women screamed and wrung their
hands all but Miss Cordelia, who sat as if
frozen in her seat when some one gave a
shout and pointed down stream. There
they saw him, clinging to the shore ice, a
quarter of a mile below.

When the riders reached the point run
ning, shouting, cheering, and most of the
women crying Rawley was slowly making
his way to land. They drew him up the
bluff and would have carried him in their

arms, but he laughed and shook them off,
dripping like a great Newfoundland dog.
Then, going up to Miss Cordelia, he placed
a package in her hand.

She took it without a word, but her eyes
shone. She tore off the wet wrappings,
opened the velvet box they contained, and
drew from i1&gt;a slender bracelet, set with
brilliants.

" You have brought me this," she said,
and there was a ring of triumph in her voice,
" and yours shall be the hand to clasp it on
my wrist."

She leaned from her saddle, holding out to
him the jeweled trinket, as he stood there
dripping with water, his clothing torn and
his face and hands cut by the sharp, jagged
ice.

He obeyed her in silence; but when he had
fastened the bracelet he left a stain of blood
upon her hand.

* * * *

Afterwards, people said that this was only
the last straw with Rawley; that for weeks
his manhood had stirred within him, as the
swollen waters of the river had stirred be
neath their coat of ice; that this was the
final breaking up of her mastery over him,
as the river had broken the ice that held it
chained. Others believed that when he
sprang over the cleft in the ice, and felt the
rotten mass give way beneath his feet, he
had looked death in the face and seen things
in their true light. And there were others,
still, who said that when he saw his blood
upon her hand he had come to himself,
knowing that at heart she was all but a mur
deress.

* * . * *

At first Miss Cordelia only laughed.
" He ll come back," she said; " they always
do."

But this time Miss Cordelia reckoned in
vain, for Rawley paid absolutely no atten
tion to her. And then a strange thing hap
pened. Miss Cordelia laid aside her pride
and sought him secretly at first, then
openly, at last desperately, as a drowning
man clutches at straws. Her eyes would
follow him about with a wistful, eager look
that cut one to the heart, and Rawley was
the only man in all the world who did not
seem to see it.

When he graduated, which he did rather
brilliantly, at last, he bade her a careless
good by before a whole roomful, and people
turned away their faces, for they could not
bear the look in her eyes.

" After all," they said, " she has had her
chance of happiness, and she has thrown it
away. It is no use clutching at the bald
spot on Opportunity s head."

BALTIMORE BELLES.

What the Maryland city can show to prove its claim to preeminence for the beauty of its
daughters A group that is representative of fair American womanhood.

THERE is one subject which men and
women can never discuss with
frankness, and that is woman s looks. If
the woman talking has definite, acknowl
edged beauty, then to dilate on its pow y er
sounds like self glorification, while to
depreciate it seems like an affectation, as
when the millionaire leans back in his
carriage and sighs that money doesn t
amount to much. Perhaps it doesn t,
in the abstract, to the angels, but the mil
lionaire keeps a good business grip on his
dollars, even as he sighs ; and beauty
shudders when the mirror begins to grow
brutal.

The girl whose good looks are uncer
tain, depending somewhat on the color of
her gown and the eyes of the beholder,
must talk constrainedly on the subject,
since there is no knowing on which
side she herself is being rated at the
moment, and very few who are young
enough to be good looking can talk quite
impersonally on the subject. The man,
of course, will take the first chance of
showing, delicately and indirectly, that
he considers her an authority on what
beauty can accomplish. Being young
enough to be pretty, perhaps she is young
enough to believe him, but, if she is out
of short dresses, she is too old to betray
the fact, or to assume intimacy with the
ways of beauty.

It is hardest of all for the girl who is
distinctly plain to canvass this mighty
topic. No man of intelligence will admit
the marvelous power of human beaut} in
her presence. Beautiful women are gen
erally stupid, he proclaims ; talking to
them is a weariness. Thej- are spoiled
and put on airs and bore one with their
queenship. Give him a woman whose
charm is on the inside of her head rather
than the outside. She may wish im
patiently that he would meet her with
frankness, since she attacked the subject

in all sincerity, with no intention of put
ting the burden of denial on him. Never
theless, he is very wise, for he is on the
most delicate ground a man can tread,
and though many of us are willing to
be quite frank about ourselves, very few
are educated up to the point of wishing
others to be so. We may proclaim our
poverty, but we do not enjoy hearing
others proclaim it. We may even admit
that we are badly dressed, but we do not
thank any one else for agreeing with us.
A woman may say to herself in all hon
esty, " I am irredeemably ugly, " but she
cannot help hoping that the rest of the
world is less clear sighted.

The only comfortable way to discuss
beauty is behind the shelter of print,
where mind may speak to mind without
being hampered by the troublesome, self
conscious body. There we may admit
that, whatever their theories, ninety nine
women out of a hundred would choose it
above any earthly gift, if it were placed
in front of them. Power over other cre
ated beings is the most alluring of all the
beautiful pictures that hang upon vanity s
walls, and to this beauty is the short cut.
It is crown and scepter and throne, and
all that is needed is wit enough to take
possession. "Skin deep," saith the
Preacher. "Shine before men," says
Beauty demurely, and that is the end of
the argument, for her.

Half the cities in the United States are
fond of boasting that their girls are the
prettiest, but there is one which really
seems to have some foundation for the
claim, and that is Baltimore. It has
given us dozens of famous beauties, and
every year among the debutantes one
sees repeated the exquisite coloring, the
natural grace and refinement, that have
given one of the loveliest roses the right
to call itself " Baltimore Belle. "

Beautv in Baltimore sometimes runs

MISS CHAMPK ROBINSON, OF BALTIMORE.
From a photograph by Jejffres &* Rogers, Baltimore.

MRS. J. RAMSAY BARRY (MISS AGNKS ROBINSON) OF BALTIMORE.
Fro-sii a photograph by Jeffres &&amp;gt; Rogers, Baltimore.

BALTIMORE BELLES.

267

MRS. RICHARD MORTON, JR. (MISS NKLI.V KOBIXSoX) (&gt;F KALTIMOKK
From a photograph by Jeff res &^ Rogers, Baltimore.

through a whole family, not leaving out
one of its members. Take the Robinsons,
for instance, four beautiful daughters of
a more beautiful mother, descended from
a grandmother who was a toast and a
belle in her generation. Mrs. Robinson,
who, as Miss Champe Conway, was well
known in Richmond, Virginia, has been
a brilliant figure in Baltimore since her
marriage. Both her town and her country
houses have been the scene of many

brilliant entertainments, none of them
more charming than the three weddings
that took away three of her daughters.

The mother has , been copied in form
and features by Nelly, now Mrs. Morton,
more closely than by any of the other
daughters. After a very gay time as a
girl, she married Richard Morton, Jr. , two
years ago. She has an unusually fine
soprano voice, which was carefully culti
vated in Paris, and has many a time sung

MISS AUEMO HORWITZ, OF BALTIMORE.
From u portrait by H&lt;ill-&lt;t. ig.

MISS LAURA JKXKIXS, OF BALTIMORE
l- ron: a photograph l-y Jeffres &~* Rogers. Bait in

MRS. ALAN P. SMITH, JR. (MISS MAY MCSHANK) OF BALTIMORK.
From a photograph l&gt;y Jeffres & Movers, Baltimore.

BALTIMORE BELLES.

271

MRS. JAMI.S K. MCSHANK (MISS KI.OKICXCK KOBI.NSOX) OF H.\I.TIM( &gt;KK.
l roin a photograph by Ji JFres C:~ Rogers, Baltimore.

the dollars right out of tightly buttoned

pockets for the sake of charity.

The next sister, Florence, was mar
ried in the winter that had been .set apart
for her coming out. She found the social
world no less attractive because she en
tered it as Mrs. McShane rather than
Miss Robinson, for her classic beauty and
perfect figure put the rod of power into
her hands in spite of her wedding ring.

Another sister, Agnes, now Mrs.
Barry, is still little more than a bride.
She is petite, with the delicate com
plexion of the South, dark hair, express
ive 63-68, and a musical temperament
that has led her to make herself a skilful
pianist. Miss Champe Robinson is strik
ing, brilliant, and is as popular for her
quick wit as for her brunette beauty.

In Miss Laura Jenkins we find another

272

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

type of Baltimore belle, a tall, blond,
striking woman, with an air of chic that
is born, not made. She has a right to
all that bine blood can give, for through

glory for anybody, she is also called one
of the wittiest girls in town. Mrs. Alan
P. Smith, Jr., was formerly Miss May
McShane, and is the sister in law of Mrs.

her father, George C.Jenkins, and her James E. McShane. Her chief beauty lies

.MISS MILDRED MORRIS, OF BALTIMORE.
From a photograph by Jeffres &* Rogers, Baltimore.

mother, who was Miss Key, she is allied
to some of the most prominent families
of Maryland. Among her ancestors was
Francis Scott Key of "Star Spangled
Banner " fame.

The picture of Miss Adele Horwitz is
taken from a portrait recently painted by
Hallwig. Miss Horwitz has the name
of being one of the best gowned women of
Baltimore, and as if that were not enoiigh

in her coloring, which is exquisitely blond.
Her husband is the son of the well known
physician, Dr. Alan P. Smith. Mrs.
Smith and Mrs. McShane are close com
panions, and make a striking picture
with their contrasted coloring.

Miss Mildred Morris, sister of Mrs.
Frederic Gebhard of New York, is brown
haired and gray ej^ed, less striking than
her sister, but wonderfully attractive.
Frederic Taylor.

LITERARY CM AT

THE INFLUENCE OF IBSEN.

- For the past ten or twelve years the name
of Ibsen, the Scandinavian apostle of stage
realism, has been associated in the popular
mind with the sort of progressive culture
that had previously found its only adequate
expression in Emerson readings and Brown
ing clubs. There was a time when one of
whom it could be said, " She has read
Ibsen," moved among her fellow worship
ers at the shrine of the graven image of cul
ture as a being endowed with almost super

natural attainments. It was not even neces
sary that she should understand Ibsen, pro
vided she was known to have read one or
more of his dramas. In short, the peculiar
distinction enjoyed by the northern play
wright a dozen years ago, some of which
still clings to him, would lead any one to
suppose him to be a writer of inscrutable
mysticism, instead of one whose preachings
have always been marked by absolute sim
plicity and naturalism.

Henrik Ibsen was born in Norway just

HENRIK IBSKN.
From his latest photograph by Schaar^vachter, Berlin.

274

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

seventy years ago last March. He was
employed for many years as the salaried
dramatist in one of the principal theaters in
his native land, where he had charge of all
the productions, and was expected to write
one play a year himself. It was in this way

gest the title of the drama, and who even
tually becomes dissatisfied and leaves her
husband s home. The pictures of domestic
life presented in this play, and the utter ab
sence of anything like the dramatic climaxes
that have always been regarded as necessary

BROOKS ADAMS, AUTHOR OF "THE LAW OF CIVILIZATION AND DECAY."
Front a photograph by the Notiuan Photograph Company, Boston.

that he acquired that remarkable knowledge
of stage effects, and of the technique of act
ing and play building, which enabled him to
present the most commonplace phases of
domestic life and sorrows in a convincing
and interesting manner.

The best known of all his dramas, so far
as America is concerned, is " The Doll s
House." It is simply the story of a young
wife whose character and surroundings sug-

to a successful drama, are well calculated to
awaken the ridicule of those who have found
in the stage a means of livelihood. And yet
the most fervent admirers that Ibsen has in
this country are to be found in the ranks of
the dramatic profession, for only actors and
actresses appreciate the wonderful skill with
which he has handled subjects never before
deemed worthy the attention of a playwright.
Ibsen s work has unquestionably exerted

LITERARY CHAT.

275

EMILE ZOLA.

From his latest photograph by Nadnr, Paris.

an immense influence over the present gen
eration of dramatists; and during the cen
tury that is so soon to dawn, it may receive
that popular recognition which it has never
yet enjoyed in this country.

" CIVILIZATION AND DECAY."

The casual book buyer, looking over the
crowded tables and shelves on which pretty
covers, attractively lettered, call his attention
to contents that may or may not be agree
able, might easily pass by a quiet volume
with the somewhat somber title of " The
Law of Civilization and Decay."

Theodore Roosevelt recently reviewed this
book with the warmest admiration, and
spoke of its author, Mr. Brooks Adams, as a
writer possessing an entirely original point
of view, being the first to see clearly things
that were nebulous to his predecessors, and

writing with a fervent intensity of convic
tion. It is just ten years since Mr. Adams
published his first book, " The Emancipation
of Massachusetts," a series of sketches of the
various religious persecutions through which
his native commonwealth worked her weary
and bloody way to freedom of thought and
life. It was impossible to deny the force of
his facts, or the logic of his deductions, but
the Puritans had so long been regarded as
saints that people were shocked at having
them revealed as inquisitors. In his own
community, especially, there was a chorus of
protest from those who preferred to believe
that their ancestors were as virtuous and
single minded as they had modestly declared
themselves to be.

Mr. Adams present work is the result of
years of study and thought, and has a far
wider range. As he says in his preface, " the

276

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

value of history lies not in the multitude of
facts collected, but in their relation to each
other; " and while some of his views will
grieve those who prefer to think that society
has gone on steadily improving since the
Stone Age, he has succeeded in writing a

the Geneva Arbitration in 1871, and on his
return he practised law for some years, occa
sionally contributing to the newspapers and
reviews historical or political articles which
always aroused interest and discussion, as his
point of view was generally an original one.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

From his latest photograph by Potter, Indianapolis.

book which stands almost alone, for it is a
scientific outline of history, and at the same
time as interesting as a good novel. We
give herewith a portrait of Mr. Adams. He
belongs to the famous Adams family, being
the youngest son of the late Charles Francis
Adams. He was born just fifty years ago in the
old Adams house in Quincy. While his father
was American minister in London he was at
an English school there, but he came home
to enter Harvard, graduating in the class of
1870. He was his father s secretary during

In 1881 he met with an accident which com
pelled him to give up active work, and he
turned his attention to serious historical
study, which he has since pursued.

In speaking recently of his last volume he
said that it almost wrote itself, as the expres
sion of convictions forced upon him by study
and travel. In his own words, " I had very
little conscious control over it; I kept mov
ing from one point to another, and when I
began to write, the first thing I put down
was upon the subject of Palestine. Then I

LITERARY CHAT.

277

GABRIKLE D ANNTNZIO.

From his latest photograph by Giiigoiii & Bassi, Ulilai,

wrote my first chapter, and because I had set
myself a limit of space I had to condense it
unduly. If I had it to do over again, I
should give more space to Rome and Byzan
tium, but if ever any work was written by
the second man, the man who works when
the body sleeps, that book is mine. I really
knew so little how the composition would
come out as a whole, that when I saw it in
print for the first time I read it as a new
book."

THE ITALIAN REALIST.

Gabriele D Annunzio has become, dur
ing the past few months, one of the most
talked of foreign writers in America, partly
because of the seizure of his books by An
thony Comstock and the subsequent litiga
tion between that censor and the publisher,
George H. Richmond, and partly because
of the strong hold that his work has taken
on the imagination of many American read
ers.

D Annunzio is now in his thirty fifth year.
Nearly seventeen years ago he published a
volume of poems which attracted a great
deal of attention in his native country, Italy.
For some years afterwards he kept himself
before the public by means of various short
stories, sketches, and essays, and then con
ceived the idea of putting into a series of
novels a history of the human soul in all its
phases. As planned by him, this series is
to be divided into three trilogies. The first
of these, to be known as " Romances of the
Rose," contains " Pleasure," " The Triumph
of Death," and " The Intruder." The sec
ond trilogy will be called " Romances of
the Lily." and will comprise three volumes
named respectively The Maidens of the
Rocks," " Grace," and " The Annuncia
tion." The third will be called " Romances
of the Pomegranate." and will contain
" Fire," " Iron," and " The Triumph of
Life."

Of these " The Triumph of Death," " The

2 7 8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Maidens of the Rocks," and " The Intru
der " are the best known in this country.
D Annunzio is still at work on the series,
and is now writing " Fire," a novel of Ital
ian life which is said to have taken Eleanora
Duse, the famous actress, as its heroine.

Signor D Annunzio lives in a romantic
and beautiful village on the shore of the

tions. And, like Burns, he sings in the
homely words of his own people.

Air. Riley became a poet from sheer neces-
si:y. In early life he was an entertainer
and traveled with various strolling bands of
players through the sparsely settled regions
of Illinois and Indiana. He had so much
difficulty in getting good, original matter to

PROFESSOR JOHN FISKE, OF HARVARD.
From a photograph by Pack, Cambridge.

Adriatic, and devotes himself almost en
tirely to literary work.

JAMES W1I1TCO.MB RILEY.

There is no poet in this country whose
rhymes have such a strong flavor of the rank,
rich soil from which they have sprung as
James Whitcomb Riley, originally of In
diana, and now claimed by the whole of these
United States as one of our national bards.

We are apt, in our florid American way, to
bestow nicknames and titles on the citizens
of our republic with indiscriminate and lav
ish hand, but sometimes we hit upon a name
so apt that it sticks; and this is the case with
Mr. Riley, who has been christened the
" Bobby Burns of America." Not that he
is as great as Burns, but he is a poet of the
soil, and one who sings sweetly and in tune
of childhood, of nature, and of simple emo-

recite that he determined to try his hand at
writing himself, and so it came to pass that
" When the Frost Is on the Pumpkin " and
many another of his earlier verses were writ
ten and recited to bucolic audiences. His
first public appearance in New York was in
the early eighties, at the authors readings
given in Chickering Hall in aid of the inter
national copyright movement. His success
was immediate.

A few years later, at an evening party
given by President and Mrs. Cleveland at
the White House, Riley recited in the pres
ence of a company that included not only
the members of the President s official fam
ily and other well known statesmen, but also
some of the most famous writers in America.
At the close of the evening a friend asked the
poet where he found the piece that had re
ceived the greatest amount of applause, and

LITERARY CHAT.

279

he made answer: " I wrote that myself, years
ago, to recite from the steps of a medicine
wagon in Indiana."

ZOLA AS A LOVER OF TRUTH.

It is now a little more than twenty years
since Emile Zola first made himself known

and made the name of their author so well
known that he required no introduction
when his heroic plea for justice to the hap
less Dreyfus brought him prominently
before the eyes of the civilized world.

Zola is usually termed the creator of the
school of modern realism which enjoys such

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

From his latest pliotcgraph by Alnian, New York.

to the public through the medium of " L As-
sommoir," which was published in both
French and English, and also given in dra
matic form by Augustin Daly. It was this
play, by the way, which served to introduce
Ada Rehan to the New York public.
" L Assommoir " was followed by " Nana,"
which was a sort of sequel to it, and which
excited an even wider and more virulent dis
cussion in the United States than the earlier
work. Since then " Pot-Bouille," " La
Terre," " La Debacle," and the rest of those
famous portrayals of modern life have en
joyed widespread circulation in this country.

an extraordinary vogue in both the fiction
and the dramatic literature of the present
day. Certainly, his vivid pictures of life in
the slums of Paris, in the coulisses of the
theaters, and among the peasants on the
farm, have had a powerful influence, and are
responsible for many of the so called " real
istic " stories which have been given to the
world since then.

But Zola does not content himself with
brutal descriptions of hideous scenes and
phases of life. He has a way of getting at
the heart of things, and it was undoubtedly
this peculiar bent in his mind that led him

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

COUNT LYOK TOLSTOY.
From his latest photograph by Scherer &* Nabholz,

to make his stand on behalf of Dreyfus. He
is convincing, because he gives one the im
pression that he knows accurately what he
is writing about. There is perhaps no bet
ter example of his ability to dive into the
very core of his subject than the scene in
the opening of " Nana," in which the man
ager of the theater stands in his lobby on
the first night of the new piece and greets
his friends, the critics, with characteristic
remarks as they enter the playhouse. Al
most any one could have written the much
talked of scene in Nona s dressing room
during the visit of the prince, but no one
who was not thoroughly familiar with the

relations that exist between a Paris man
ager and the critics could have described as
Zola does what goes on " in front of the
house " on the first night of a new produc
tion.

It is believed that AI. Zola will turn his
years of imprisonment to profitable account
by giving the world a true picture of what
takes place behind the stone walls of a
French prison house.

THE POET OF MANHATTAN.

It has been the custom to allude to Mr.
Edmund Clarence Stedman as " the banker
poet " and a very annoying custom it must

LITERARY CHAT.

281

be to him, too. A more appropriate name
would be " the poet of Manhattan Isle/ for
he is the one bard who during his whole
lifetime has sung of New York and its
people.

It was many and many a year ago that
Stedman, then a young and daring verse
writer, celebrated the union of a young
American girl with an enormously wealthy
Spaniard by a poem called " The Diamond
Wedding," which startled the town by its
audacity. It brought the young bard promi
nently before the public, and came very near
bringing him into a peck of trouble.

Mr. Stedman has never written anything
that has caused as much excitement as " The
Diamond Wedding, or awakened so much
local interest, but he has written a great
many things that are far better from a
literary point of view, and worthy of a much
higher place in the literature of his country.
Perhaps the best of his works is " Pan in
Wall Street," which may be described as
the thoughts suggested by a wandering
organ grinder who is seen playing his tunes
in the heart of the money center of the coun
try. " Peter Stuyvesant s New Year s Call "
is another New York poem that has won a
deservedly high place in the esteem of that
small circle of persons competent to discuss
poetry, and a veritable gem is " The Hand
of Abraham Lincoln," which was suggested
by the bronze model of the hand of the great
emancipator.

Mr. Stedman inherited his poetic tastes
from his mother, who was a verse writer of
some renown in her day. He has spent
most of his life in Wall Street, actively en
gaged in the banking and brokerage busi
ness, and finding in literature a diversion
for his leisure hours. He lives at present
in Westchester County, coming every day
to his office in the city, and still retaining
an active interest in the literary and artistic
life of the great town that he has celebrated
so often in song.

TOLSTOY IN HIS OLD AGE.

No other Russian writer has ever en
joyed so wide a popularity in this country
as Count Tolstoy, the veteran novelist and
student of sociology, whose strange life
among the peasants on his great estate has
helped to make him famous throughout the
length and breadth of the civilized world.

Count Tolstoy has not only preached the
doctrine of the great common brotherhood
of humanity, but has practised it as well.
He has lived among the Russian poor, eaten
their simple fare, and worked with his own
hands in their behalf. He has given liber
ally from his own purse to aid them in time
of sickness and distress, and in his writings

he has directed the attention of the world
to the conditions under which they live.

The same spirit of humanity and compas
sion for the injustices of life animates every
page of his magnificent " Sevastopol." Tol
stoy saw real fighting in the Crimea, and
gave the world such vivid pictures of t he-
battlefield, of flying shot and bursting shell,
of the killed and wounded, of the priests and
surgeons going about to succor the living
and pray with the dying, and of the awful
waste of human life and energy that may
be summed up under the title of war.

Verestchagin has drawn for us on canvas
some of the things we find in Tolstoy s writ
ings, and it is not improbable that the mind
of Mr. Stephen Crane received distinct im
pressions from " Sevastopol " and " War
and Peace " before he wrote " The Red
Badge of Courage."

It is not likely that the Russian novelist
will give much more to the world, as he is
now well advanced in years, and has re
cently devoted himself to studies of the prac
tical phases of life rather than to fiction.

A XE\V LINE OF SONG.

Dr. Louis Frechette, the Canadian poet
laureate, was once called by Longfellow
" the pathfinder of a new line of song." This
title he has now handed on to William
Henry Drummond, who has opened up an
unexplored song region in his new book,
" The Habitant and Other French Canadian
Poems." We shall have little need for the
kale yard hereafter if our own continent can
still supply us with fresh discoveries of
human nature in dialect, quite equal to any
thing we could import.

Mr. Drummond has taken the language of
his poems directly from the lips of the habit
ant farmer, not forcibly, in a summer vaca
tion, but by living beside him year after year
and collecting it little by little, wherever it
best expressed the nature of the man who
shaped it. The language is, literally, the
English picked up orally by an unlettered
backwoodsman whose native tongue is cor
rupt French. It is humorous, piquant, full
of linguistic short cuts and quaint idioms,
yet intelligible at the first glance. For the
last reason, no doubt, many will deny it the
title of dialect, which is to them a thing that
can be deciphered only by holding the book
at different angles, snatching an eyeful of
words, impressionist fashion, and saying
them out loud till the meaning starts out
from their obscurity. One may peruse Mr.
Drummond s poems in the hush of a reading
room and not be put out for disturbing
everybody else; and yet for all that they are
unmistakably in dialect, and a new one at
that.

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MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

Through the wording one sees the face
of the habitant, seamed and bro\vned by
weather; in it the childlike simplicity of
those who live out of doors, the kindliness of
those who notice the sight and scent and
sound of growing things, the sympathetic
humor that comes from an understanding of
children and animals and lovers, the con
tentment of happy ignorance. He has
" plaintee good healt , wat de monee can t
geev ; "

he is happ3 and feel satisfy,
An cole may las good w ile, so long as de

woodpile
Is ready for burn on de stove by an bye.

He is not ambitious. When Batccse wants
to go to the States and get rich, the habitant
cannot understand it:

I m very satisfy
De bes man don t leev too long tain ; some day,

ba Gosh ! he die
An s pose you got good trotter horse an nice

famine Canadienne
\Vit plaintee on de house for eat u- at more you

want, ma frien ?

But, for all his contentment and naivete, he
is no fool about the outside world, recog
nizing that it has forces unknown to the
habitant. As he warns Batecse, " Dere s
plaintee feller on de State more smarter dan
you be." Only those who live close to the
earth can betray such a mixture of shrewd
ness and innocence.

There will be many poets to follo\v along
this new track Mr. Drumtnond has blazed,
but none will show its people more truly and
more intimately.

MR. HOWELLS AND MRS. STOWE.

Mr. W. D. Howells has lately been inter
viewed, and he has something to say con
cerning women novelists. He calls George
Eliot the greatest English novelist of her
century, greater than Dickens or Thackeray
or any of the rest. He points out Mrs.
Humphry Ward as doing work as good as
any that is being done today. And he men
tions " Uncle Tom s Cabin " as the best
novel that has been written in America.

As a matter of curiosity, we should like to
know when Mr. Howells last put down
" Uncle Tom s Cabin." Some scientific
people, some people learned in the tricks of
the brain, had a conference the other day,
and they proved to their own satisfaction
that we do not have long memories, but a
long series of linked impressions. For ex
ample, Mr. Howells probably read " Uncle
Tom s Cabin " when he was a boy and the
subject was red hot. He lived in Ohio, bor
dered on one side by Kentucky, and adjacent
on another to West Virginia. He was near

enough to slavery and the first stations of
the " underground railway " to feel every
line of Mrs. Stowe s book when he first read
it, because he had just the right point of
view. To him it was true and great, then.
The crudities were all lost in the feeling.

Now Mr. Howells memory, according to
the mental scientists, is not long enough to
remember " Uncle Tom s Cabin " itself.
For a few years he did; then in the next
period, he remembered w-hat he thought of
it. and presently the book was entirely gone.
He thinks now that " Uncle Tom s Cabin "
is the greatest American novel. And so do
thousands of other people. But if they had
never seen it until today well, they wouldn t
read it. They would laugh at some of it.
There are people who do. It still has a
great circulation at the libraries. It appeals
to people who love a certain sentimental
melodrama, but Mr. Howells is entirely too
good a critic to pin himself down to such an
extreme laudation of it.

It is difficult for us today to realize any
thing like the excitement that the book-
created. It was the first popular serial pub
lished in this country, and it grew under
Mrs. Stowe s hand while it was being printed
in a Washington newspaper. It sent the
paper s circulation into undreamed of num
bers, and when it came out as a book it was
a bomb. Its sale was prohibited in many
States, and in some it was a misdemeanor to
own it. The daughter of a prominent
Southern statesman of that day was so
anxious to read it that she bribed a boy
cousin to go into another State and get her
a copy, and then she was afraid to keep it in
the house. She would let a string out of her
window at night, and after the book was at
tached would draw it up, letting it down
again before daylight.

Professor John Fiske, perhaps the most
eminent of our living historians, takes a
deep interest in the immigration question,
and is president of the Immigration Restric
tion League of Massachusetts, as well as a
Harvard professor. He believes that while
the bill of two years ago failed of passage,
owing to President Cleveland s veto. Con
gress and the country have been educated to
regard some such legislation as necessary.
The league intends to continue its work
until there is upon the statute book a law
prescribing a simple educational test, and
calculated to exclude from our shore the
hopelessly ignorant class of aliens.
# * * *

When a cabinet minister is convicted of
blackmail and packed off to the penitentiary,
one would naturally suppose that was the
end of him. But not at all. He has only to

LITERARY CHAT.

283

face his punishment with a scrutinizing busi
ness eye and turn his dungeon impressions
into copy, and soon he has all the notoriety
he can desire.

It is a strange act to carve arabesques on
the stick one was beaten with and to hand it
back with a bow to those who instigated and
applauded the beating. In one unjustly
convicted it might argue a noble character,
but in a politician who well deserved all he
got it suggests a certain lack of sensitiveness.

Nevertheless, Paris has taken a vivid in
terest in the "Impressions Cellulaires" of M.
Baihaut. The author was convicted of levy
ing blackmail on the Panama Company for
the sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand
francs, and collected the material for his
book from the four walls of the solitary cell
which the government placed at his disposal.
There is a callous impertinence about this
that would make M. Baihaut the glory of a
New York newspaper.

* * * *

A literary limbo is to be established in
Florence, to which only the condemned may
be admitted. All the books the Roman
Catholic Church has censured will be gath
ered together, and the authors she has sup
pressed will take a bold place in this assem
blage of the damned. The heretical, the im
moral, and the blasphemous will rub shoul
ders on the shelves with the indiscreet and
the inexpedient. The church s ban will be
the only condition necessary for admission.

The Vatican, naturally enough, has pro
tested against this, claiming that it is an
outrage against decency as well as against
church discipline. The government answers
that such a collection would show how the
church has grown and broadened, and what
wise distinctions it makes in literary mat
ters a reply so courteous that its possible
irony must be ignored. The collection will

be a curious one, and not uninstructive.

* * * *

A book s name often has an astonishing
influence on its first sale. A title that piques
curiosity or suggests excitement or emo
tion will draw a crowd of readers the mo
ment it appears, while a book soberly named
must force its merits on the public. The
former has all the advantage of a pretty girl
over a plain one; it is given an instantaneous
chance to prove itself worth while. A mid
dle aged, unalluring title (" In Search of
Quiet," for instance) may frighten people
away from what proves to be a mine of wit
and human interest. A book headed by a
man s name, unmodified and uncommented
on such as " Horace Chase " is apt to
have a dreary, unprepossessing air, unless the
name is an incisive one that suggests an in
teresting personality. Fragments of prov
erbs and poems are always attractive, as

well as Biblical phrases and colloquial ex
pressions, but the magic title is the one that
excites and baffles curiosity. The publishers
of a recent " Primer of Evolution " received
a sudden flood of orders for the book simply
on account of a review which had spoken of
it under the sobriquet, " From Gas to
Genius." Many copies were indignantly
returned when the true title was revealed.

* * * *

Mr. Harold Frederic s novel, " The Damnation
of Theron Ware," has had an uncommon suc
cess. It is now in its twenty eighth thousand,
and the publishers report that the present de
mand is as large as ever. That it was out of
print for some time was due to the failure of its
former publishers.

The foregoing item, clipped from the
literary notes of a New York daily, inspires
some strange reflections. That a novel en-
joying an uncommon success " should be
out of print owing to the failure of its
publishers " seems at first blush an anomaly
of striking dimensions. Of course business
mismanagement must have been at the bot
tom of the matter, but the casual reader
might gain the impression that publishing a
successful book was to be classed among the
luxuries along with owning a yacht.

* * * *

The history of the old daily Truth, the first
of the modern crop of one cent New York
papers, has a peculiar interest just now, in
view of the sensationalism that characterizes
certajn of our journals. Truth was started
at a time when the price of white paper was
so high that even with a four page sheet the
margin of possible profit was very small.
It gained steadily in circulation, however,
and at the time of the Garfield-Hancock
campaign was regarded as a well estab
lished and valuable newspaper property. It
was in this campaign that it published the
famous " Morey letter," which attracted so
much attention that it took a week to print
all the copies of the issue containing it that
were ordered from every part of the country.

The publishers of Truth congratulated
themselves on their good fortune in obtain
ing for their sheet such unheard of publicity,
and even experienced newspaper men be
lieved that they would reap great benefits.
But the Morey letter was shown to be a for
gery, the public soon came to despise those
who had imposed it upon them, and finally
the newsboys got into the habit of ridiculing
the paper by calling out, " Here ye are!
Troot, all full o lies, only one cent! "

Then began a decline that no power on
earth could stop, and after a hopeless strug
gle Truth suspended, leaving behind it a
memory which should serve as a warning to
those who think that " what the public want
is plenty of sensation."

BY MAX PEMBERTON.

The success of Mr. Pemberton s recent books has gained him a place among
the leading novelists of the present day, and " The "Woman of Kronstadt " will
confirm his literary repute and his popularity It is a strong story, realistic and
novel in its scenes and characters; a story of love, adventure, and intrigue, in
which woman s wit and man s courage are matched against the mighty military
power of Russia.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

TEMPTED by the large reward secretly offered by the British government for a complete map
of the mighty Russian fortress of Kronstadt, on the Gulf of Finland, Marian Best, a beautiful
English girl in straitened circumstances, and with a little brother dependent upon her, undertakes
the commission. Obtaining the position of governess to the daughters of the commandant of the
fortress, General Stefanovic, she has many opportunities to secure information. Captain Paul
Zassulic, a Russian artillery officer, falls in love with her, and while she reciprocates his affec
tion, she cannot bring herself to give up her hazardous enterprise. Finally Russian agents
in London learn that certain plans have been transmitted to the English government, and when
the tidings reach Kronstadt suspicion is directed toward the Englishwoman. Not long afterward,
Marian enters the general s cabinet in search of a necessary document, and she is about to copy
it when Paul Zassulic enters. The young officer is horrified at his discovery, but when he hears
the girl s pitiful story his great love for her overmasters his sense of duty and he resolves not to
betray her. But she has been watched, and their conversation is overheard. The following morning
Marian is seized and taken before the general for a hearing, and, realizing the futilit3 - of denial,
Paul bears witness to her guilt. She is imprisoned in Fort Alexander, but some weeks later Zassulic
persuades the general to give him an order transferring the girl to Fort Katherine, where she will
be less harshly treated. Unable to endure longer the thought of Marian suffering the hardships of a
Russian prison, Paul escapes with her on board his yacht, the Esmeralda. When their flight is
discovered, warships are sent out to intercept them. Unable to get by the neck of the gulf, they
take refuge among the islands off the coast of Finland. Her desire to save the man she loves from
the consequences of her folly leads Marian to believe that if he were alone it would be possible for
him to return to Kronstadt with some story that would convince the Russians of his fidelity. In
consequence, she leaves the yacht in a small boat unseen. After several hours the girl ceases row
ing and lands on a small islet, which, however, proves to be quite desolate. When she returns to
the shore she finds that the tide has ebbed, and her strength will not permit her to move the boat.
In despair she sinks upon the sand and weeps bitterly.

XVII.

^ I AHE fit of weeping passed when reason
_1_ had come to her own again, and
Marian sat a long while gazing wist
fully over the rippling sheen of the sea.
Once she thought that she heard a gun
fired in the distance, and this spoke to her
of a life being lived around her, of other
isles near by wherein menls voices were
heard and the laughter of children. She
began to argue that she had but to wait for
the flood of the tide to put off her boat, that
she might come to some neighboring shore
which would offer more welcome harbor

age. Weary and faint as she was, with
hope dimmed and courage broken, despair
was not for such an hour. She had the idea
to go up to the cliff and there to drink at
the spring which she had seen jetting forth
from the face of the rock. Then she would
sleep, and night would bring her food and
friends.

While she knew nothing of her situation,
of the land upon which she was cast or of
its environment, she was in reality upon
that place known to" Finns as the Island of
the Holy Well. In circuit perhaps the
third part of a mile, this speck of land lay
five miles from that other isle which had

* Cfffiy right, 1807, by D. A ffteton & Coinfatry, Nem I ~ork.

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

harbored the Esmeralda from the storm.
But it was a kindlier shore, for the cliff
reared its head only on the westward side,
and elsewhere silver sand made a bed, as of
the dust of jewels, for the gentle seas which
fell upon it. A few sickly trees stood senti
nels about the spring, and heather-like
bushes thrived and flourished in the path of
the water. Marian sought the scanty shade
of these trees so soon as it was plain to her
that she must await the will of the sea. She
drank long drafts of the fresh water, and
bathed her face and hands in the translucent
pool. Now that the sun shone gloriously
upon the island, her heart was lighter and
her hope grew strong. She perceived other
isles distant no more than a mile, where she
could distinguish the cottages of fishermen.
Night should find her sleeping in one of
tin ise huts. She would sleep the sounder
because she was alone; because she had
found strength to give as it had been given
unto her.

" I shall live my life with little Dick," she
said. " There is always a living in England
for those who will work. We will face the
world together, he and I, and God will show
us the road. I shall forget that it has ever
been otherwise; Paul will marry a Russian,
and yesterday will be scored out of the book."

She was tearing at the grass vindictively
when she said this; and the sheen of the
pool glowing radiantly, she beheld her own
face in it a face white and drawn and piti
ful, with curls run wild and eyes shining
from black rings. Ill as the picture pleased,
a little vanity helped her to recall the faces
of the Russian women she had known, and
therein she found a great content. It \vas
good to tell herself that Paul s wife would
have the face of a Japanese; that her figure
would be flat like a board; that her skin
would be parched and brown, and that her
dresses would come from Paris and would
not fit her. She said that she hated all
Russian women ; but the woman who was to
be his wife she hated already with a hatred
which, when she reflected upon it a little
while, compelled her to laugh. And she
was still laughing when she saw the appari
tion upon the beach.

She had been so intent upon her occupa
tion of gazing into the pool that for the
time being she lost all memory of the island
and of the silent seas about her. When she
looked up again and came back to remem
brance, her first thought was of the boat
lying down there upon the silver sand below
her. Quickly her eyes sought it out; but
she could scarce trust them when she beheld
a strange figure, come she knew not whence,
to stand by the sea shore and watch her vain
employment.

The figure was that of a man garbed in a
flowing robe of brown cloth girdled at the
waist with a coarse, knotted rope. Huge in
stature, the monk, for such he seemed to be,
stood motionless as a pillar of rock. His
long, waving hair fell upon his shoulders
abundantly and was caught by the gentle
breeze, which tossed it over his haggard face
so that his features were hidden; the glow
ing eyes shone cadaverously with a light of
fasting and of faith. So old were the
leather sandals he wore that they permitted
the sharp rock to cut his feet, the sea to
wash them. Strange and forbidding, like
some wild man of the woods, the apparition
stood with folded arms to watch the girl:
while she in turn, speechless with fear and
dread of the mystery, crouched upon the
grass, and found herself unable to utter a
word or stir a step from the place. Never
in all her life had she been so conscious of
that ultimate terror of the unseen which sur
passes the terror of death itself. Sure as she
was that no human thing had moved upon
the island when she first trod it, this appari
tion seemed to have risen up before her from
the very heart of the rock. Her impulse
was to cry out, to flee the place as an abode
of dreadful images; but her limbs did not
answer to her will. The cry she would have
uttered froze upon her lips; she shook with
the beating of her heart. For some little
while, indeed, the trance of fear passed to
oblivion. She fell in a swoon, and when
consciousness returned to her the apparition
had vanished.

Marian Best had never known, until she
came to Russia, what the meaning of a nerv
ous system might be. Though her nerves
had been shattered by the terrors of Alex
ander and by days and nights of dreadful
contemplation, she was still able to recover
quickly from panic and to laugh at it. When
she found herself crouching upon the grass
and was conscious of a great glare of sun
light in her eyes, she did not, upon the in
stant, recall why she had swooned. The
island about her was as desolate as when
first she set foot upon it; the sea droned its
lazy song as though welcoming the restful
spring; the beach showed no sign of human
thing. She watched it dreamily for a little
while and then recalled the terror.

" It was a dream," she said, though she
shuddered again at the memory. " I must
have been asleep. How could there be any
one here, or, if there is, why should I be
afraid of him? What nonsense to think of
such things! " Consoling herself thus, she
sprang up lightly and ran down to the shore.
Her boat was just as she had left it; but
when she turned to examine the sand there
about she discovered the unmistakable im-

286

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

press of a sandaled foot. She could trace
the steps to the border of the grass, but
thereafter they were lost. And at this she
stood spellbound again; not fearing because
a man \vas with her upon the island, but be
cause he hid himself thus from her. and his
place of habitation was not to be discovered
by her eyes. She had heard, it is true, of
fanatical hermits who build pillars for them
selves upon these lone rocks of Finland: but
the traditions did not help her reasoning.
She thought that she could never rest until
she had seen and spoken to the unknown.
The terrible hunger from which she suffered
drove her rather to desire a meeting with
him. She must know that he was human.
Calling out with all her strength, she began
to run across the island; she searched the
beach and all the little caves and crannies
cut out in the heart of the rock. She stood
to listen for the sound of steps; but the
dreadful silence was unbroken. No dwelt-
ing place or other trace of man, save those
footsteps upon the shore, was to be discov
ered. It was an awful thought for her, that
thought of mystery and concealment. It
was more dreadful to think that night might
come and trap her still on the haven.

The sun had passed the meridian by this
time. It was nearly three of the afternoon.
Hunger, relentless and increasing, became
an added punishment of her pilgrimage. She
had the strength to walk no more, yet feared
to sleep. She knew not what might happen
to her if she lost consciousness, and the ap
parition should stand over her w 7 hile she
dreamed. Her place of refuge was a ledge
of rock raised ten feet above the sand and so
narrow that any one coming up to her must
awake her in the act. Here she was shel
tered from the sun. A great boulder of
granite hid her from the view of any who
should pass on the beach below. At the
very moment when she said that she would
not close her eyes, nature prevailed above
her resolution and she fell into a sound sleep,
from which she did not wake until the sun
was dipping into the sea and the chill of a
spring sunset was upon the island.

The west was aflame then with mountains
of crimson light merging at the crown of the
arc into orange and purple artd the finer
shades of yellow. The monitive stillness of
the coming night lay heavily upon the
waters. There were gray shadows every
where, and darkness in the glens of the rock.
Marian sat up. blaming herself that she had
slept s6 long. Her brain burned and her
hands were hot and dry. She had never
known that hunger could be such a cruel
foe. It seemed to her then that she would
have given half her years for a drink of milk
and a cake of bread. All the dainties she

loved were shaped, in fancy, before her eyes;
she could have eaten the very grass. Slowly
and painfully she rose, determined to go up
again and drink a little water at the spring;
but no sooner was she on her feet than she
cried out with joy and clapped her hands
like a child that hears of holiday.

While she slept some one had set a rough
wooden dish at her side. She opened it to
find that it contained a loaf of coarse brown
bread with a mess of meat and vegetables.
And close by there was a bottle of red wine,
rough and sour, but more sweet to the little
wanderer than all the vintages of cham
pagne.

" A miracle, a miracle! " she cried gladly,
while she took the black bread in her hands
and drank a long draft of the wine. " The
ghost has been here while I slept, and I share
his dinner. Oh, how good it is to eat and
drink! " The wine warmed her as a strong
cordial. Blood suffused her cheeks; there
was a nervous pulsation in all her limbs.
She feared the apparition no more, for she
knew that some wandering priest must be
with her upon the island, and that he had set
the food at her side. All her thought then
was to get her boat into the water and set
off for that unknown port which to her
should be a port of safety. She would not
delay another hour upon the desolate isle,
for the flood was now surging upon the
beach and the heralds of night were wing
ing in the east.

Strong in the desire to quit the lonely
scene, she ate her food quickly and ran
down to the beach. But there she stood
once more irresolute, for a ship lay in the
offing, and it was one of the most curious
she had ever seen.

XVIII.

IT was midday, and the Esmeralda lay at
anchor in the shelter of some outstanding
rocks which girdled an island distant three
miles from that haven which had witnessed
the flight of Marian. Two of the four men
who had accompanied her master from
Kronstadt were to be seen upon her decks;
but so well chosen was her place of hiding,
and so wonderfully did the boulders of rock
shield her, that her crew were indifferent
alike to the presence of a Russian cruiser
which lay at anchor in the distant offing,
and to the eyes of the neighboring fisher
men whose boats dotted the unruffled sur
face of the sea.

Of the two upon the deck, one was old
John Hook, who leaned heavily upon the
bulwarks and exposed his brawny arms and
matted hair to the welcome warmth of the
spring sun; the other was Reuben, the en-

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

287

gineer, who squatted wearily upon a coil of
rope.

" Eight bells! " said Reuben, filling a pipe
with a seaman s deliberation. " Eight bells,
John by gosh, I d like to know where we
shall be at eight bells tomorrow! "

"To hell with the bells!" replied John
Hook, spitting vindictively into the sea.
" I m derned if all you chaps don t think
you re sky pilots. It ll want something
more than a death s head Rooshian to put a
white choker round me, as sure as my name s
John Hook."

Reuben continued to cut his tobacco
methodically.

" Women are rum uns, I m blest if they re
not," said he, after a spell. " To think as
she should have turned it up, in the middle
of the night, too! Why, if she d held on
another twelve hours we d have put her into
Stockholm afore morning. What was in
her head, that s what I want to know? "

" Common sense, that s what was in her
head, mate. She s a rare plucked un if ever
I sailed with one. Why, think of a little bit
of goods like that, not more n you could
crush in yer and easy a little bit of goods
like that agen all Rooshia and agen all the
world. Where s she now? Starvin meybe
meybe in one o them ground floor hells
they call a prison in these parts. And why s
she dun it? Why, so as they shan t find her
along wi him. It s a cruel thing, mate, a
bit of a gal all alone on a shore like this.
I m derned if I wouldn t sign, for a twelve
month if that would bring her back agen."

Reuben lit his pipe and got up to watch
the distant warship.

" Well," said he, " wishin ain t goin to
bring her back, John, and as for that I d
take my dinner more easy if yon lot would
weigh. Supposin they ve no news of us,
what are they doing there? Is it for to see
a fisher fleet? Gah, a nipper wouldn t
swallow that! "

"Who s asking of you to swallow it?"
said the other testily. " Of course they ve
the news; but having the news and sighting
us through ten feet of rock s a different
story, ain t it? Who s to tell em we re
lying here? Are we goin to run up a fleg,
or is one of them swabs a fishin out there
goin to beat in a mile to spy us out? Burn
me, niate, if you don t talk like a babe and
sucklin ! "

Reuben smoked angrily and crossed to the
other side of the ship.

" I wish the guvnor was aboard," said
he. " There ain t no good to be done over
yonder, I ll swear. It s eight hours since
she went now. You want a good eye to
spy out eight hours, John."

" That s so, mate, always rememberin as

tides don t go off like women s tongues, for
ever and ever. If she ain t gone ashore
afore this, she s somewhere in the flow of
this channel, and there we ll find her. It ll
take more than the skipper of Petersburg
to stop me when it s an English lady that s
between us. I m derned if I wouldn t pull
his nose for a shilling! "

HP added to the volume of the sea again;
but Reuben continued to gaze wistfully at
the island upon which his master had landed
to see if he could learn anything of the little
fugitive. Paul, indeed, seemed almost to
have lost his reason since they told him that
she had gone. The sure knowledge that he
had played for the great stake and had lost
all robbed him of the power to think or act.
He saw himself branded as a traitor by the
men who had known and loved him; cast
out from the career of his ambition to these
desolate islands, utterly alone at a moment
when, with all his heart and soul, he yearned
lor the love which destiny had robbed him
of.

" My little wife, my love," he had cried,
when they brought him the news, " I cannot
lose you! Oh, God, help me, I cannot live
alone again! "

Haggard and worn and weary with grief,
the man who had dared all for a woman s
love learned that love was to come no more
into his life. God had snatched the cup
from his lips at a moment when he had first
tasted the sweetness of the draft. He began
to remember all that Marian had meant to
him. He recalled her tenderness, her pret-
tiness, the delight of that hour when he had
whispered his love in the shadow of the bas
tions of Kronstadt. He swore to God that
he would never see the sun again if she were
not given back to him. Curses rose to his
lips; an evil voice whispered that the woman
had left him to carry the plans of the great
fortress to England, and there to sell them
as she had intended. To this voice he
would not listen; and when the paralysis of
despair had passed, a new activity, the activ
ity of the quest for her, possessed him as a
fever. He would find her, he said, though
he lived and died on that ultimate shore.
One boat remained to the Esmeralda, the
dingey which she carried amidships. He
commanded them to lower it, that no haven
of creek or channel might remain un-
searched. Reckless, defiant, caring nothing
for prudence or pursuit, his voice was raised
pitifully in many a rocky harbor and upon
many a shore. The moan of the wind alone
answered him. The desolate sea was un-
pi tying.

At midday the yacht made an island prom
inent among the others by reason of a curi
ous girdle of outstanding rocks which de-

288

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

fended it. It was he"re that the men first
observed the Russian cruiser lying far out at
sea, and warped their ship to one of the
boulders of the rock while their master,
headstrong and not to be restrained, went
ashore to see if the heights of the new land
would help him to discover the missing boat
and the little wanderer, whose purpose in
flight was now becoming more clear to him.
But the journey was fruitless. He looked
out from the heights upon a sea dotted with
crags and isles; often shining with still
lagoons of sunlit water; showing here and
there the hulls of fishing boats, but giving
no other answer to his question. A great
fear, the fear that Marian had indeed been
taken by the cruiser, began to give place to
the supposition that she had taken refuge
upon the shore. Nevertheless, he continued
to watch and to wait, and would not return
to the yacht until the quick eyes of his com
panion perceived the danger of the place and
of the scene.

" They have put out a boat, sir," said the
man. " What s more, they fire a gun."

A puff of white smoke floated up from the
deck of the distant cruiser, and anon the
muted roar of a gun was to be heard. Paul
delayed no longer upon the island, but hast
ened to regain his ship, and there to consult
with those who, in their rough way, offered
him so precious a sympathy.

" Ahoy! " said old John merrily, when the
dingey came into view. " Ye have news, sir?"

Paul shook his head.

" The cruiser is putting oft" a boat; that is
my news, John."

"To hell with the boat! What s a boat
got to do with us? "

Paul laughed grimly while he swung up
on to the deck of the Esmeralda.

" You are good fellows," he said, "and you
have been true friends to me. It is of no
use to deceive you any more, and it would
be wrong to bring trouble upon you. I am
the one to answer for this business, and I am
ready to answer. What happens now is
nothing to me. But you, my friends, must
all go ashore and leave me to make my an
swer alone."

John Hook thrust his hands deep into his
trousers pockets.

" Look here, sir," he said determinedly,
" if it s questions, I m on that job. And let
me arst you this: am I a Britisher or am I a
furringer? "

He looked appealingly to the others, who
said knowingly:

" Aye, aye, that s the question, John."

Paul laughed again.

" I do not care what you are," said he.
" It is sufficient that you have been my
friends."

" And friends we ll remain. Leave you
here alone! By the Lord, I d tar myself
first! What, call us men? I m derned if I
don t go cold to think of it. Is my name
John Hook? Is my port Swansea, or ain t
it? Am I going ashore because a lot of lub
bers cruise round and fire off a popgun? I m
damned if I don t blush like a gal to hear
you say so, sir."

Paul held out his hand and shook the
great rough paw of the English seaman.

" I wish you were my countryman," he
said. " If you will not go ashore, you shall
stay with me to the end, and it shall be as
God wills. I have few friends now I have
no longer a country "

His voice failed him, and he turned away,
pretending to watch the coming boat, which
was now being rowed rapidly toward the
shore. It was as though the messenger of
destiny winged across the sea. The hand of
fate appeared to be thrust out toward him.
There was sunlight for his eyes today; but
tomorrow there would be darkness, the
darkness of the pitiless reckoning. He saw
himself carried back to Kronstadt in igno
miny; he would stand alone, he said; the
little head which should have nestled upon
his shoulder was to comfort him no more.
And he had no longer a reproach upon his
lips. The friendship of the stout hearts that
sailed with him was a thing precious to him
beyond words.

The Esmeralda had been warped to a rock
sufficiently high to conceal her mast from
any passing ship. The hands clambered
upon this rock when the dingey was hauled
up; and therefrom they watched the long
boat which the Russian warship had lowered.
Phlegmatic as they were in word and deed,
the steady approach of the strange craft set
their hearts beating with suppressed excite
ment. They could not turn their eyes away;
they watched her as she drew towards them
foot by foot. Some even whispered schemes
for their defense; others spoke of the skip
per s pistol and of their own good knives.
John Hook alone cried out upon such an
idea, and his word prevailed.

" There s twenty men yonder if there s
one," said he doggedly. " Supposing as
this is their port, do you think they re bring
ing umbrellas with them? My eyes and
limbs, that s a woman s notion! And who s
goin to sit here for a Rooshian swab to play
marbles with him? Not me, by thunder!
But I ll tell you what, mates: if we cast off
we can back out while they re coming round,
and there ll be three hundred yards between
us afore they wake up to it. And there
won t be nobody on deck besides me for
them to pop at. It s for the guvnor to
say; but I know what I should do if old

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

289

death s head yonder was coming down my
street."

" Aye, aye, John s right," cried the others.

" I leave it to you," exclaimed Paul indif
ferently. " I care no longer the time for
that has passed."

They cast the ship free at the words, and
stood with boat hooks to steady her. So
great was the silence of doubt and expect
ancy that the sound of the men breathing
was like a whisper of voices. Yard by yard
the strange craft crept into the bay. They
could see the cutlases her men carried, could
read the name upon her prow, and the agony
of doubt was scarce to be endured when the
lieutenant in charge of the boat cried an
order and his crew ceased to row. Then,
indeed, Paul said that the hour was at
hand that the dream was done with.

For twenty seconds, perhaps, the long
boat lay still upon the lagoon. The men
watching and waiting upon the decks of the
Esmeralda shut their eyes and stood like
figures of bronze. But that was the supreme
moment, and when they had counted twenty
their hearts began to quicken with a tremen
dous hope, and they could scarce restrain
themselves from crying out. For the oars
were dipped again, and going about sud
denly the Russian boat made off towards the
further side of the island. The sigh of relief
from the watchers was almost a nervous
titter. Paul found that his forehead was wet
and cold with icy perspiration.

" It is not for us, after all." he said daz
edly. " I do not understand."

" But I do," cried John Hook excitedly.
" Look yonder, sir. D ye see that white
barge with the three masts? It s a leper
ship, I guess. The monks aboard these
load with lepers as we load with coal. They
go from island to island until they ve took
a cargo, and then they head north for the
orspital. That s what brings old death s
head this way. He must have a patient for
em."

It was as he said. The cruiser s boat was
rowed straight to a lumbering, barge-like
ship which had appeared suddenly in the
center of the lagoon. Twenty minutes later
the small boat was but a speck in the offing,
and the men of the Esmeralda were at
dinner.

XIX.

THE strange craft which held Marian
wondering upon the beach of her island lay
perhaps a quarter of a mile from the shore.
It had three masts, whereof two were very
short and one lofty and capped with a great
golden crucifix, which shone glitteringly in
the crimson light of the setting sun. A

brown jib, half lowered, flapped to the fitful
breeze, and a vast mainsail, resembling in
many ways the lateen sails of the south, half
hid the decks from view. Marian observed
that the color of the vessel s hull was a dull
white, ornamented with many crimson
crosses, and that which she thought must be
an inscription, though her eyes could not
read the lettering. At the same time, she
could make out the figures of many men
standing together upon the poop of the ship,
and a long white boat, which had carried
four of its crew to the beach, now lay with
its bow upon the sands and its stern rolled
by the breaking waves. Of the four men
who rowed the boat, three sat still at their
oars, but the other stood in close talk with
the recluse whom Marian had watched and
feared earlier in the day. She could see that
the two men were asking the meaning of her
visit to the island, for they pointed often to
her own boat, and walked a little way to
examine it more closely.

Her first thought was to go out and speak
with them, telling, if she could, of her con
dition, and begging them to give her passage
to some more friendly shore. But a subtle
instinct which spoke of the unfathomable
superstitions of the Finns, and of their
cruelty when those superstitions were
aroused, held her a little while to her place
of shelter behind the great boulder, and there
from she watched the men. Much to her
surprise she perceived that the recluse was
no old man, as she had thought, but one still
in the springtime of life. His long, flowing
locks of black hair and the coarse robe
which clothed him had deceived her. She
had never imagined a young monk. As for
the other, though he also wore the rough
habit of brown stuff, his hair was short and
crisp and his face was the face of an intelli
gent man. That he read the story of the
visit aright, she could not doubt. He
pointed often towards the distant gulf with a
gesture which seemed to tell her that the
secret not only of her presence upon the
island, but also of her flight from Kronstadt,
was known to him, and this sent her back to
the shelter of the higher rocks, where she
stood trembling with a vague dread, not so
much of the discovery as of the men.

The last of the day was ebbing at this time;
the fitful dusk of northern latitudes gave
gray hues to all things about her, so that
the men upon the distant ship were as figures
moving in shadow , and a haze of night
floated above the waters. She seemed to
be the habitant of a strange world, an un
real world of fear and fantasy. The visit of
the cowled friars to her shore accentuated
her loneliness. She crouched upon the
rocks and cried despairingly for her lover,

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as though some miracle would wing her
voice across the sea. Until that moment
she had never realized how this love had
grown protectingly about her heart, so that
without it the very fount of life ebbed and
was dried up.

" Paul, my love," she cried, " I cannot
live without you! Come to me! I have no
friend but you in all the world."

Voices answered her, but not the voice of
him she called. She raised her pretty head
to listen, and she heard sweet, melodious
music floating to her from the distant ship.
It rose and fell as a song of the placid sea
a harmony of many voices united in the
evening hymn. The rocks gave it back in
lingering echoes. It was as though nereids
had come up from the depths to hymn the
setting sun ; to greet the darkness and the
hour of their amours. When the last note
died away she continued still to hunger for
those sweet sounds; but other singers raised
their voices in turn to chant a dirge-like
litany; and this was a true hymn to the dark
ness, so weird, so mournful, so full of the
suggestion of death and after.

Marian shuddered at this new song, for it
carried her back to, the place of shadows.
When she had listened to it a little while,
the harmonies became more clear, the note
of the sonorous voices deeper. She awoke
to the fact that the singers, whoever they
were, had left the ship and were coming to
the shore. Lanterns now cast their yellow
light upon the pulsing swell. A flame of
torches illumined weirdly the rugged faces
of a company which seemed to have voy
aged from some monastery of the ultimate
seas. Anon, three boats touched the sands,
and a band of men, all garbed in the pil
grims dress, began to gather upon the shore
and to congregate about some dark object
which the shadows hid from the watcher s
eyes. She perceived to her surprise that an
acolyte in a cassock and cotta carried a
brazen crucifix on high. Torch bearers
walked at his side. Thurifers swung cen
sers from which an odorous smoke floated
perfumingly on the still air. Presently a
procession was formed and began to wind
its way to the cliff of the island. The dirge-
like chant was taken up again; the burden
which the men carried was hidden no longer
from the watcher s eyes. She saw that it
was a coffin. The monks had come ashore
to bury their dead.

The procession advanced slowly, for the
thurifers turned often to cense the coffin and
the priest to sprinkle it with holy water.
Solemnly and deliberately the singers set
out for the grass plateau by the well from
which Marian had drunk earlier in the day.
She, on her part, stood white and trembling

in the shadow of the cliff. Though it was
plain to her that the men had not come to
the island in quest of her, she feared the
visitation as she had never feared anything
in all her life. The hour, the misty twilight,
the brown habits, tortured her imagination.
She did not ask herself wherefrom such
strange voyagers had come; her thought
was to escape them even at the risk of dis
covery. But escape was not to be. So
close to her did the procession pass that she
could have touched the cross bearer with
her hand. She beheld the faces of the
monks and read in them the visual record
of fasting and of an emaciating faith. One
by one they passed her; here an old man
bent with the penance of the years: there a
youth whose eyes were aflame with the light
of visions; here a face that spoke of the
withered flesh ; there lips which had fed upon
the luxuries of life and still hungered for
them. And when the monks were gone up,
others followed in the grim train old men
hobbling, women weeping, even children.
Marian looked at the faces of these and her
heart seemed to be stilled. The mission of
the ship was a mystery to her no more.

" They are the lepers! " she cried and so
tried to draw back from them as though
God would open the rocks behind her and
hide from her terrified eyes the awful sights
they looked upon.

XX.

THE procession passed slowly, for many
stragglers followed the priests; the minutes
of waiting were as hours to the terrified
woman. Often the lantern s light flashed
in her very eyes; she felt the hot breath of
the lepers upon her cheeks; she thought to
be touched by their dreadful hands. Whence
they had come, whose the ship was, she did
not know. The story of the monks of the
northern seas and of their mission to the
outcasts of the islands was unknown to her.
She saw, rather, a visitation of spirits; the
dirge was a sound as of the woe of life; the
graves had given up their dead to haunt her.
While she had the impulse to flee, to seek,
if it must be, the refuge of the waves, the
ghostly shapes still held her to the rock.
Moaning voices of the lagging sick mingled
with the melancholy song of the billows; she
beheld the fanatical carousals of the des
perate, who laughed like imbeciles or cast
themselves, foaming, upon the grass, or
shrieked to heaven for the mercy of death.
Far above, on the heights, the monks were
digging a grave for him who had died at sea.
She heard their litanies as sweet interludes
to the cacophonous cries below; she re
pented bitterly that she had not gone down

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

291

earlier in the day and spoken with the re
cluse of the well. She remembered that she
was a woman alone with this rabble upon
w r hom God s curse seemed to have fallen.

At this time no thought of the peril of the
island troubled her. She thought no more
that she might be left alone upon it; nay,
she prayed that the sick might return speed
ily to their ship and leave her to the silence
and the night. But hours seemed to pass
before the monks came down from the
heights again. She watched the lanterns
dancing upon the hillside as a mariner
watches a beacon of the shore. Often she
said to herself, " They are coming now, I
hear them." Btit the litanies began anew;
the garish yellow stars would be still again;
the hoarse laughter or the weeping of some
leper near to her would crush her hope.
Childlike, she began to count, saying that
when she had numbered a thousand the ship
would sail. But of that she wearied; and.
impatiently, she crept out a little way from
her place of shelter and stood for a moment
that the breeze of the sea might blow upon
her heated face. In that moment a leper
observed her and sprang up with a loud cry
to seize her by the wrist and drag her toward
the open of the beach. It was as though the
ultimate horror had gripped her; had come
out of the darkness to embrace her in a
loathly and indescribable embrace.

She dared not look upon the man s face;
but vaguely, for speech was choked and all
her limbs were benumbed, she perceived
that he wore a tattered green uniform and
carried a knife stuck in a worn girdle. She
heard a torrent of words poured into her
shrinking ear, but had not Russian enough
to interpret them. Once she thought that
the man would have crushed her in his lusty
arms; and then she knew that he said,
" Thou art such as I have lost." When re
lease of tongue came, she raised her voice
again and again in shrieks of uncontrollable
fear; and at this other lepers ran up to the
place. Soon a rabble surrounded her and
the cry was uttered that she was a spy.
From twenty throats she heard the fierce
accusation "The Englishwoman! Kill
her tear her to pieces into the sea with
her! " Women, ragged and blear eyed,
forced their way to the heart of the swaying
throng; young girls laughed hysterically
and tried to strike her down; old men raised
their sticks to beat her bloodless face. She
was carried on, she knew not whither.
Countless eyes, shining with the fire of dis
ease, looked into her own; fleshless claws
ripped the dress from her shoulders; they
would have torn her into pieces, but for the
strong arm of the man who first had gripped
her. But he. roused to some dream of the

days before the curse, never once released
his hold of her. He bore her high above
the throng; he answered their curses with a
madman s laughter; the blows fell upon his
own face; they were as a flagellation of
straws to him; women struck him, but he
forced them back and trampled upon them.
On toward the sea he bore her; he had the
strength of ten men; the passions of the
maniac aroused the maniac s purpose. They
stood from him at last terrified; the devils
of their own superstitions possessed him.
Their cries ceased, their sticks were low
ered. He was alone when he dragged the
woman into her boat and thrust it from the
shore.

Marian had shut her eyes when the crowd
first pressed upon her. She thought that
this was the moment of her death; she waited
for some blow which would still the life
within her and permit her to rise up in spirit
above these horrid sights and sounds.
Strong as was her desire for insensibility, for
a trance of the mind, she did not swoon nor
lose her sense of time and place and of the
peril. She heard distinctly the fervid rav
ings of the madman who defended her; his
hot breath was upon her cheek: his loathly
touch was a torture. But still she would not
look at him. While the blood surged in her
ears and her brain whirled and her limbs
were paralyzed, she had no wish for life or
freedom ; no hope but that death would be
quick to come. When she felt the grip re
leased, and sank helpless from the man s
arms, she was conscious still that he was
beside her. She opened her eyes at last, to
discover that the boat was already some way
from the shore. She could see the lanterns
dancing on the hillside, could hear the
voices of the priests above the clamor of the
rabble. She knew that the man had saved
her; though whither he carried her, to what
Acheron of the night, she dare not think.

The leper was huge in stature and of great
strength. He plied the oar with a giant s
arms, so that the yacht s boat shot out
quickly toward the broad of the lagoon.
For the time being he appeared to have for
gotten the woman at his feet. His words
were incoherent and unceasing; he chat
tered horribly. Presently the island was but
a blot upon the sea; the lanterns were
twinkling stars. No longer were voices to
be heard; the stillness of the night lay like
a cloak upon the waters. Marian said that
she was being carried out of the world. She
shivered with the cold and the spray cast
upon her face. Gradually there crept upon
her a new dread; dread of him who had
saved her. She feared to move lest she
might remind him of her presence. She
could hear her own heart beating.

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

For a spell the man stood gazing with
wistful eyes towards the shore he had left.
Then, suddenly, he turned round and ut
tered a great cry, for he had forgotten the
woman; forgotten why he was in a boat
at all and how he had been driven from his
companions. But now the impulse which had
led him to clasp her in his arms was reborn.
He sank upon his knees and whispered wild
endearments; he stroked her hands gently
as one strokes an animal; he pushed her wet
hair from her forehead and held back her
head that he might look into her eyes. The
name by which he called her was the name
of her who had been a wife to him in Peters
burg long years ago. When she would have
drawn back from him shudderingly, the
words of love gave place to threats and rav
ings; he seized her by both wrists and would
have kissed her upon the lips. She screamed
with fear and rolled from his embrace.

Long minutes passed before either moved.
The leper had risen again and once more
looked out into the night; Marian was sob
bing with hysterical sobs which shook her
fragile body as leaves are shaken by the wind.

" Paul! " she moaned. " Oh, my God,
Paul, come to me! "

Faintly across the sea the answer came.
The madman listened to it with head erect
and hand stayed. Once, twice, the cry was
raised, the hail of English voices. To the
little wanderer it was as the music of heaven
itself. Courage seemed to rush into her
heart, to fire her will. She leaped up from
the bows of the boat and sprang into the sea.
A loud, demoniacal laugh followed her as
the spuming sea closed over her head. It
was the laughter of the leper, who had for
gotten her again.

The sea was still as a lake in summer; the
moon, new risen, cast a glow of silvery light
upon the sleeping lagoon. Marian felt the
water cold and sweet upon her face. She
had been a swimmer since her childhood;
she swam now as one hunted in the seas.
Onward toward the cry of English voices!
God would not drag her down, she said; she
thought already to feel her lover s embrace.
Life might be before her yet; the life with
him she had left. Tomorrow she might
nestle on his shoulder again, and tell him
that nothing now should carry her from his
side. Though her clothes were soaked and
weighty, though the gentle waves rolled
often over her mouth, she swam on with
courage unbroken. " I go to Paul," she
said. " Oh, God, help me, I cannot die
here! " The nether world seemed open to
receive her; but the stars shone above, the
gate of heaven was her lamp in the sky. A
future of love and affection was imagined
of her awakened brain.

Paul," she cried, "come to me! I will
not die! "

There was the pathos of an eternity of suf
fering in the prayer; but the night of her life
was at an end, and the God given day was
about to dawn. Even as she cried out, and
thought that cold hands were dragging her
down to the icy depths below, a boat shot
out from the loom of the darkness; strong
arms gripped her; she saw her lover bend
ing over her; she saw the starlit heaven;
warm lips kissed her forehead; she was
crushed in a close embrace the embrace of
a man who held her to him as though never
more in life should she escape his arms
again.

"Beloved, it is I, Paul! Oh, God be
thanked, she lives, she lives! "

Swiftly he bore her to the Esmeralda and
to her cabin. She had no strength to speak
to him, but holding both his hands she fell
into a sweet sleep, and while she slept the
gardens of England were opened for her.
* * * *

At dawn of the day, the Esmeralda
sighted in the far distance one of the war
ships of the Baltic fleet. But old John
hitched up his breeches at the spectacle and
expressed himself as he was wont to do.

" To blazes with that! " said he. " They re
the wrong side of us this time, mates.
We ll be in Stockholm afore eight bells."

Old John spoke a true word.

XXI.

Ox the morning of the fifteenth day after
the flight from Kronstadt, Paul sat at the
open window of his apartment in the Strand.
The bells of St. Martin s at Charing Cross
had just chimed half past nine; the streets
below his window were alive with the hum
of voices and live echo of steps. He had
visited London once or twice in the days of
his tutelage, but this spectacle of massed
humanity, of countless men surging to
wards the east in quest of the daily wage,
was as new and wonderful to him as when
first he beheld it. That vast multitude,
looking neither to the right hand nor to the
left what tragedies and comedies of life it
played every day! All the notes of the
social scale seemed written upon that human
score. Spruce stockbrokers lolled in han
som cabs on their way to change; sleek bar
risters thrust themselves through the press
as though the briefs they had waited for
these long years lay today upon their tables;
clerks from the suburbs passed with slow
step or fast, as the office hours dictated:
smart girls carried themselves proudly,
buoyed up with consciousness of sex and
environment; busses lumbered by with a

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

293

harvest of human grain heaped upon their
roofs; only the clergy dallied before shop
windows or sauntered contentedly in the
sunlight.

Paul had heard of London as an abode of
gloom, a city without a sky, a mighty capi
tal of fog and mists. This morning of a
glorious spring gave the lie to the reproach.
Notwithstanding that April had many days
still to run, the sun shone warmingly; the air
was fresh and sweet, as though blowing upon
the city from a perfumed garden. And to
this sweetness of morning "was added the
comfort of the English rooms he had en
gaged for himself and his " sister," Marian.
It had been a solemn compact between them
that she should not communicate with, her
English friends, should not even see them,
until that future they loved to speak of was
something more than the dream of lovers.
And she had respected the understanding as
though it were a law to her.

" I owe my life to you," she had said. " I
will see no one, speak to no one, until you
wish it. But I must write to Dick."

" And tell them that you are in England! "
he exclaimed a little anxiously. " If you
write, they will come here they will ask
you for your secrets. I know that you will
tell them nothing; but I do not wish you to
see them ; I do not wish to meet the man who
tempted you."

" I will not see him, Paul, dearest God
knows, if you asked me, I would never see
him again."

She had begun to understand her lover
wholly at this time; to understand him with
that intimate appreciation of moods which
nothing but the magnetism of one mind for
another can generate. Great as was his love
for her, the thought that she carried in her
clever head those secrets of which he had
been the guardian haunted him the more
now that she was in England, a free agent
beyond the reach of the Russian. A sol
dier s creed of honor was ever upon his lips.

I will not betray my country," he said
always. He knew that marriage would seal
her lips forever. But until they stood before
the altar together, he must rely absolutely
upon her promise. What tlieir future was
to be he scarce dared to think. The son of
a Russian noble, he knew not how to serve.
A stranger in a strange country, what mir
acle should give him livelihood? If he mar
ried at once, it would be to cast himself
blindly upon the sea of life, trusting that
some wind of destiny would carry him to a
friendly shore. A great sympathy for her
prevailed even above his passionate longing
to call her wife.

" We are two children drifting on the road
of love," he said. " God alone knows where

the journey will carry us; but we will be to
gether always, shall we not, Marian?"

She put her arms about his neck.

" We shall not drift while I have a home
in your heart," she said.

That was upon the day after they had ar
rived in London. They had gravitated
toward the city, drawn there by no impulse
that was denned, but only by the hope that
London would befriend them. Much as
Marian desired to see her child brother
again, yearn as she might for the lanes and
villages of Devonshire, she did not speak of
the desires to her lover. Had he asked her,
she would have gone with him, on the day
of their arrival, straight to some church and
there have given herself to him forever. She
welcomed the remembrance that it was hers
now to play the strong part. She would
comfort him and compel him to forget. For
her sake he had cut himself off from friends
and fortune. His courage, which had saved
her at Kronstadt, here moved her to pity.
A child lost in a maze of streets could not
have been more helpless than the man she
loved, cast out by fortune to this city of
exile. She began to plan that she might
work for him, might build the home of her
promise. The desperate task did not af
fright her.

" If I had my health, if I could have the
child near me, it would be easy," she
thought. " These are the days when a clever
woman earns a living lor herself in London,
and I have brains."

The ambition was well enough, but the
execution lagged. They had come from
Stockholm straight to this apartment by
Charing Cross; and there, passing as brother
and sister no difficult achievement, since
Paul spoke English fluently they waited
for the light. She obeyed his wish that
her coming should be kept secret implicitly.
Of her few friends in London, none knew
that she had left Kronstadt. She did not
write to the child: she never left her rooms.
Paul, in his tura, remembered that one who
had been a comrade of his student days,
Feodor Talvi. of Novgorod, was now at the
Russian embassy in Chesham Square. He
wrote to him and to his kinsman. Prince
Tolma, telling them of his condition and of
his purpose. " I am no traitor to Russia,"
he wrote. " I am here to keep her secrets,
not to betray them."

The letters were despatched: but many
days passed and no answer was vouchsafed.
On the fifteenth day. when Paul sat at his
window waiting for Marian to come down
to breakfast, he began to tell himself that
his friends would be friends to him no more.
He had thought his kinsman Tolma to be a
man of broad mind and generous impulses.

294

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

one who had rounded off the corners of con
vention and of narrowness in the friction of
many cities. But the earnest appeal he had
despatched to Paris remained unanswered.
He said that the prince was not in the city;
lie was at Monaco or cruising in his yacht.
He would not believe that one who had
loved him as a son would desert him in this
hour of misfortune; he shrank from the
truth and hid it from his understanding.

Marian entered the sitting room while he
was still musing at the window. She crossed
it with girlish step, and bent down quickly
to kiss his cheek. Regardless of time or
place he sprang up and took her in his arms.

" Carissima! " he said, for his speech, like
that of all Russians, was polygenous "ozr-
issiina, you bring me back to earth again!
And you have roses on your cheeks today.
There is no doctor like one s own country.
You have slept, petite? "

She would not tell him of her night of
waking; nor had he eyes to see that the flush
upon her cheeks was a flush of weakness.

" I sleep always, dearest," she said with a
light laugh; "you must not worry about
that."

He pushed her back from him, still hold
ing her hands.

Oh," he said, " and that is our new bod
ice! Am I not a good modiste, little one?
Is it not splendid? I shall open a shop here,
and you will make my fortune."

She kissed his hands and turned to the
breakfast table.

" I shall send you to buy my dresses when
we are married," she exclaimed. " You
won t mind them laughing."

" I mind? Sapristi! Did I mind yester
day when I bought the triumph, and
twelve young ladies fitted it on for me, and
the boutiquicr himself carried it to the cab.
Noin de Dieu! It was a procession, and I
was the flag. You shall lose your clothes
again and get another cold, Marian. It will
amuse me to buy your dresses."

He had shopped for her on the previous
day, for she carried no dresses from Russia,
and Stockholm had furnished her with a
poor wardrobe. Her promise not to go
abroad in the streets of London she kept
faithfully, as much from will as from weak
ness. The chill and horror of her night at
the Island of the Holy Well -had eaten into
her little store of strength. She feared that
some dangerous illness would overtake her
and that he would be alone to wage the un
equal war.

" You have letters, dear? " she asked him,
while she poured out his tea and busied her
self with the breakfast.

He shook his head a little sadly.

" Feodor Talvi cannot be in London; I

shall hear from him the day he arrives. We
were as brothers; he will listen to me, at
least. As for Tolma, it will be sooner or
later. He is not a man of this city or of
that. He makes the world his home, and
wherever the sun shines there is his fireside.
But I know that he will help me when my
letter reaches him. He cares nothing for
tongues or tattle. He has called me his son
since I was twelve years old. I wrote to
him as to a father. W hile we wait for their
help we have two hundred English pounds
to spend. When we have spent those, there
is the Esmeralda to sell. I shall order her
to the Island of Wight, where all your yacht
ing people go, and she will bring us twenty
thousand rubles at the least. That will give
us time to think and to plan. I have thought
a little already, and the way seems clearer to
me. After all, a strong man does not starve
when he is willing to work. I can teach the
Russian language, if the worst comes, and box
the ears of little boys who will not learn."

He laughed merrily at the idea and passed
his cup for tea. She would not tell him that
she could not share his hopes; her face wore
a bright smile when she lifted it to look at
him.

" You are making a home of England al
ready, Paul," she said. " I am happy to
think it is so. It will all come right by and
by when I am strong and can work again.
You must not forget me when you speak of
your plans. I could not be an idle woman;
I should go mad."

" You shall be the mistress of my house,"
he answered with a touch of the old pride.
" I am the heir of Tolma. and I shall know
how to find a home for you

" Yes, but while we wait, dear; there is no
dishonor here in England because a woman
works. You were not born for the things
you speak of; you do not know the difficul
ties. It is I who have learned how to face
the world, and not to fear what people call
independence. Your friends may write to
you or they may not; but it will help us both
if there are no drones in the hive. You will
be happy because I am happy. And I shall
come to forgive myself then."

" There is nothing to forgive," he said ten
derly. " God knows, it is happiness enough
to hear your voice all day, and to tell myself
that I shall kiss you when the morning
comes! By and by. I shall not wait for the
morning that will be when the priest has
spoken. You understand, little one? "

They had risen from the table and stood
together in the shadow. He drew her to
him winningly and kissed her white face
again and again.

" I understand, dearest a little," she said,
with a new flush upon her cheeks.

THE PEBBLES.

295

" A little? Is it not more than that ? You
still ask yourself questions as you did at
Kronstadt? "

" Certainly I ask myself questions, but not
the questions of carnival."

" You want to run away again? "

" Oh, yes; when I am strong enough."

He looked into her eyes questioning!} .
The love of the jest was written plainly upon
them.

" Arrivons," he said. " Where would you
run to, here in London? "

" To the church," she whispered and so
hid her head upon his shoulder.

A knock upon the door of the room put
them apart. She turned to the glass to
straighten her hair while he tore open a tele
gram which the slut of the house delivered
triumphantly, as though she carried letters
of gold.

" For the gentleming," she said with great
satisfaction. " and he s a waiting."

Marian looked over Paul s shoulder to
read the message.

It is from your friends, dearest? " she
asked anxiously.

" It is from Feodor Talvi," he answered,
while the hand which offered her the paper
shook with pleasure and excitement. " I
am to go to him at once. I told you that we
were as brothers. Read that, and write the
answer for me. I will see him today now.
There are no more troubles, thank God."

He began to search about for his hat and
gloves, and did not see the shadow of doubt
which flitted upon her face. When the mes
sage was written, she gave him instructions
for his momentous journey to South Audley
Street, where the house of Talvi was.

" You must take a cab, and it must wait
for you," she said determinedly. " I have
a good mind to pin a card inside the flap of
your coat or you will forget where we live.
You will not let him keep you long, will you,
dearest? "

" He shall not keep me an hour; he shall
come here to be presented. We will all go
to the great hotel to dine together. I told
you that my friends would not desert me."

He babbled on incessantly while she
picked threads from his new frock coat, and
pinned in his buttonhole a spray of the lilies
he had bought her. When they had said
good by for the tenth time, she watched him
from the window, a manly figure, broad and
confident in the throng below. Many turned
to look at one who carried himself with such
a fine air; but he saw nothing save the white
face at the window the face for which he
had dared all and had brought himself to
this land of exile.

" She shall be my wife before the week has
run," he said to himself as he went. " I
care for nothing when she is near me."
* * * *

The hour of his promise passed swiftly and
found Marian still waiting for the sound of
his steps upon the stair. A second hour was
numbered, and a third. She began to count
the minutes; she took her stand at last by
the open window and scanned the faces of
all who came eastward. But his face was
not among them. When six o clock struck,
and the throngs were hurrying home again,
and Paul did not return, there came to her
suddenly the thought that some peril had
overtaken him. She remembered that the
hand of the Russian is everywhere active.
She began to blame herself that she had per
mitted him to leave her. Since that night of
nameless horror upon the sea. her shattered
nerves were quick to bring foreboding upon
her.

" Oh. my God! " she said, at last, " if they
have trapped him here in London! "

Dusk succeeded to the sunshine of the
day; night loomed upon the city; but Marian
continued to watch at her window and to
pray God that no ill had befallen the man
she loved.

(To be continued. )

THE PEBBLES.

REST we here in the dark green

A bed of mv arms for thee I ll make ;
And up above, where the white cloud passes,

The depths you shall see of a great -blue lake.

The white clouds there are swans, my dearest ;

Snow white swans on a lake of blue,
As white as the very love thou fearest ;

Thy soul is the same pure white in hue.

And down, down, down, where the blue lake s deepest,

See the pebbles that keep it pure,
The gold star pebbles, the deepest, steepest ;

The gold star pebbles that ay endure.

Tom Hall.

THE STAGE-

HENRY IRVING S AMERICAN PLAYS.

When the news of the failure of " Peter the
Great " at the Lyceum, in London, was re
ceived in this country, the hearts of fully a
score of American dramatists leaped with
joy, as each one said to himself: " Now per
haps Irving will follow the advice that I have
been giving him persistently ever since I
first knew him, and produce the play that
he bought from me so long ago."

Other people besides dramatists may have
wondered, too, why it is that the famous
English actor buys so many American plays,
according to newspaper account, and never
puts a single one of them on the stage. It is
true that he has bought plays from some of
the best known dramatists in the country,
paying for each one a liberal sum of money
as an advance on royalties. The first play
wright so honored was Henry Guy Carleton,
who sold him a scenario before Sir Henry
Irving had been six weeks in America a
transaction which gave the actor so much
advertising of a laudatory nature that he de
termined to repeat it on the first convenient
occasion.

Since then Irving has bought several
American dramas, and every time he has
done it the papers have teemed with praise
of him as one who believes in American
genius, and was glad to give it practical en
couragement. It is doubtful if he has even
read some of the plays which have come into
his possession in this way, and it is tolerably
certain that he will never produce any of
them. Moreover, so long as he can obtain
several thousand dollars worth of free news
paper advertising for five hundred dollars of
fered in the form of an advance on royalties,
just so long will he continue to raise hopes
that are destined to be forever unfulfilled in
the breasts of the playwrights of America.

It should not be forgotten, however, that
Sir Henry Irving actually pays something to
the writers whom he encourages in this way,
whereas most foreign actors and managers
satisfy themselves with raising hopes, and
endeavor to get a little advertising without
spending a single cent for it.

ADA REHAN S UNDERSTUDY.
Among our portraits is one of Lettice
Fairfax, the young English actress who
made her first appearance with the Daly
company last winter in " Number Nine."
Later she was Anne Page in " The Merry
Wives of Windsor," and one night, when

Ada Rehan was suddenly indisposed, she
took her place as Peggy in " The Country
Girl."

Her last engagement in London before
sailing was in " One Summer s Day," as
Irene, the part filled in Mr. Drew s produc
tion by May Buckley. She has been on the
stage five years, and among the characters
she has portrayed are Cinderella in the ex
travaganza of that name made familiar here
by Ellaline Terriss, and Amy in " Charley s
Aunt." At the Gaiety she played Cissy
Loftus roles.

SOUSA AND HIS " BRIDE ELECT."

As a rule the credit for any success a
comic opera may achieve is distributed
among so many individuals that there is no
good reason for any one of them to acquire
an enlarged cranium. There is the com
poser, the librettist not seldom two libret
tists and generally either the comedian or
the prima donna who stars in the piece.
Sousa s new opera, " The Bride Elect," is
a novelty in this respect. He wrote the
story, the music, and the lyrics, and the
company producing it has been selected with
great care to prevent any one member of it
from overtopping the others.

Of course there was the possibility in the
other direction to be considered that the
full ignominy of failure would descend with
equal certainty on the same shining mark,
but at this writing Boston and Philadelphia
have both congratulated " The Bride Elect,"
and she comes to the metropolis with a good
measure of confidence.

As Mr. Sousa confided to a reporter last
summer, he did not have as much experience
as some of his friends in writing librettos,
although " El Capitan " owes to him the
words of " The Typical Tune of Zanzibar."
In this same interview he mentioned that
the popping of firecrackers on the Fourth
at Manhattan Beach had inspired him to
write one of his liveliest airs for the new
opera.

We give a portrait of Christie MacDonald,
who fills an important part in " The Bride
Elect," and who, until this season, has been
for some time with Francis Wilson.

CRANE AND HIS PLAYS.

There is a romantic interest attaching to
three of the Southern States which makes
them of special and peculiar service to the
playwright. These three are Louisiana,

LETTICK FAIRFAX.
From a photograph by the London Stereoscopic Company, London.

298

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Kentucky, and Virginia, and that dramatists
have recognized their value in this respect
is attested by the fact that each has figured
in the title of a play. Virginia is perhaps
more popular than its two companions, but

chords in the human heart to which every
normal man and woman is responsive, and
then, when in the last act the gate itself is
revealed, beautiful in the time of sunrise,
the conquest is complete."

CHRISTIE MACDONALD IX "THIC 1SKIDK KLECT.
From a photograph by P/irdy, Boston.

that may be owing to its longer history, and
its correspondingly richer endowment of in
teresting traditions and tender memories.

Charles Frohman expressed the whole
matter happily when, in a talk with Mr.
Crane not long ago regarding the reason
for the great success of " A Virginia Court
ship," he said:

" It is the Lovers Gate. The references to
this trysting place all through the play touch

" It is this heart interest the people want,"
remarked Mr. Crane to the writer in the
above connection. " I have often declared
that I could stop the whole piece by simply
turning my head in the second act. Be the
thread that holds your play together ever so
slender, let it be made of the right stuff and
you are a safe winner. Why has The Sen
ator lasted me so long? Because it ex-
Dresses honest conviction which makes it as

THE STAGE.

299

true to life today as when it was written, now
nearly ten years ago.

" When I produced A Fool of Fortune
last season, advisers declared that I would
ruin the play with the public by dying in the
last act.

those in my company who are better players
than myself."

A STAR S DELIGHT.

Any one who has seen " The Master,"
Henry Miller s new play, even though he

WILLIAM H. CRANE IN "A VIRGINIA COURTSHIP."
From a photograph by Falk, New York.

Then I do not play it under that title,
was my response, for if Elisha Cunningham
comes out on the top of the wave after all, he
is not the fool the name affirms him to be. "

Mr. Crane s great success as a star has
given him no airs. He is simple, unaffected,
courteous in manner, and without any ex
alted notion of his own abilities.

" I go on the stage and do the best I can,"
he says, in speaking of his acting, " and
am quite ready to believe that there are

may not like it, can readily understand why
it appeals so strongly to a star. The chief
actor is on the stage almost constantly, and
has the center of it to his heart s content.
Two characters, highly important to the ac
tion, have exceedingly brief appearances,
one of them the son coming on only in
the first act, and the other the daughter
being seen only in the first and at the very
end of the third.

This part is played by Margaret Dale, a

300

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MARGARET DALE.

From a photograph by Chickering, Barton.

newcomer to the metropolitan boards, al
though she was with Mr. Miller on the road
at the beginning of the season, replacing
Grace Kimball in " Heartsease." She is a
Philadelphia girl, and her people are in no
way connected with the stage. But George
Holland brother to Joe and E. M. is a
friend of theirs, and was in the habit of giv
ing Miss Dale lessons in elocution. When
she announced her intention of entering the
profession, he offered her a position in his
stock company at the Girard Avenue, where
she remained three years as ingenue.

Miss Dale has a pleasing stage presence,
and it is to be hoped that Mr. Miller s next
play will give her a better part.

MAXINE ELLIOTT S OPPORTUNITY.

" Nathan Hale." produced by Nat Good
win during his Chicago engagement, seems

to have pleased the people greatly; the crit
ics were not so outspoken in their admira
tion. Certain it is, however, that not since
" Beau Brummel " has Clyde Fitch done
anything on so high a plane, and theater
goers everywhere should be deeply indebted
to Mr. Goodwin for giving so fine a produc
tion of an American historical play. Re
ports on this score are unanimous; from the
opening scene in the schoolhouse at New
London, where Hale makes love to Alice
Adams, to the orchard on Colonel Rutgers
farm in New York, where he stands be
neath the hangman s noose, the outfitting of
the piece is in the highest degree true and
tasteful.

And there is one other point on which all
who have seen the new venture are agreed
the excellent work of Maxine Elliott as
Alice. "I love my part, ".Miss Elliott says

THE STAGE.

301

MAXINE ELLIOTT IN "AN AMERICAN CITIZEN.
Front a, ^!iotograpk by Morrison, Chicago.

of it herself, adding, " In fact, it is the only
opportunity I have ever had for emotional
work." The prominent Chicago critic who
was most severe on both Mr. Goodwin and
the play said of the leading woman that
" she was indeed an ideal sweetheart for
Nathan Hale, and won new and well deserved
admiration. In sustained and difficult emo
tional acting she held the laboring oar, and
several times startled and delighted the au
dience by the grace, refinement and ade
quacy of her work. The coquetry of the
first act, the joyous abandon of the scene in
which she anticipates the coming of her
lover, and the anguish of the final incidents,
were all expressed with unexpected power."
" This is Miss Elliott s play," said another

reviewer; " the first, perhaps, that she has
ever had. In four acts she changes from a
girl to a woman. In the second act she
played sweet and coquettish seventeen with
perfect abandon; in the last she held the au
dience in contemplation of her grief with the
firmest possible grip, although she never
uttered a word while on the stage. In every
way hers was a notable performance."

MUNSEY S has said before that Maxine El
liott was much more than a merely beautiful
woman. More serious minded than many
of her sisters in the profession, she has ap
plied herself industriously to the study of the
deeper things in her art, patiently abiding
her opportunity, which appears to have
come at last.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

The company will present " An American
Citizen " and repertoire for the remainder
of the season, reserving " Nathan Hale " for
the New York opening at the Knicker
bocker next fall. This will be an extremely

lins introduced in the action, thus doing
away with the pitiful dumb show business
which invariably grates on an audience.

Burr Mclntosh was last seen in New York
as the stalwart hero of " At Piney Ridge/

BURR MCINTOSH.

From a photograph by Prince, Nevi York.

interesting occasion, as it will decide finally
and once for all the fate of the Fitch play.

BURR MCINTOSH AND HIS SISTER.

For some years past realism has been ram
pant on the stage so far as regards farm
yards, waterfalls, and horse races. Now
college life is to take its turn, for in the new
play by Burr Mclntosh, " College Days,"
we are told that not only will the men
representing four leading universities
Yale, Harvard, Columbia and Pennsyl
vania be actual members of their college
dramatic clubs, but they will also be capable
of playing the banjos, guitars, and mando-

but he is best remembered as the creator of
Taffy in " Trilby." He was brought up in
Pittsburg, and after attending college at
both Lafayette and Princeton, settled in
Philadelphia in 1883 as a journalist. But he
had always been active in amateur theat
ricals, and two years later he made his pro
fessional debut in New York in Bartley
Campbell s " Paquita." Later he played in
" In Mizzoura," and after the " Trilby " days
he spent a season with Crane in " The Gov
ernor of Kentucky." He is a general favor
ite with theater goers, as is also his sister
Nancy, who leaves Daly to become asso
ciated with her brother in " College Days."

THE STAGE.

303

Miss Mclntosh began her professional
career in England, appearing there under
the auspices of W. S. Gilbert. She made her
debut in this country some three years ago
in " His Excellency." Her refinement and

Nevertheless, the profession secured some
noteworthy accessions from among the vast
throng of babies, church singers, and ama
teurs generally, whom the thirst for novel
renderings of the popular opera hurried on

NANCY MCINTOSH.
From lier latest pliotograph by Saroiiy, A ew 1 ~ork.

grace are equal factors with her exception
ally sweet toned voice in giving her high
rank among the light opera singers of the
contemporary stage.

IDA CONQUEST.

It is nine years since the Pinafore " craze
swept the country like a devastating plague.
Nothing like it was ever known before, and
it is not probable that a similar loss of head
over a play can ever occur again. We real
ize now what it means.

the stage. Prominent in the number is Ida
Conquest, now second to Viola Allen in
the Empire stock company.

She was only four years old when she went
on in one of the juvenile companies at the
Boston Museum as Little Buttercup. She
played the part a whole season, then retired
from the stage, to go to school and attend
Franklin Sargent s Dramatic Academy,
from which, five years ago, she stepped into
her first adult engagement. This was with
Daniel Frohman, from whom she passed to

IDA CONQUEST AS " BABIOLE " IX "THE CONQUERORS.

From a photograph by Surotiy, New York.

THE STAGE.

305

A. M. Palmer, and thence to Charles Froh-
man. With him she has remained ever
since, so that in her entire career, during
which she has played more than twenty five
parts, she has been associated only with
prominent stock companies.

Late last spring she won golden opinions
for her assumption of the leading role in
" Under the Red Robe " after Miss Allen s
departure for Europe, and her versatility is
shown by the readiness with which she lends
the necessary jauntiness and dash to a part
of an exactly opposite description that of
Babiole in " The Conquerors." This spring
she goes to London with William Gillette
as his leading woman in " Too Much John
son."

" ADELAIDE."

Praise an artist for his poetry and an
actor for his singing, if you would make a
pleasant impression. For this reason, no
doubt, Mr. David Bispham took more satis
faction in his presentation of the maestro
in " Adelaide " than in all his vocal triump! s
put together. A man naturally resents be
ing looked on as an incarnate voice, and
this proof that he could win applause with
out a note to help him must have been
deeply gratifying to the singer.

Mr. Bispham himself assisted in adapting
from the German this brief " romance in
Beethoven s life," which, like " Chatterton,"
is doubly moving because we cannot for a
moment forget that the man before us really
lived, and actually suffered as we see him
suffering. The play weaves together Bee
thoven s anguish under the tragic secret of
his deafness and his love for Adelaide the
most loveful name in the world as sung in
its German form with an imploring wail on
the fourth syllable.

Mr. Bispham gave a strong picture of the
great composer, rough and bearish and piti
fully lonely, tormented by people whose
voices he could not hear, yet too bitterly
proud to acknowledge his infirmity. It
takes all Beethoven s love to bring him to
that passionate confession at the end" The
gates of my mind are closed. I am deaf."
The curtain fell on an audience that sat
silent for a moment before it gave its ap
plause, and went out subdued, with lowered
eyes. Play and players could have had no
better tribute.

Mr. Bispham was well supported, Miss
Julie Opp making a beautiful Adelaide.

Jessie Millward, leading woman with the
late William Terriss, has been engaged o
succeed Viola Allen in the Empire com
pany. Miss Allen dislikes her part in
13

" The Conquerors " extremely, and rumor
runs that she wished some stipulation in her
contract that would obviate the necessity
of playing a role that was personally dis
agreeable to her. In this connection, we
may say that the newspaper " confession "
quoted from in our February issue was all
wrong in intimating that Miss Allen has no
sympathy with light comedy parts.

" I love to play comedy," she recently in
formed the writer; " simply adore it."

MUNSEY S gladly makes the correction,
and trusts that her highest hopes in the
matter of securing a suitable play may be
realized if her secession from the Empire
stock means a new star in the dramatic con
stellation.

* * * *

Is it not about time that we should take
the production of our plays in London as a
matter of course, instead of making so much
newspaper talk over such an event that it
looks as if we are surprised that they should
be found good enough? It is all very well
to felicitate ourselves on such a hit as
" Secret Service " made, but the bad taste is
found in the column long announcements of
contracts signed for the transportation of
shows across the Atlantic. It is not only
bad taste, but bad business policy as well,
for the chances of failure are even, and in
that case the manager desires silence as
eagerly as he would wish publicity were the
verdict the other way.

Again, there are the false reports. Last
spring it was blazoned abroad that the Bos-
tonians were going to invade England with
" The Serenade." They never went, and
the public who read the announcement and
saw nothing come of it were left to conclude
that John Bull decided he didn t want them,
after all.

* * H= *

Rice bids fair to become as famous for his
failures, or perhaps his ability to bear up
under them, as for his successes. His star
was in the ascendant with " 1492," " Ex
celsior, Jr.," and " The Girl from Paris."
It began to pale a little with " The French
Maid," it cast but a faintly cheering radiance
over the critics with " The Ballet Girl," and
with " Monte Carlo " one might have
thought it snuffed out altogether as a result
of the next day s notices.

What is the matter? Too much British
alleged humor. The American made inter
polations in his last two or three produc
tions have been the hits of the piece. But it
takes more than a song or two and a sight
of Old Glory at the finish to make an eve
ning s success. Let Mr. Rice go back to
home talent in his authors, for a while at
least.

STOP I ETTES

A LITTLE EXCITEMENT.

" TWENTY FOUR, and there has never been
a man in love with me yet. It s very mortify
ing," said Corinne not out loud, of course.
" To be sure, there s Donald. I can flaunt
him in the world s eyes, and save my reputa
tion, and give the girls something to tease
me about. But if anything could be more
unexciting! He never hurts me or fright
ens me or thrills me in any way. He could
go over to any other girl in town, and I
don t believe I d feel a pang oh, except in
my vanity, perhaps. I sit in tete-a-tete cor
ners with him and keep up appearances by
looking as adored as I can, and all the time
he s talking about horrid, rational things
that would be just as suited to his grand
mother. It s no fair. Why, my mother had
adorers by the dozen beaux, I mean. She
says she did, any way. That was in the
good old days when men proposed and girls
refused them. Ah, me! " And Corinne
sighed, her head drooping on her hand.

" You don t look very cheerful for a girl
with a birthday on," said a voice behind her.

" That you, Donald? " she said without
turning, holding up one hand over her
shoulder to him that he might well, he
shook it, friendly fashion, and dropped into
the big leather chair beside her.

" The books were beautiful," she said.
" I ve written you a note about them."

" I thought perhaps you d rather have a
good standard set for your library than
some flimsy silver thing," Donald said,
stretching comfortably.

" Oh, yes, indeed! " but Corinne sighed
again. " I m blue," she said fretfully. " Do
cheer me up."

He looked puzzled at this personal appeal.

" Shall I tell you about "

" Oh, don t tell me about anything! " she
broke in, exasperated into sudden frankness.
" I hate to be told about things."

Donald sat up straight and stared at her.

" I m not a child, to be entertained with
stories and anecdotes," she went on re
morselessly. " You always talk to me, not
with me. Well as I have known you, we
have never had a conversation you couldn t
have held just as well with any one. It s
stupid to be so everlastingly impersonal."

The murder was out. Corinne s heart
was pounding like a runaway horse, and
Donald was looking hurt, angry, and deeply
astonished.

" I suppose I ve lost my one ewe lamb,"
ran through her head. But her blood was
up and she would not retract.

" If I had known I was boring you "

he began.

She broke in impatiently.

" You don t bore me. It s just that we
might have so much more fun out of our
friendship. For all we we like each other
so much " Donald s face unbent a little
" we never get really confidential or inti
mate, or tell each other things we wouldn t
tell any one else. We just talk about facts.
Why, we might both of us have been mar
ried years and years married to other
people, I mean or " Corinne was stum
bling blindly in her haste to get away from
that unfortunate remark.

"Or brother and sister?" he suggested,
generously coming to her aid.

" I do want some excitement. I m tired
of just jogging along," she said. " I didn t
mean to blaze out at you, Donald, but my
mind was so full of it. I ve known nearly
all the men here since I was a little girl, and
I can t get up any illusions about them or
they about me. We know everything about
one another."

" Everything? " Donald s tone narrowed
the subject down to personalities.

" Well, you have been right under my
eyes all my life, except for those five years
in Australia, and I m sure you have told me
enough about them. We can t be confiden
tial, for there s nothing to confide. It s very
tame."

Donald was staring thoughtfully at the
carpet.

" There are one or two things I ve never
told anybody," he said slowly " things
about Australia. It isn t a very pretty story,
and yet I want to tell it to you. Shall I? "

Corinne was half elated, half frightened,
at the seriousness of his tone. She nodded
assent.

" Well, there was a girl out there, one of
the most beautiful women I ever saw," he
began. " Nobody knew much about her,
and women rather let her alone, on general
principles, but the men didn t. The first
time I ever saw her she was lying on the
ground in front of a huge camp fire, leaning
up against a great brute of a hound. It
made me shudder the way she pushed her
fingers between his teeth. She was large,
any way, and the wavering firelight made her
look gigantic. T had always before thought

STORIETTES.

307

of a woman as a sort of tame creature
about the house, but that night it was like
discovering a new sex."

Corinne s elation had died a violent death.
The beauty of this unknown woman roused
in her a strange resentment, but she listened
breathlessly.

" A raw young American, who had lived
all his life in a small town, was a mere toy
to this woman. It did not take her fifteen
minutes to master him body and soul. If
you could have seen her, you would under
stand it better. You might have hated her,
but you could not have ignored her mag
netism. She was witch and devil and
woman all in one."

He stopped, as though the telling were
difficult, and Corinne sat strangely op
pressed. She grew heartsick with the
knowledge that she could never shut down
the lid she had so thoughtlessly opened.
That phrase, " tame creature about the
house," beat about her ears with cruel per
sistence. She looked at Donald with new
eyes, and felt herself suddenly humbled.

" For three months she kept her new play
thing dangling between heaven and hell,"
he went on. " Then -she married it."

" Married! " whispered Corinne. There
was a strange sinking in her chest, and she
felt very cold.

" Yes. Some fool had told her a yarn
about a millionaire father in America.
When, a few weeks later, she found out it
was not true, she and her hideous dog went
off with another man, leaving the toy to
mend itself as best it could."

In the. silence that followed, he seemed to
have forgotten Corinne, who sat pale and
still, with her world topsy turvy at her feet.
Then he glanced at her, and a sudden flush
rose in his face.

" The poor fellow blew his brains out,"
he added hurriedly.

" The man she went off with? "

" Oh, no; this raw young American. He
was a friend of mine. I did all I could to
save him from her, but he was simply mad.
We both met her the same night, and I saw
the whole affair. Why, my dear girl, don t!
I shouldn t have told you about it, but it
was the only exciting story I was ever in
volved in, and you wanted something inter
esting."

" You did it on purpose," sobbed Corinne.

Donald looked terribly ashamed of him
self, but her face was hidden and she did not
see. She only felt his arm on her shoulders.

" I had no idea the story would upset you
so when you didn t know the people," he
said innocently. " She was a strange
woman. I might have been bewitched my
self if there hadn t been a girl here at home

who was always in the back of my mind
when she wasn t filling the whole front of it.
I didn t know then that she found me ut
terly uninteresting."

Corinne buried her face against his coat.

" Oh, Donald, I don t! " she whispered.
I I hate things exciting! "

Juliet IVilbor Tompkins.

THE STEPPING STONE OF A
DEAD SELF.

"AT three o clock he is coming," said Hel
ena, " and then the last of these business
matters! He has proved a good and trusty
friend, and poor papa s high opinion of him
has been verified."

It was now a quarter before three, and
while she awaited his coming her thoughts
went back to the first time she had seen him,
on that eventful day eighteen months before.
She had been returning home from a visit,
and he had sat opposite to her for half a
day in the drawingroom car. She had no
ticed with some amusement his complete
absorption in a volume of Coleridge and his
apparent obliviottsness to all outward sur
roundings.

But when the awful crash of the collision
came just as the train was about reaching
its destination it was he whose quickness
had saved her from certain death, whose
strong arms had held her up and at last
had borne her out from that scene of horror
into safety. And it was he who had led the
little band of rescuers again and again into
the wreck in a noble effort to save the in
jured, until he himself had been carried out
from a burning car, bleeding and insensible,
with a great gash over his eyes.

She had not allowed this brave man to
whom she owed her life to be carried away
to a hospital, but had taken him directly to
her own home, where the best medical care
and skilled attendance was immediately ob
tained for him.

She remembered her father s look of
amazement and perplexity when she had ar
rived with the insensible man in the carriage
beside her; and she remembered, too, his
hearty approval as soon as he had heard the
story, and his keen satisfaction afterwards
when he discovered that his involuntary
guest was Barry Stevens, who though un
known in the world of society was a uian
standing high in the business world and
notable for his rectitude, cleverness, and
sagacity.

While the injured man was slowly conva
lescing, Helena s father had cultivated his
society, and in spite of the difference in
their years a deep and lasting friendship had

3 o8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

sprung up between them. But although he
and she had been housemates at the time
for several weeks, Helena had not seen their
guest until the day of his departure, and then
his extreme reserve had somewhat puzzled
her.

And after this, in spite of her father s con
tinual endeavors, it had proved impossible
to prevail upon their late guest to be pres
ent at any of their larger social functions, al
though on a few notable occasions he had
been persuaded to accept their invitations to
small and informal dinners.

On those occasions she had observed him
curiously. He was keen, well read, a good
though not brilliant talker, and with men he
was entirely at his ease and his words evi
dently carried weight. But toward women
he was silent and reserved. He seldom ad
dressed even her his hostess although she
noticed that he paid her the rare compliment
of listening whenever she spoke, no matter
how much that was better worth hearing
might be going on about him. But he
never voluntarily approached her, and at
last his avoidance piqued her.

Her father talked much about him. " A
fine fellow, my dear. I not only like, I
honor him. I suppose some would call him
a self made man, but / say that God never
made a finer, truer gentleman. He appar
ently divides his time between his business
and his books, and I never knew a more
finely cultivated mind or a man with higher
ideals. His friendship is indeed a treasure,
and I am happy in having won it. You
think he does not like you? You are mis
taken, my dear; he is no ladies man, he is
too reserved and diffident, but he admires
you sincerely quite as much, I think, as /
admire him."

So some six months had passed. And
then one day, as Helena sat reading in the
library awaiting her father s return at the
accustomed hour, she heard a footstep and
said brightly, " Father dear, is it you?"

Then she looked up and saw Barry Ste
vens agitated face. She arose with a faint
cry. " What is it? My father? Oh, he is
not dead?"

But she read the truth in his pitying eyes,
and, overcome with the sudden violence of
her emotion, she fell senseless into his out
stretched arms.

From that merciful blank of oblivion mur
mured words of endearment and the pres
sure of lips upon her hair recalled her to her
self. And though her eyes opened again
upon the reserved and silent man. the mem
ory of his unutterable tenderness had helped
her through the first awful days and weeks
of her bereavement.

They had been thrown much together

since that time, for her father had made
Barry Stevens and herself coexecutors of his
will, and although she had found his man
ner unchanged toward her, at first she was
grateful for his reserve, But, sure of his
love, she had expected him to speak when
time had softened the first bitterness of her
grief.

But time had gone on until a whole year
had now elapsed. Why had he not spoken?
What was the reason of his continued
silence if he cared? And that he did care
deeply Helena was sure.

What was the secret of his life? Had
there been some other love before he had
known her?

She smothered a sigh and rose with ex
tended hand to greet the man himself, who
had appeared as the clock was striking
three.

" Punctual as ever," she said, with a smile.

He had come to explain to her the many
papers of importance which were now to re
main in her hands. And when they were
finally locked away in her cabinet, she said
to him, " You must be glad that the end of
all this has come."

It has been my greatest pleasure to be
of service to you," he replied; "and so it
will be should I ever be able to serve you, in
any way, again."

She sat thoughtful for a moment, playing
with a letter, stamped and sealed, which she
had written earlier in the. day. Then she
looked up at him and said quietly, " You can
serve me again, now. Help me to make a
decision. I have tried to do it alone, but I
want your advice."

His eyes rested attentively upon her face.

" I cannot go on living in this way here,"
she said, after some hesitation. " It is too
hard. I have had to until this time, but now
the business is all arranged, and I am free
to go."

" To go? " he echoed, with a change of
tone.

" Yes, to go. I know I have many good
friends here, and relatives, but over the sea
lives the dear friend of my girlhood hap
pily married and with a little daughter who
bears my name and whom I have never
seen. My friend has urged me to come to
them, and I have put off the decision until
now. But I long to see her, and to see her
child. I think -I shall go."

He eyed her still; he had grown paler. At
last he repeated dully, " You will go
away?"

Is there any reason why I should not
go? " she asked quickly.

" No, none that I know of none." The
words cost him an effort, but they were
bravely said.

STORIETTES.

" If I go, I shall not soon return," said
Helena. " I may never return. My friend s
villa is on the Mediterranean near Mentone.
She wants me to make it my home. What
shall I do?"

" I know of no reason why you should not
go if it is your wish," he said slowly.

" I have written to her that I will go. Here
is my letter. I did not mail it, because I I
wanted to hear what you would say. I was
as undecided as that. But it must be posted
at once to go by tomorrow s steamer. And
there is no reason why I should not go? "

" None."

" Then, I will go."

She rang and sent the letter out by a serv
ant.

He had grown white and stern, but al
though he was on the rack he had borne the
torture bravely.

" It has gone," she said quietly, alter a
pause. " And next month / shall follow.
And now, my friend, forgive me but since
my decision is irrevocable, will you not tell
me why you wanted me to go? "

" I wanted you to go? my God!" It
was a cry of agony. The delicate pearl
paper knife he unconsciously had been toy
ing with snapped in his hand. " What have
I done? " he said abruptly.

" Nothing. What is that to what you
have counseled me to do? "

She watched the growing conflict in his
face until, half trembling at the emotion she
had stirred, she saw him brace himself to
speak.

" I will tell you," he said, at last. " There
was once a boy whose parents, who were
poor, died early, and he grew up in the
streets. He worked in the factories and
lived as such waifs do, picking up little
knowledge that is good, much that is bad.
When he was a lad of sixteen hard times
came, the factories shut down, and he could
get no work to do. Then he fell in with an
evil comrade years older than himself, and at
last a plot was formed between them to rob
the wealthy manufacturer s house. The boy
was to do the work and share the plunder.
He made the attempt, was caught in the act,
and thrown into prison. His comrade, un
suspected, escaped. The boy lay in prison
for weeks, and then finally he was brought
into the courtroom barefooted and in rags.
He acknowledged his crime and told his
miserable story from beginning to end, ask
ing no pity and expecting none. And with
the taint of the prison upon him, there
seemed nothing but its darkness before him
forever.

" But those men were strangely merciful.
They bought the lad decent clothing, made
up a purse for him, opened the prison doors,

and bade him go forth and begin his life
anew.

" He did so; he left the town where he
was too well known, and came to a distant
city. And there, without even changing his
dishonored name, he sought and found em
ployment. He worked by day and studied
by night. He won his employer s confi
dence and rose to a position of trust. And
when, after ten years time, his friend and
employer died, he succeeded him and has
carried on the business for now five years.

" Helena, / am that man; /, Barry
Stevens, was that guilty lad caught robbing
my former employer s house and set at large
by those merciful minded men. It is all on
record in that place; it was published in
many papers at that time. There are men
living who remember and could point me
out today, and that is why God help me! I
must let you go. Such as I have no right
ever to speak of love."

She arose and her fine eyes shone like
stars.

" And that is what has made you what you
are! Oh, I don t know what I dreaded but
I never dreamed how noble a man could be
come, rising to such a height on his dead
self! And your name any one would be
proud of it now! Why do you look so at
me? I am no foolish girl, talking wildly,
but a woman proud even to be thought
worthy of such a confidence."

" Helena! Oh, my love if I only
dared "

" My letter has gone, and I am pledged
to follow it," she said, while a beautiful flush
overspread her lovely face, " but it rests with
you whether I shall go alone."

And the answer flashed from Barrv Ste

vens eyes.

Judith Spencer.

TO WHAT END?

" I REALLY do not like it," he said some
what coldly, looking across the room to
where she sat in the glow of the lamp, her
swift fingers busy at work. There was a
scowl on his forehead and a general air of
aggrievement about him.

She glanced up ir M uringly, then tossed
aside her work and crossed the room. She
passed her hand lovingly over his wavy hair
and pressed her soft cheek against his
bronzed one. Almost unwittingly his arm
stole about her waist and he drew her down
beside him.

There was silence for a moment. Then
she drew herself half away and looked up
at him.

" Stephen? " pleadingly.

" Well " uneasily.

310

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" I wish you wouldn t."

" Wouldn t what? "

" Be jealous, you goose! " She pouted,
but there was a subdued sparkle in her eyes.

But how can I help it? " he asked, a
tender note creeping into his voice as he
glanced down at the top of her head.
" Here we were, nice and comfortable, and
happy as can be, when this this man comes
along and falls in love with you."

" I couldn t help it," she interrupted.

" I m not so sure about that." He said it
slowly and with emphasis.

" Stephen Crosby! " She sat upright
now, her indignant blue eyes looking
straight into his.

" No, I m not so sure," he went on dog
gedly. " A man doesn t fall in love so des
perately without some encouragement no,
I don t mean that you encouraged him on
purpose, but you took things as a matter of
course, were passive, and he didn t know
about me or, if he did, he thought I didn t
count." His voice was bitter now, and his
eyes averted. "Why should I?" he went on,
with a short laugh. " I m only a country
man, you know, and he is from the city and
has all the ways to attract one. He is rich,
besides, and I why, I have nothing and no
prospects. I shouldn t blame you if you did
like him best. It must be tiresome waiting
for me so long. Perhaps you d better take
him, after all, and let me "

He got no farther. Two soft arms were
about his neck and a pleading, tearful face
close to his own.

" No, of course I didn t mean it/ he was
saying ten minutes later. " I m a jealous
old fool, and I know it."

" And I never gave you any cause? "

" No! " a happy light in his eyes. " You
are true as steel, dear, and I ll promise never
to be jealous again."

" You will never have cause," she replied
simply. " For I love you and no one else,
Stephen dear."

* * * *

She had been sent for suddenly. " Clin
ton Jewett is dying and wants to see you, a
voice had said out of the darkness, when, late
at night, loud knocks had aroused the
family.

She had dressed rapidly, and silently sped
over the frozen ground.

" He was thrown from his horse and in
jured internally," her companion explained,
panting in his endeavor to keep pace with
her. His mother is there, and his sister,
but he wanted to see you."

There was a hush in the sick room as she
entered. His mother drew aside, and she
knelt by the injured man s bed.

" I have loved you so well," he said.

weakly trying to press the warm hand that
held his; " and it has made me so happy."

A smile flitted across his face like that of a
child.

" I do not know how it is, but all my life
I ve had an ideal before me. I knew I
should find her some day, so I ve tried to
live to be worthy of her. And I have lived
worthily " looking up triumphantly into
the tear stained face. " I have found her in
you."

There was a moment s silence.

" I know that you do not love me," he
said sadly, " but I love you so well, dear,
and " wistfully " I want you to marry me,
before I go."

She started to speak.

" It will be for so short a time, dear "
pleadingly. " I do not ask for your life
that, perhaps, belongs to another? "

She bowed her head, while the tears ran
unchecked down her cheeks.

" Surely you will grant me this," he began
eagerly " just a day, an hour perhaps only
a moment to feel that you are mine; and
then when I am gone twill be but a memory
of how you had made a dying man happy,
given him one glimpse of the heaven to
which he hopes he is going."

Her lips scarcely moved. " I cannot oh&gt;
I cannot! " she moaned.

A shadow fell over his face.

" I wish that it might be," he said sim
ply, and closed his eyes wearily.

A sudden light sprang into her eyes. " I
love you," she cried. Her words came
rapidly, as if she could not speak them fast
enough. " I do love you, and now I know
it. It has just come to me. It has been
creeping into my heart, and I did not know
it. I did not want to know it. I thought 1
loved him, but it is you."

She held him close.

" But I am promised to him," she added
slowly. " He loves me, and I must not
break my word."

" No," he echoed feebly, looking deep
into her eyes; " you must keep your faith."

She bent and kissed him.

* * * *

She went back into the dull gray of the
morning. There was a drawn look on he&gt;
face, and her eyes were filled with unshed
tears. She stood at the gate for a moment
and watched the first rosy streaks appear in
the east.

A figure stood beside her. " I ve heard
about it," he said gruffly. " He wanted you
to marry him, didn t he? "

She nodded.

" You did? " eagerly.

" No " turning her eyes full upon him,
" I had promised you, you know."

STORIETTES.

3 11

" You oughtn t to have minded that," he
said, kicking the tuft of brown grass at his
feet. " Of course I wouldn t mind, seeing
he wasn t going to live. And say, Char
lotte "

" Well? " dreamily.

You d have had all his money."

Silence.

" You d have been nicely fixed, and we
could have been married soon."

" I did not think of it," she answered me
chanically, her eyes on a floating cloud in
the east.

He laughed bitterly. " It couldn t have
done you any harm, and you might have
thought about me. You might have been
willing to sacrifice something for me."

He turned and left her.

Her eyes were still intent on the cloud a
soft, fleecy cloud that seemed to bear in its
embrace a still, white figure. A ray of sun
light played about it for an instant, then it
floated far off into the blue.

" And I sacrificed you, dear," she said, as
she turned and entered the house, leaving
behind her the glow of the morning.

Harriet Caryl Cox.

A LAZY LOVER.

THEY were out on the lake, Roy Adams
and Ruby Lane, paddling about among the
water lilies. He had just come as near pro
posing to her, and she to refusing him, as
it was possible to do and miss, this being
their customary daily diversion. Now he
was watching her lazily. That was what
irritated her so his inordinate laziness.

He was large and blond, with placid blue
eyes lik^ a sleepy baby s. She was little,
and trim as waxwork, and her gray eyes
were clear and keen. The exciting point of
the day s program over, Roy had settled
down to his usual comfortable nonchalance.

" I don t know what kind of a fellow you
want," he grumbled amiably, with an indo
lent movement of one oar; and somehow his
laziest motion seemed to accomplish a good
deal.

" / know," said Ruby positively.

" Let s hear about him," Roy proposed.

" He s brisk," Ruby replied, " and ener
getic."

" Think I ve got him in my mind s eye."
Roy gave the other oar an easy touch.
" Small and bustling and chippery, like the
little cock sparrow who sat on a tree."

" He isn t like that in the least." Ruby
sat up prim and stiff, and rosy with indigna
tion.

" Oh, isn t he? Beg his pardon. Where
is he now? "

" At work," Ruby replied promptly, her

tone implying a comparison between a man
thus profitably employed and one who idled
his time away at a summer hotel.

" Perhaps he has an object in view," Roy
insinuated.

" Perhaps," Ruby admitted demurely.

" And um is the object to be attained
soon? "

Ruby let her eyes droop towards the top
ruffle of her blue organdie.

" I don t know exactly; not before next
spring." She was dabbling her hand in the
lake, her eyelashes still slanting downward.

" Ah! Congratulate him, and everything.
Shall we row over to that bunch of willows,
or down to the little cove? "

For an instant Ruby wished she might
tip the boat over, just to see if his exasper
ating equanimity would be disturbed even by
such an emergency.

" I don t believe it would," she decided in
disgust. " He d get us out if he could con
veniently, and if he couldn t he d drown with
that contented smile on his face, as serenely
as if he were a wooden Shem out of a toy
Noah s ark."

* * * *

Mrs. Albert Loyd was peacefully cro
cheting a pair 4 of bedroom slippers for Mr.
Albert Loyd, chanting such incantation as:
Chain two; double in second double; turn;
five singles in loop; chain two," when her
sister Ruby whirled in upon her, cast herself
into a rocking chair, and rocked tempestu
ously for three minutes. Mrs. Albert viewed
her quietly, suspending her crochet hook for
a moment.

" Three singles in loop; chain two been
fencing with Mr. Adams again?" she que
ried mildly.

" Yes," Ruby answered, but I hardly
think he ll care about fencing any more."

" No? Why not? Turn; five singles."

" I practically told him I was engaged."

" Dear me! chain five and to whom?
Turn."

* A person I invented."

"You unprincipled little wretch! What
did you do it for? "

" Just to see what effect it would have."

" Two singles and what effect did it? "

None at all. You couldn t stir him up
to move an eyelash, whatever you did; he s
too sublimely lazy even to lose his temper."

Mrs. Albert shook her head gently.

" You re off the track," she commented,
unwinding more scarlet wool; " he may per
haps be guilty of always keeping his temper,
and, let me tell you, a married woman would
consider that a very good failing; but as for
being lazy Albert s friend, that little Mr.
Higginson. who knows him well, says he
works in his office like a galley slave ten

312

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

months of the year, and although he has that
lazy way and looks as if he were letting
things go to smash if they want to, he has
his eye on everything, and every move he
makes counts. I shouldn t wonder if you ve
put your silly foot in it for once, with your
invented man. Albert says there isn t a
more whole souled fellow living than Roy
Adams; but just because he doesn t hop
around and fuss over everything like a banty
chicken as you do you must get scornful
and snub him. You ve done it all summer,
you know you have, and he s been as faith
ful to you as the needle to the haystack, or
whatever it is a needle is supposed to be
faithful to. You always were a fractious
child, and you aren t a whit better now than

when you were six years " Mrs. Loyd

ceased her lecture as she found herself talk
ing to a dissolving view of blue organdie
ruffles and a couple of whisking sash ends,
and returned to her chaining, doubling, and
looping.

Roy appeared before Ruby early the next
day in his usual calm frame of mind and his
boating rig.

" Think he ll object to your going out on
the lake with me just once more? " he asked.
" I m going away early tomorrow morning."

" What for? " she asked.

" Have to," he responded; " vacation
comes to an end tonight. Can you go? "

She ran out and slipped her boating hat
on in silence. She was reflecting dismally
that she must either confess her little ro
mance of yesterday an unfounded one, or bid
good by forever to this exasperating man,
and she knew now that the latter was some
thing she could not do and retain any shred
of happiness. She waited, however, until
they were out on the blue, soothing bosom
of the lake. Then she rushed into it.

" He couldn t object, you know," she said,
reverting to his remark of some time before,
" because he s only a fiction."

" A dream man? " he asked. She nodded,
blushing uncomfortably.

He hummed a bar of " When a Dream
Came True," and settled back easily. Ruby
looked down in silence. She was waiting
for him to say something else and he was
carelessly moving an oar now and then, and
apparently thinking of nothing at all. She
noticed for the first time how strong his
brown hands looked; they were not the
hands of a lazy man.

They drifted along aimlessly.

" It was a silly story to tell," Ruby said at
last.

" Oh, I don t know," he answered indul
gently. " I rather thought you were fabri
cating. But you might realize him yet, you
know."

" I don t want to." Her voice was a little
uneven.

" Poor dream man; sympathize with him,
I m sure. Like to have that pond lily? "

" Thank you, I don t care for it; let s go
back."

He agreed amiably. " I ought to get back-
early," he said. " I promised Kingsland to
come over and go fishing this afternoon, so
we may not see each other again. Caesar,
isn t this a day for fishing, though!"

Ruby s cheeks tingled as she walked
silently beside him through the light, dry
grass on the way to the hotel, while he
stalked cheerfully along, making irritatingly
pleasant remarks about the scenery.

They came to a standstill at the summer
house on the lawn. It was empty, and Ruby
did not want to walk into the crowd of
people on the hotel porch.

" I m tired," she said; " I ll rest a while,
and we can say good by here."

He held out his sunburned hand and
clasped hers closely for a minute. " Good
by," he said. " If you should come to terms
with the dream man, don t forget to let me
know."

She watched him going across an adjoin
ing field, as she fell into the big willow chair
and began to rock. Then she looked off
dismally toward the misty hills. They were
dimmer than the light summer haze war
ranted.

" Only a summer flirtation only a sum
mer flirtation," creaked the chair madden
ingly.

She turned her eyes to the field again.
She could still see the tall form loitering
along. When it should disappear, the end
of things would have come. He stooped,
seeming to pick up something; then he
turned slowly and began his easy stride back
towards the summer house. It seemed ages
before he reached the door and looked in,
holding towards her a flower on a long stalk,
just a fringe of pale lilac petals uncurling
from a tawny golden center.

" See, I found the first aster, and came
back to bring it to you," he said.

She accepted it silently. He looked curi
ously at her eyes. The rims were decidedly
pink. He folded his arms and leaned against
the door casing.

" Sure you aren t going to marry the
dream man? " he asked, after a casual sur
vey of the landscape.

" Didn t I tell you there wasn t any?

" I thought you might be fibbing again
If there really isn t "

"Well?"

" Couldn t you reconsider things and take
me, after all?"

Hattie Whitney.

SUM

IN VANITY FAIR

MASQUES AND DANCES, DINNERS AND TEAS,AUSICALES; OPERAS.PLAYS,
GOSSIP AND GALLANTRY, WAYS or EASE, FOLLY FRAUGHT NIGHTS AND DAYS;
GREED or GOLD AND THE PACE THAT KILLS.GLAMODR AND GLOSS AND GLARE:,
FADS AND FURBELOWS, FANCIES AND FRILLS-THIS is VANITY FAIR !
,

" MORE PEOPLE KNOW CAESAR."

The people have a new way of proving
their intimacy with Caesar, in the develop
ment of the autograph extorting fad. This
has hitherto been merely a sport for the
feeble minded, who were satisfied with the
simple signature of greatness, and frankly
overjoyed when something in the way of
" Yours very sincerely " was thrown in.
These immortalized squares of paper would
be pasted in a book and shown without pre
tense as the result of honest toil. The col
lection was as impersonal as a stamp album.

Now, however, more ambitious torment
ors have taken to pelting an author with his
own works, accompanied by the request that
he write his name on the fly leaf and send
them back. Thus enriched, they are strewn
carelessly about on library and drawingroom
tables, that the visitor may pick them up and
infer warm friendship between the possessor
and Greatness. " Oh, yes, dear Soandso
sent me that," says the owner, and does not
add that the book had first been sent to dear
Soandso, with a fawning note and return
postage. Of course, if she is such a friend of
Soandso s, she must be worth while, the gul
lible visitor argues, and decides that he too
will become allied with Greatness by being
very nice to her.

Meanwhile, Greatness is in a quandary.
He may have had no scruples about making
collections of return stamps, and using the
autograph slips for laundry lists, but collect
ing his own works, whose sale has already
enriched him by a definite per cent of the re
tail price, is another matter. They must
assuredly be returned. And to send them
back without the little scratch of the pen
they crave seems a surly act, in the face of
that reverent note.

He knows that, by encouraging the fad,
he is cheapening the value of a real presenta
tion copy, which, when given by friend to
friend, is a very precious gift. He is lay
ing himself open to the charge of friendships
with unknown and uncongenial persons. He
is making himself a great deal of trouble,
for to do up and mail a package especially
one that will not go in a mail box is a little
bother that is ten times as bothersome as a
big bother. But there are the books, cum

bering his table and his conscience. There
is nothing to do but to return them and be
thankful that the admirer did not send a tree
for him to carve his name on, or a four
poster in which he must sleep.

SOME TRICKS OF PHOTOGRAPHERS.

The photographer of modern Vanity Fair
owes a great deal of his success to his skill in
discovering the weak sides of his customers.

There is scarcely a woman in New York,
with sufficient pretensions to beauty to make
her worth the photographer s while, who
does not fancy that she looks like some
actress or woman who is in the public eye;
and the photographer who knows his busi
ness is not slow to note the resemblance and
make capital out of it. A great many women
will walk into his studio and boldly request
him to take a picture which shall resemble
Mary Anderson, or Duse, or Mrs. Cleve
land; and thereupon the wily artist will note
with keen eye whatever points of resem
blance there may be, and so i ose his subject
as to make these noticeable in the photo
graph. After all, it is not difficult to find
one woman who looks something like an
other, and the resemblance can be intensified
by skilful posing, by the dressing of the hai*%
and by the arrangement of the draperies.

Happy indeed, and prosperous as well, is
the photographer who can produce these
results; but doubly blest is that man of genius
who can persuade a client to be photo
graphed in imitation of some famous his
torical painting, on the ground of her
strong resemblance to the principal figure in
it. There is scarcely a canvas of any note
which has not yielded its heroic figures for
the fostering of this preposterous conceit.
It would be difficult to estimate the number
of large boned, lubberly women who have
been induced to pose in the attitude of
Queen Louise of Prussia, descending a
staircase, as she appears in Richter s famous
portrait. Mary Queen of Scots also offers a
rich field to the brainy photographer, as
there is scarcely a woman in Vanity Fair
no matter how ugly who cannot be made
to believe that she bears a resemblance to
the martyred victim of Elizabeth s jealousy.

The humbler classes have their weaknesses.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

too, and the artists who cater to them are
quick to take advantage of the fact. For
example, the young working girl who sits
for her crayon portrait on the beach at Coney
Island or Rockaway, or in a dime museum,
can, for a small extra compensation, be rep
resented with diamond earrings and a hand
some feather boa. These articles of luxu
rious adornment are very easily drawn, and
make a splendid showing for the price. But
the artist who deals in these accessories
would be laughed to scorn were he to ask
one of his customers to pay him extra to be
portrayed in the garb of Prussia s sorrowful
queen. It is only in Vanity Fair that such
a thing can be done.

POLITICIANS IN SOCIETY.

The appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Richard
Croker in the drawingrooms of Mr. Perry
Belmont s New York house, during the past
winter, caused no end of excitement among
that enormous class of people who do not
move in society and are therefore deeply
agitated by everything that goes on within
that charmed circle. The only ripples that
arose in the smooth waters of the social
millpond into which the celebrated politician
was plumped were those of curiosity, and
would have been aroused in any other quar
ter by the appearance of a man so well
known as Richard Croker.

A young woman who was present at the
Belmont party describes Mrs. Croker as es
sentially gentle and feminine, but the "boss"
impressed her as a man of distinctly aggres
sive force, who could become decidedly dis
agreeable were any of his plans to be
thwarted. It is not likely that the Crokers
will trouble themselves very much about
society, for Mrs. Croker is said to have little
ambition in that direction, and her husband
usually has other fish to fry. If they do,
they will soon cease to be objects of curi
osity, and will come to be looked upon in
the same matter of course light as is Mr.
Bourke Cockran, who is now a well known
figure in many of the most famous drawing-
rooms of New York.

But there is something in this new blend
ing of politics and society that we cannot
afford to ignore as merely so much fruit for
idle gossip. It is an indication that some
New Yorkers, at least, fee! that the men who
have acquired leadership in the affairs of the
city and nation are worthy of social recogni
tion as well; and the sign is a healthful one,
as New York society has always been wo-
fully lacking in men of achievement. There
can be no question of Mr. Croker s ability.
He has gained the place that he holds at
present in the councils of Tammany Hall by
the only methods that give a politician per

manent and reliable power. His career may
be likened to that of the big snowball in
which schoolboys find amusement. Begin
ning with a small, compact body of adher
ents on whom he could depend, Mr. Croker
made his way through the political field,
gathering strength and weight at every turn,
until he became the formidable power that
he is today.

Women, who are always quick to recog
nize force and character in a man, are cer
tain to find pleasure in talking to a man like
Mr. Croker. They have already shown
their appreciation of the social and mental
qualities of Mr. Cockran, who, to speak
mildly, does not appear to disadvantage
when surrounded by wealthy young men of
leisure of the class that figures so promi
nently in the circles which he has recently
entered.

THE SUPERNATURAL IN VANITY FAIR.

If it were not for women, fortune tellers,
palm readers, and other traders in occult
matters would have a hard time of it in this
world. It must be confessed that the gentle
sex is a superstitious one, and prone to pin
its faith to that which it is unable to under
stand; and the women of Vanity Fair, hav
ing more time on their hands, and more
money to spend on the gratification of what
ever fancy may seize them, are liberal pa
trons of the soothsayer, no matter what form
that mysterious personage may assume.

In this particular respect Vanity Fair is
as democratic as a circus, for although it has
its own special purveyors of mystery, who
charge a very high price, and occupy
"studios " in fashionable hotels, nevertheless
it is always ready to consult one who has
ministered successfully to tho^e cravings for
the supernatural that are to be found in the
bosoms of the poor and lowly, as well as
those of the rich and gay. A certain fortune
teller found, on returning from a long period
of retirement in State s prison, that the
notoriety acquired by his trial and sentence
had kept him in the public mind. He had
no sooner reopened his office than people of
every class, including many who came " in
their own carriages," as the phrase is, began
to pour in for consultation. Nor is he the
only one of his class who enjoys the patron
age of men and women of high social sta
tion. The money that comes from Vanity
Fair does much to keep alive a profession to
which the authorities have long been trying
to put an end.

New York has not only its commonplace
clairvoyants, who advertise that they will
" read the past, present, and future, and show
photograph of future husband or wife," but
also various necromancers who dispense

IN VANITY FAIR.

witchcraft to people of their own particular
race, and these specialists have a peculiar at
traction for idle women of society. At one
time there was a gipsy queen who enjoyed
considerable popularity, and again it was a
voodoo witch in Bleecker Street, held in
reverential awe by the negroes of the neigh
borhood, who told these fashionable folk
what the future held in store for them.

The most interesting of all these aliens
was the Chinese doctor who died last win
ter. During his lifetime he was consulted
on all sorts of subjects by men and women
who found a certain picturesque charm in
his oriental surroundings, and at the same
time recognized the fact that he was at least
a man of remarkable native sagacity and
cunning. This physician, who might have
been a prototype of the learned doctor who
figured in Mr. Powers drama, " The First
Born," was styled by his countrymen " the
Special Favorite of Joss, Intimate Associate
of the Nine Gods of Healing, Maker of
Mysteries, Seer of the Dark Unknown, and
Healer of the Dread Disease; " and yet
when consumption seized him he was pow
erless to save himself. As yet no one has
succeeded him in the counsels of supernatu-
rally inclined women.

IN THE INNER CIRCLE.

The table talk at Mrs. Catnip s boarding
house, where I live, has been really quite
acrimonious this winter, because of the al
leged resolve on the part of certain fashion
able women to entertain only such persons
as are able and willing to spend an equal
amount of money in return. It is freely as
serted at our table that this inner circle of
reciprocal wealth is limited to thirty five, al
though the Funny Boarder claims to be the
thirty sixth, making the number an even
three dozen. He s a dry soul, that boarder,
and keeps the fun going at his end of the
table in great style. Only yesterday I heard
him tell a new boarder that it was a "fine day
for the race" meaning the human race.

Of course we all fairly dote on society, and
Mrs. Pillowsham, who has not missed a sin
gle great social function in ten years, pro
vided it could be viewed from the sidewalk,
tells us that things have come to a pretty
pass when certain women, whom I will not
presume to name, can set the style for New
York. But then Mrs. Pillowsham has bitter
prejudices, and I am sure I can scarcely
blame her, for it was at the wedding of one
of these very women that she got her rheu
matism through standing for three mortal
hours in six inches of slush directly in front
of the church door. Since then she has
never gone into society without putting on
ear muffs and arctic overshoes.

Now I have no desire to criticise any one
for having only thirty four friends, or for
selecting them from any particular class or
condition of life. That is a matter that con
cerns only themselves, and the people at
Mrs. Catnip s boarding house, who take a far
deeper interest in the visiting lists of the rich
than the millionaires do themselves. As
an American citizen, I have a right to dis
cuss these matters freely with Mrs. Pillow
sham and Mrs. Catnip, whose prunella shoes
have been planted on many a curbstone, and
whose spectacled eyes have feasted upon
many an aristocratic heel as it descended
from the carriage and disappeared along the
carpeted way. But I have no right to chide
our great leaders of fashion for their exclu-
siveness, or to sneer at them because they
amuse themselves in their own way.

I must say, however, that the sudden
crystallization of a group which should be
termed, by reason of its insularity, not a
stratum of society but rather a social geode,
is an event which a naturalist like myself
cannot pretend to ignore. As to the exist
ence of this secluded cluster of brilliants, I
have no authority save the testimony of
Mmes. Catnip and Pillowsham; but I fee ;
that neither good taste nor good sense wil.i
be offended if I indulge in a few solemn
speculations concerning this limited edition
of dinner traders, and the style of conversa
tion that might be reasonably expected at
one of their exchanges.

Let us picture to ourselves one of these de
iightful social gatherings held at the house
of a gentleman whose education, breeding,
and other endearing social qualities are fully
attested by certain gilt edged securities re
corded in his name, and composed entirely
of men and women whose rank is but the
guinea stamp, and who would not be allowed
at the table if they had not already bound
themselves by a sacred covenant to give in
return just as costly a feast as the one to
which they are now bidden.

Would the following be a fair sample of
the sort of conversation that the servants
would be compelled to listen to?

" Six men in livery ! That s four more than 1
ever saw here. I suppose they keep four empty
suits hanging up in the closet, and have the
caterer fill them when they give a dinner, just
as he fills the ice cream molds ! "

"Well, what can you expect from people who
never thought of going into society until the
last wheat corner? I hope they ll give us more
terrapin than we got at the Linoleums last week
I m sure there wasn t more than a dollar s worth
on my plate, and I could make a whole dinner
off of it."

"Why, if there isn t Mrs. Slump! I should
think that she d be ashamed to show her face
here, after what happened to her husband, and

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

if these people don t know anything more about
good manners than to ask her, somebody ought
to tell them. Their position in society is not so
secure by any means that they can afford to take
an3 chances with it."

"Really, you surprise me, but then I ve been
away from New York all winter, and I haven t
kept track of all the scandals. Do tell me what
Mrs. Slump has done. I should think that a
woman at her time of life, and with a face like
that would frighten any man into good
behavior."

Bless you, she hasn t done anything out of
the way. You ve only to look at her to know
that ! It s her husband, old Slump. I wonder
he didn t have the impertinence to come, too."

"Why, what has he done? I always thought
he was quite nice ; certainly those diamond scarf
pins he gave us at his dinner were the finest
things New York has seen in many a day. "

" What has he done? Why, he is done, him
self. Went all to smash, and can t pay his gas bill.
If the cards for this dinner hadn t been sent out
before, Mrs. Slump wouldn t be here tonight."

" Really, this is shocking. I always thought
Mr. Slump was quite the gentleman, but you
never can trust appearances."

* * * *

" How much money are you spending for the
new furniture in the music room ? "

" Pretty near twice as much as Mrs. Oatcake s
clrawingrooni cost her. There, I hope she heard
that ! By the way, what sort of stuffing did you
use in the cushions of the window seat in 3-our
library? "

"Really, I ve forgotten, but I think it was
New York Central bonds."

"Oh, indeed! We ve got Chemical Bank
stock in ours."

* * * *
"After all, this dinner isn t so bad. This is

hothouse lamb ; it costs fifty cents a pound."

"Well, that s only about twenty cents apiece,
or seven dollars for the whole thirty five of us.
I wouldn t give much for their position in
society next winter if we don t get strawberries
for dessert, I can tell you that."

* * * *

" Do you know, I think it s a great shame that
the papers don t give us more accurate informa
tion about English society than they do. Why,
it s only the other day I heard that the Duke of
Argyll is actually received everywhere, and I am
sure everybody knows that he is a poor man,
even for an English nobleman."

"Why, of course he is received everywhere,
even if he is poor."

" Dear me, what snobbish, vulgar people those
English are ! "

The indolence and the helplessness of the
women of Vanity Fair serve at least to offer
a good living to many an ingenious man or
woman who can devise some scheme for ren
dering a small service for modest pay. At
present there are scores of people who go
from house to house as manicures, hair
dressers, or massage operators, gaining

thereby not only a good livelihood, but also
a vast fund of interesting information con
cerning the homes and lives of the people to
whom they minister.

A new addition to the list of these special
workers is found in the person of a man
whose business it is to take charge of the
aquariums which are now found in so many
private parlors. This man charges a dollar
a month for his services, and also makes a
profit by supplying fish and water plants
when needed. He makes a specialty of
hideously ugly fish; the uglier his specimen
the more eager are his patrons to buy it.

* * # #

Just now French bulldogs of repulsive
facial aspect are popular in Vanity Fair. In
deed, so great is the passion for owning and
breeding these pets that the exhibition of
French bulls given at the Astoria, last win
ter, attracted as much attention in fashion
able circles as if it had been a regular dog
show at Madison Square Garden.
&gt; One woman intends to profit by this craze,
and has gone into the business of breeding
French bulldogs at a kennel she has estab
lished in Garden City, Long Island. She
has a partner in the venture, and will carry
it on in a businesslike and perhaps profit
able manner. The prices paid for these dogs
at present is enormous, many of them selling
for from one to two thousand dollars apiece.

Meantime the French poodle, with his
wool clipped in elaborate designs on his
back, has almost disappeared from view.

* * * *

Dwellers in Vanity Fair have themselves
to blame for the existence of the theater
speculator, who stands outside the playhouse
door with tickets for the choicest seats
clasped between his knuckles, and offers
them to the passer by at an advance of a
quarter or a half dollar on the regular prices.
He exists because so many people will pat
ronize him in order to save themselves the
trouble of standing in line at the box office.
As he usually w r orks in connection with the
manager of the theater, his risk is nothing,
and his share of the profits very large in pro
portion to his labor and investment.

He would not be tolerated in European
cities, although people abroad submit to the
imposition of being charged for a pro
gram, and also to the extortions of the
hideous old women called ouvrcitses, who fall
upon each patron as he enters the theater,
and demand a fee for escorting him to his
seat and handing him a footstool. The late
comer finds the attentions of these women
quite costly, for all the disengaged ones will
gather about him with outstretched palms,
like a flock of vultures, until he distributes
gratuities among them.

__ THE PUBLISHERS DESK _

A PERSONAL CHAT WITH OUR READERS BY MR.MUN5EY

COMPARATIVE SHOWING ON THE APRIL MAGAZINES.

Serial Stories

Century.
. 2 .

Harper s.

Egf i .

Scribner s.
. . 2 . .

McClure s.
J .

Munsey s.
. . 2

Special Articles

. 13 .

. . 9 .

. . 4 . .

2 .

. . 7

. . 2

5 .

. . 7 .

. . 4 .

. 21

Topics Treated in Departments

. 6 .

, 10

. . 4 . .

. 67

Total number of topics . .
Number of illustrations .

. 28 .
. 64
- 160

. 34 .

. . 52 .
. . 162 .

. 16 . .

. . 51 .
. . 128 . .

. // .

. 61
. 96 .

. 104

. . 88
. 160

Price of magazine

35 cents.

25 cents*

10 cents.

The above table is one that merits yoiir attention. It is a statement of facts that shows
the relative value of MTJNSEY s MAGAZINE as compared with other magazines, and the
relative cost of MUNSEY S MAGAZINE as compared with other magazines. It contains
facts worth discussing with your neighbors.

A MILLION SUGGESTIONS ON THE
MILLION FOR THE MUNSEY.

WE haven t received actually a whole cold
million suggestions in answer to my query
in the March number as to whether MUNSEY S
MAGAZINE could go to a million circulation
with our present population, but we have
received what might well be termed a little
million. These suggestions, as a whole, are
excellent and many of them clever. But
to apply them to MUNSEY S MAGAZINE, a
publication that already has so vast a circu
lation, and one that gives so much for the
money, is the rub. An overwhelming percent
age of them could only apply to a publication
that reserves a big margin for circulation
booming. The profit on a ten cent magazine
of one hundred and sixty reading pages a
magazine of the very best grade in every re
spect, paper, presswork, art, letterpress is so
infinitesimal that little money is accumulated
for circulation purposes.

However, I meant just what I said in the
March number, in stating that I would be
willing to give a quarter of a million dollars
if it would advance the circulation of THE
MUNSEY to the million point. This subject
is getting to be an interesting one. It natu
rally interests me, and my own interest
is intensified by the interest of our readers
by the discussion it has created from one
end of the land to the other. It is, per
haps, not so surprising that this subject lias
created so much general interest, and from
the fact that THE MUNSEY is the people s

magazine, and the people are always interested
in matters of their own. That I may be in
the procession one of you I am going to
offer a suggestion myself on this circulation
problem. It isn t a "measly" little quarter
of a million dollar suggestion either. It is

A HALF MILUON DOI,I,AR SUGGESTION.

It is this : if 100,000 of our readers wil.
each send us five annual subscriptions to
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE at $1.00 each, we wil)
give to each of these 100,000 readers a five
years subscription to THE MUNSEY.

This means $ 100,000 a year for five years
or a total of $500,000. I don t want to ask a
big thing without giving something big in
return. And an offer of $500,000 is, as offers
go, a very big thing. I think I can say
safely that no publisher has ever made so big
an offer, and I think I can say safely that it
is a simple, practical proposition. Among
our vast number of readers there ought to be
100,000, perhaps two or three times as many,
who could as easily as the turning over of a
hand send us five annual subscriptions to
MUNSEY S MAGAZINE. Every one of you
have your friends and acquaintances and you
know just how many of them are now taking
THE MUNSEY. This information is impos
sible to us. If we were in touch with the
people everywhere as you are in touch with
your friends and acquaintances, I should not
have occasion to make this $500,000 offer. It
is becatise we are not in touch with the
people who do not now take Tine MrxSKv.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

because we have no way to get in touch with
them, that I make this offer.

But this proposition is made only on the
condition that 100,000 of you an Honor List
of 100,000 will first agree to send us the five
annual subscriptions. I would not contem
plate for a minute paying out 100 per cent of
the total amount received for subscriptions
unless it were to result in putting MUNSEY S
MAGAZINE beyond the million point ; and in
giving a five years subscription to MUNSEY S
MAGAZINE to the one who sends us five new
subscriptions, I am giving 100 per cent an
exact equivalent to the amount of money w r e
get in. To give 100 per cent, then, for an
indefinite number of subscriptions, possibly
a very few 7 subscriptions, would be very bad
business, would be rank foil}-. But to give
$500,000 for 500,000 new subscriptions, and
thereby put the circulation of MUNSEY S
MAGAZINE way beyond the million point, is
a proposition so tremendous that it at once con
verts what would be in a small way bad busi
ness management into a great business stroke.

The proposition, then, is this : Will you,
you individually and I mean every one of
you enroll your name on the Honor List for
this undertaking? Send us your name for
this Honor List. When the list is full we will
notify you, and then you can send in your
five subscriptions not till then. No sub
scriptions will be received on this basis until
the 100,000 Honor List is completed, and this
list will be limited to 100,000. Xo reader can
become a member of it after it is filled. We
should not wish to increase our subscriptions
further at so enormous a cost.

In making this proposition I do not feel
that I am asking too much when I promise
so much in return. In this connection I want
to say that the enrollment of 100,000 of our
readers on this Honor List would be a testi
monial to the work I have done in giving the
ten cent magazine to the world such a mag
nificent testimonial as few men ever re
ceive. I should appreciate it beyond any
thing ; vastly beyond whatever monetary
profits this business has ever yielded me, or
ever may yield me.

TAKEN INTO CAMP.

WE have just bought The Peterson Maga
zine. It began its career in 1842 ; it ends it
in 1898. The last number of 77?^ Peterson
has been issued. We have merged it with
THE ARGOSY, a magazine which, perchance,
I may have mentioned to you before.

The Peterson was founded in Philadelphia
under the name of The Ladies World. Two
years later the name was changed to The
Ladies 1 National Magazine. And in 1850 it
became Petersons Magazine.

The Peterson is one of the very oldest
magazines in the country. Godey^s was
brought out in 1830 ; Graham s Magazine
was started a few years later, and The Peter
son followed in 1842. All three of tlfese
magazines were started in Philadelphia,
which at that time was the center of literary
culture in America.

The Peterson, under the management of Mr.
Charles J. Peterson, whose name it bore, be
came a successful publication. It reached a
wide circulation and for many years was one
of our. chief literary periodicals. It brought
out many authors whose names became prom
inent in the world of letters.

It is a source of regret that a magazine dat
ing back so far in our history, and to whose
pages so many brilliant men and women have
contributed, should fade from the roll of
living publications. But sentiment alone
does not pay authors, artists, and printers
bills. The Peterson since it passed out of the
hands of the man who gave it a place in the
publishing world has had a checkered career.
It has not had the handling or the money
back of it to keep it in pace with the aggres
sive publications of the day. It has failed
several times, and has all the while been face
to face with disaster. Regretful as it is to see
an old landmark like this disappear, its dis
appearance is less regretful than the spectacle
of a tottering wreck. The Peterson had
reached that point where it could live only in
death, and through death it now lives in the
very much alive ARGOSY.

A GRIP ON ANTIQUITY.

FOR fear that I may never have said any
thing to you of THE ARGOSY it would not be
inappropriate to add a word or two about it
at this time. THE ARGOSY in itself has a
history covering fifteen years ; add to this the
fifty seven years life of 7^he Peterson and
THE ARGOSY suddenly becomes the oldest
magazine in America. There are more ways
than one to get a grip on antiquity, and I
fancy that antiquity counts for something in
magazines as well as in families. But antiq
uity in magazines counts for about as little
without living stamina as antiquity in fami
lies without living stamina.

History is a pleasant thing to look back
upon, but what is is what counts. THE
ARGOSY, then, will not depend upon its
lengthened history for its future, but rather
upon the constantly increasing merits of it
self. And it has no mean number of merits
today 192 pages" chuck full" of rattling
good fiction, the kind of fiction that a tired
man can read and feel refreshed, and a re
freshed man can read and feel that he is
having a "bully good time."

ETCHINGS

HE WAS PREPARED.

THE distinguished man was very ill. The
physician felt that all had been done which
medical science could do. It was his duty to
tell his patient the worst.

" You have only a few hours to live, sir. If
you have any preparations to make, you will
do well to make them immediately."

"I have none to make," the patient re
plied. " I die contented, and even happy.
I have been preparing for years for the end
which I knew must come some day. My
fame is secure. Let posterity do its worst."

And it was so, for when his biographer
and literary executor would have gathered
together his private papers for publication,
behold, there was none. He had destroyed
them himself.

William H. Siviter.

CONSPIRATOR A CAP !
THE golfing cap that Dolly wears

Hath not a trace of trimmings fancy,
But brave indeed is he who dares

Investigate its necromancy ;
For all mysterious charms allure

And take you captive unawares ;
There s sorcery about, I m sure,

The golfing cap that Dolly wears.

There s not a flower, ribbon, plume,

Or aught of milliner s creation,
No bird to deck it met its doom,

And stuffed upon it takes its station ,
It s plain as plain can be, and yet

There hidden lie most subtle snares
When on a mass of curls is set

The golfing cap that Dolly wears.

Long had I laughed at Cupid s sport,

And dodged his skilful archery,
But straightway I was brought to court

When Dolly set her cap for me ;
And Cupe, the rascal, danced for joy

To see he d trapped me unawares,
Abetted by pray, bless the boy !

The golfing cap that Dolly wears.

Roy Parrel I Greene.

ANSWERED.

WHICH are the sweetest, black eyes or blue,
Which are the brightest, which the most true,

Which the most melting and tender ?
Have the midnight orbs the victor s claim,
Or the azure eyes the surest aim,

Compelling a heart s surrender ?

Ah, brave the knight who dares to test
These rival claims and the game at best

Full many a wound insures ;
But sweetest and truest of all to me
Today and forever and ay shall be

The eyes that are just like yours !

Laura Bcrteaux BeU

TRUE COURTESY.
INTO the chamber of thy mind

Could I but softly steal,
To other loves wert thou inclined.

Their presence I d reveal.

I d know then just what other men
Have dwelt there in the past,

And I could tell, from what had been
Just how long I might last.

But no ! I ll be the cavalier
And wait, dear girl, for you

Be it a week, a month, a year
To furnish it anew.

And then, when thou art ready, sweet

I ll enter at the door,
And lease the place, in terms complete

For ever, evermore.

Tom Masson

THE OAK.

THERE stood an oak half up the mountain

side
With gnarled and ancient arms stretched

wide

A sentinel eternal.

While years as leaves fell off and seasons died,
The vale s mute guardian watched in pride,
August, alone, supernal.

Love neath its gracious shadow one day

brought
A youth and maid ; his ardor sought

To prove his faith, his rapture.
With fervent blade, two letters deep he

wrought

In linked union, art love taught,
A pledge their vows to capture.

" While stands the tree our names forever

wed
Y, Ysabel, and F for Fred

Nor time, nor death can sever."
The maiden s subtler eye a symbol read
" A pledge of constancy," she said,

" That I am Yours Forever. "

3 2 Q

MUXSHY S MAGAZINE.

Came later to the oak a youth forlorn
His love a world apart, to mourn

His agony s endurance.
In cruel mockery scoffed the letters worn ;
Still from their union hope was born ;

" Yet Faithful," its assurance.

Hope reft, returned to raze, at pride s com
mand,
The mocking sign, when paused his hand,

His settled purpose swerving.
"Vain symbol, which youth s eager hope did

brand,
Forever now as warning stand

To Youthful Folly serving."

Stands yet the grim old oak half up the hill,
While graven in its side lives still

A pledge by love begotten.
Dead as past season s Jeaves, the hope, the

thrill,
A prophecy the words fulfil

A sigh for Youth Forgotten !

Ednah Robinson.

WHEN MARJORY DANCED THE
MINUET.

WHEN Marjory danced the minuet,

My heart was the waxen floor,
Her hair gleamed gold in its silken net,
Her gown was the hue of the violet,

Dew gemmed with the pearls she wore.

When Marjory danced the minuet,
The candles twinkled and gleamed,

For she was the queen, the courtier s pet ;

And when in the maze of the dance we met
How sweet was the dream I dreamed !

When Marjory danced the minuet,
The music it pulsed and throbbed

And thrilled the soul with a sweet regret ;

Impassioned the heart, while the eyes were

wet,
As it sobbed and laughed, and sobbed.

Since Marjory danced the minuet,

How wondrous the world has grown !
For my life holds hidden its memory yet
Of the night my heart can never forget
When it came into its own !

Ethel M. Kelley.

A bonbonniere s suspended there,

Likewise a mirror small ;
And I can t see how it may be

That she can carry all ;
But now she s sad, for she can t add

Or so she does complain
A single thing to gaily swing

Upon her chatelaine !

Court plaster occupies a place

Next to a flask of scent ;
A heart holds some beloved face

And forms an ornament ;
A box for stamps, engagement book,

A card case, chaste and plain
Each has its own respective hook

On Betty s chatelaine.

Yet she is vexed and quite perplexed

How to enrich her store,
Though hard she tries, to her surprise

She thinks up nothing more ;
Ah, she forgets, as thus she frets

For something new to chain,
That it s but true I dangle, too,

Upon her chatelaine !

Ralph Alton.

BETTY S CHATELAINE.
SHE wears a wondrous lot of things

All hanging in a row
A pair of scissors closely clings

Beside the silver bow,
A powder box, and a lorgnette

Upon a slender chain,
A quaint and dainty vinaigrette

All on her chatelaine.

THE MAKING OF THE SONG.

THE LADY.

SIR poet, sir poet, come write me a lay,
That the world will go singing a year and

a day.
Come write me a song of a heart that is

broken,

Of love that is ocean deep, still never spoken ;
Of a maiden a sighing alone and in tears,
And a brave youth a dying, unconscious of

fears.

THE POET.

Fair lady, thy servitor strikes not his lyre
Save when it is tempered by love s fiercest

fire;
And the chords of his lyric must e er be

attuned
To the woe of his heart, to the pain of his

wound.

The fair lady sighed, and the poet deplored.
The fair lady cried, and the poet felt bored.
The lady then laughed, and the bard gave a

start,
While Cupid a shaft drove straight through

his heart.
The fair lady mocked at the poet s sad

plight-
Ami the song strains all flocked to the poet

that night.

Tom Hall.

THE BURNING OF THE CONGRESS OFF NEWPORT NEWS, MARCH 8, l862.
From the fainting by J. O. Davidson By permission of C. Klackner, 7 U est Twenty Eighth Street, A r ew York.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XIX.

JUNE, 1898.

No. 3.

HISTORIC NAVAL ENGAGEMENTS.

Glimpses of Famous Old War Ships in Battle Decisive Moments in Great Sea Fights

of the Past.

THE old time war ships were vastly
more picturesque than the modern
fighting machines, grim and fierce as
they are, when stripped for battle. With
all its canvas spread and its colors
streaming from masthead the old ship of
war was a thing of beauty. But history
shows that she was a fighter as well.
Compared, though, with an ironclad

of today, with her modern armament,
she \vas hardly more than a toy gun
boat. Reproductions from the paint
ings of some of the most celebrated naval
engagements of history will be especially
interesting at this time when all eyes
are turned to our splendid war ships in
this contest with Spain and all hopes
centered upon them

ENGAGEMENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND THE MACEDONIAN, OCTOBER 25, l8l2, NEAR THE

ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
From the painting by J. O. Davidson By permission of C. Klackncr, 7 M cst Twenty EigJith Street, New York

, -

IN THE PUBLIC EYE

PRESIDENT WCKIXLKV.

These are the days when a good many
men are very much in the public eye, and
chief among them is William McKinley,
the President of the United States. He
has had to face a more serious problem

than any President in our history with
the one exception of Lincoln. It is an
easy matter to come to hasty decisions
when the decisions have no bearing what
soever. But when decisions carry respon
sibility with them, the responsibility of

MAJOR GENKRAL WESLEY MERRITT, UNITED STATES ARMY.
From a photograph by S(effe us, Chicago.

WILLIAM MCKIXLEY, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
From a photograph Copyrighted by Baker s Art Gallery, Columbus, Ohio.

332

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

JOHN W. GRIGGS, ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES.
Front a photograph by Clinedinst, Wasliington.

plunging a great nation into war, with
all that war means, it is quite another
matter. Different view points lead to
different conclusions. The banker, the
merchant, the manufacturer, the farmer,
the clerk, the laborer not one of these
can possibly reason as the President of
the United States reasons, because the
problems forced upon him are not seen b}^
any one of these men from the same point
of view. He has before him a thousand
facts of which they know nothing, and
which necessarily determine his course.
Of the tremendous pressure brought to

bear upon him for peace or for war, or for
this move or that or the other, they are
wholly ignorant.

To form hasty conclusions, then, of
the President s acts, to talk flippantly,
knowingly, critically, without an inti
mate knowledge of the situation as he
sees it, is not the \visest thing in the
world. It does not show the thought,
the breadth of consideration, the reason
ing that typifies a logical, rational mind.
For the blase clubman or the exquisite
society youth to lay down laws for the
Executive to follow in a crisis like this is

FHOMAS BKACKETT KF.KD, Sl KAKKK OF THK HOUSK OK REPRESENTATIVES

From a photograph Copyrighted by Charles Parker, li ashington

334

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

just about as absurd as it is for the
millionaire, surrounded in his home by
all the luxuries and comforts of wealth,
to criticise the acts of the starving ex
plorer in the frozen north. Wined and
dined to his heart s content, he sits be
fore his elowinar fire and tells with

words, idle criticisms. It will temper
many expressions with consideration,
kindness, and justice.

TARGETS FOR CRITICISM.
The President is only one of the men
in the exciting war drama, now being

NKLSOX DIXGLKY, CHAIRMAN OK THK WAYS AND MEANS COMMITTEE.

From a photograph by the Not man PhotograpJiic Company, Boston.

profound wisdom just what the starving
explorer should do or shouldn t do. To him
the thought of the latter eating the flesh
of his fellow man is horrible, criminal,
inhuman. He cannot denounce it suf
ficiently. Criticisms like these are the
merest nonsense. The well fed man
hasn t the same point of view as the
starving one, and he cannot reason as the
other reasons except he be placed in a
precisely similar position.

The view point is a prett3 good thing
to keep in mind, always to keep in mind,
and especially at this time. It will save
the utterance of a good many foolish

enacted, subjected to passionate criticism,
either favorable or otherwise, from every
one in all stations of life from one end of
the country to the other. Reed is almost
as conspicuous a target as the President
himself. The powers of the Speaker of
the House of Representatives are scarcely
less than those of the Executive. In
some ways they are even greater. He
controls legislation, and Reed, of all men,
particularly controls it. A splendid ex
hibition of his strength was seen in his
masterful grasp of the situation during the
fight for peace in the House, burning as it
was with war passion. It was a wonderful

MAJOR GENERAL NELSON A. MILKS, UNITED STATES ARMY.
From his latest photograph.

336

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE;.

example of mental equipment and great
personal force. In the President s long,
hard struggle for peace Reed stood shoul
der to shoulder with him, and together
they exhausted every resource in the
effort to keep the country from war. The

times of peace, is something appalling,
but in time of war it is so tremendous
that no one can comprehend it. There
.seems to have been little change in the
system in the Executive Mansion since
our country numbered but a few millions.

CHAKLKS KMORY SMITH, POSTMASTER GENERAL.

J roin a photograpli by Gntekunst, Philadelphia.

President delayed decisive action too
long to suit the war party ; he acted too
quickly to meet the approval of the peace
party. There is a middle ground be
tween these two extremes. Calm, im
passioned history will sustain President
McKinley in taking the course he did ;
other nations (Spain excepted) have al
ready sustained him.

APPALLING BURDENS OP THE PRESIDENT.

The amount of work that the President
of the United States has to do, even in

In every great business enterprise reor
ganization takes place constantly as the
business broadens. The largest corpora
tions and the great trusts have almost a
perfect military system. The man at the
head of any one of these concerns could
not possibly handle it with intelligence
without his officers and aids. The Presi
dent of the United States, on the other
hand, has no aids save his private secre
tary, or, as the title reads now, the Secre
tary to the President. Of course the
Cabinet officers in a way are his aids, but

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

337

WILLIAM T. SAMPSON, REAR ADMIRAL, U. S. X., COMMANDING THE KKY WEST SQUADRON

From a. photograph taken aboard the Mangrove in Havana Harbor by J, C. Hemmcnt.

their own duties in running the enor- could be simplified, whether a systematic

mous departments over which the}* are reorganization could be made that would

placed are quite sufficient for them. But lessen his work, is a problem. If it were

whether the duties of the executive a private business it could be done and

338

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MAJOR GKNKRAL JOHN R. HROOKK, V. S. A.. IX CHARGE OK THK MOBILIZATION OK TROOPS

AT CHICKAMAUGA.
l *&gt;-fli&gt;t a photograph by Stcffcns, Chicago.

would be done, but changes in govern
mental matters come slowly and are re
garded with great concern. President
McKinley, however, seems to have a
marvelous capacity for hard work. He
stands up under it as few men could.

TWO GOOD MEN FOR THK CRISIS.

Another man with a marvelous capacity
for hard work is Nelson Dingle}-, who will
play an important part in this struggle
with Spain, as it falls to him to devise
ways and means of providing the sinews of
war. He is one of the keenest, clearest

business men in Congress. He has an ex
ceptionally accurate mind, and is a close,
safe reasoner. The country is particu
larly fortunate in having so able a man
as Dingle}- at the head of the Ways and
Means Committee.

Judge Day, our new Secretary of State,
has already proved himself a strong, con
servative, level headed man. For more
than six months he has practically been
the Secretary, Sherman s failing health
making it impossible for him to perform
the duties of the office. Judge Day has
been a life long friend of the President,

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

339

HENRY C. CURBIX, ADJUTANT GENERAL UNITED STATES ARMY.
From a photograph Copyright, i8g6, by Aiine Dupont.

and it is solely because of this friendship
that he has sacrificed his law practice to
remain in office. In fact, he would have
resigned and gone back to his practice
several months ago but for the threatened
hostilities with Spain. The President
felt that he could not spare him. There
are many things that one will intrust to
a friend, whose friendship has been tried
in season and out and never found want
ing, that he would not intrust to a busi
ness or political associate.

AS TO CAKIXKT RUMORS.

In the selection of John "\Y. Griggs and
Charles Kmory Smith for members of his
cabinet the President not only secured

the services of men of recognized ability,
but of men who are personally stanch
supporters of him and his administra
tion.

At this writing there are numerous
rumors to the effect that Secretaries
Alger and Long will very soon leave the
cabinet, but without any information to
sustain these rumors there is no very good
reason to believe them. General Alger
is a war veteran, and his record both in
service and out would suggest that he is a
first rate man for the head of the War De
partment. Long, too, ought to be as good
a man for the Xavy portfolio as almost any
untrained man in the service could be.
He has had broad experience in execu-

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

CHARLES DWIGHT SIGS15EE, U. S. X., FORMERLY CAPTAIN OF THE MAINE.
From a photograph taken April 2, iSgS, by CZinedinst, W asliington.

tive positions, is a scholar and an able
lawyer.

THE MEN WHO DO THE REAL WORK OF
THE WAR.

All e3 - es are just now fixed upon Miles,
Merritt, Sampson, and Schle3*, the four
men at the head of our military and naval
forces. It is the3 r who will do the real
work of this war. Washington is but
the executive center. The field of battle
is the decisive point the point that tells
the storj , that makes histor3*. It is
doubtful if America ever produced a bet

ter, braver fighter than General Miles.
He is a soldier in all that the word means,
rising from a clerkship in a Boston store
to the command of the United States
arnu . The direct road to this high posi
tion runs through West Point. Miles
never knew this road. He reached the
goal over cross lots the battlefields of
the Civil War and the Western retreats of
the savage. It was a steep, rugged,
jagged course, and to have arrived b3 such
a course, with all the prejudice of West
Point arra3"ed against the general from
the ranks, " speaks eloquently of General

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

341

WILLIAM R. DAY, OF OHIO, SECKKTARY OF STATIC, SUCCEEDING JOHN SHKKMAN
From a photograph by Vignos, Canton, Ohio.

Miles sterling qualities and soldierly
endowments.

LEADERS IN THE ARMY.
Only six men since the nation was
born have held the title of lieutenant
general. They were Washington, Scott,
Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Schofield. A
bill was recently presented to Congress
to add General Miles to this list. This
honor was to be conferred upon him not
only because he is the senior major gen
eral of the army, but because of his almost
matchless record in the service.

General Wesley Merritt also has the
rank of major general. Many militarj-
men, and especially West Point men, re
gard him as the greatest genius of the
army. Others give the first place to
Miles. Merritt is the older man, and had
the advantage of the West Point train
ing. He is a brave, hard fighter, and lias
had a similar experience to that of Miles,
working himself tip from grade to grade
in the Civil War and afterwards in the
Indian campaigns. At one time he was
Superintendent of the West Point Acad
emy. Should Miles and Merritt go to

342

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

V/INFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY, COMMODORE U. S. X., COMMANDING THE FLYING SO.UADKON.

From a photograph by Jackson, Norivalk, Connecticut.

the front in this contest \Yith Spain they
will bring great credit to American arms.

John R. Brooke, commander of the
camp at Chickamanga, is another offi
cer who, like Miles, has gained the
heights without passing through the
gates of West Point. When he fights he
wins, is the reputation he has acquired
among those who have served under him.
A farmer boy of twenty three when he
enlisted in 1861, he was made a colonel
before the year was out.

General Brooke is in command of the
Department of the Missouri, and until

his transference to the South was sta
tioned at Chicago.

] ,!(&gt; MEN IX THE NAVY.

In selecting Schley as commander of
the Flying Squadron, America has prob
ably opened the path to glory for a new
naval hero. A native of Maryland, Win-
field Scott Schley was graduated from the
Annapolis Acadenn* in time to enter active
service at the breaking out of the Civil
War. Even after the surrender of Rich
mond he managed to find fighting to do ;
first in suppressing a revolt of Chinese

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

343

GENERAL RUSSELL A. ALGER, SKCKKTAKY OF \VAK.
From a photograph by Hayes, Detroit.

coolies, and later in the capture of some
Corean forts. He is a man of tireless
activity, with a brain fertile in expedi
ents. In .short, he is not to be " rattled "
by the call for sudden decisions that war
fare, and particularly naval warfare, in
volves.

To be placed in command of the first
fleet of war vessels to go into action
under the conditions prevalent in modern
naval conflicts, is an honor, indeed ; the
man thus honored is William T. Sampson,
who worked himself up from the masses
to the captaincy of the Iowa. His
record as a sailor justlj entitles him
to the distinction accruing" from the con
trol of the North Atlantic fleet, while,
as president of the Maine Board of In

quiry, his judicial qualities challenged
the admiration of the entire country. It
looks as if he were going to be a leader
among leaders.

THE HERO OP THE; MAINE.
Captain Charles D wight Sigsbee had
already had an interesting and eventful
career before the Maine disaster made
him a national hero. The choice of two
professions was open to him, for besides
his strong bent for the sea, he had marked
talent as an illustrator. A number of
his sketches appeared in a New York
paper some twenty five j-ears ago,
and the editors repeatedly offered him a
position as staff artist, not knowing that
their contributor was even then a lieu-

344

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

tenant commander, on duty at the Naval
Academy at Annapolis.

Though his drawing was at first merely
an easy way of earning pin money,
Captain Sigsbee has found it a very
valuable gift in his work as a naval
officer. Through his efforts, the pres-

He was appointed to the command of the
Maine about a year ago.

THE ADJUTANT GENERAL.

There are few busier men in the present
crisis than Henry Clarke Corbin, Ad
jutant General of the United States Armv.

JOHN D. LONG, SECRETARY OF THE NAVY.

From his latest photograph Copyright, 18(37, by William Taylor, H ingliain.

ent course of drawing at Annapolis
was founded and developed. The im
aginative qualit} r of mind which it repre
sented was further evinced by an inven
tion which has proved of great value in
naval matters. This was a deep sea
sounding machine. But the chief quali
ties characterizing him in which Ameri
cans are most deeply interested are his
undaunted courage, fearless pluck, and
indomitable will.

During the last war he served on the
Monongahela and the Brooklyn, and in
the battle of Mobile Bay, with Farragut, he
distinguished himself for srallant conduct.

His duties include a multifarious amount
of detail work that only a clear head and
steady nerve can compass. He is the
right hand of the commanding general
in the execution of military orders. He
was a school teacher in Ohio when he
responded to Lincoln s call for volunteers
in 1861, and when the war was over he
became a second lieutenant in the regular
army. He aided in the capture of
Geronimo, but is equally useful in mana
ging soldiers for such peaceful musterings
as those that distinguished the New York
Washington centennial celebration and
the dedication of the Grant monument.

TWO MILES OF MILLIONAIRES.

New York s new section of Fifth Avenue residences that make a concentration of wealth and

splendor not equaled in any other capital of the world Some of the well known

people -whose homes stand for the plutocratic side of the metropolis.

r T ^HERE are a good many miles of mil-
A lionaires in New York. The Bow
ery, the east side and the west side, down
town and up town, and every neighbor
hood of the borough of Manhattan, and
the boroughs of Brooklyn, Queens, Rich

mond, and the Bronx all these have their
millionaires. In some sections there are
few, in others many ; but if all the mil
lionaires living in Greater New York
could be gathered together and were to
reside on a single street there would be

^^T--

THE UNION LEAGUE CLUB, FIFTH AVENUE AND THIRTY NINTH STREET.

34 6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

*a^*

THE RESIDENCE OF MR. CORNELIUS VANDERBILT, FIFTH AVENUE FROM FIFTY SEVENTH STREET

TO FIFTY EIGHTH STREET.
From a copyrighted photograph by J. S.Johnston, Nm&lt; York.

RESIDENCE OF MR. JOHN JACOB ASTOR, FIFTH AVKXUK AND SIXTY FIFTH STREET.

ST. PATRICK S CATHEDRAL, FIFTH AVENUE EXTENDING FROM FIFTIETH TO FIFTY

From a copyrighted photograph by J, S. Johnston . New } ~ork.

343

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

NETHKRLAND AND SAVOY, FIFTH AVENUE AND FIFTY NINTH STREET.
From a copyrighted flliotogmph by J. S. Johnston, Ne-M York.

twenty continuous miles of them per
haps more, possibly forty miles. But as
these rich men are scattered all over the
town, and as there is only one section
where a very great number of them are
congregated, it is of this section we
speak.

Fifth Avenue is the backbone of New
York, the spinal column. This is not
only true geographically, but socially
and financially as well. The two miles
tinder consideration extend from Murray
Hill to Eightieth Street, and in these two
miles there is more wealth than can be
found in any other residential two miles
of any city of the wer 1 ^. It was only a

few 3*ears ago that the strictly millionaire
line ran from Washington Square to
Murray Hill ; today it begins at Murray
Hill and stretches northward almost as
far as Harlem.

We have pictured only a few of the im
posing buildings and handsome resi
dences included in this new fashionable
quarter. We could not give them all
without devoting the entire magazine to
this one article. Many of the buildings
that we haven t pictured are quite as
attractive architecturally as those we
have.

This is the section of clubs and of
palatial hotels, as well as of the homes of

350

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

RESIDENCE OF MR. H. O. HAVEMEYER, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTY SIXTH STREET.
From a photograph by J. S. Johnston, New York.

RESIDENCE OF MR. COLLIS P. HUNTINGTOX, FIFTH AVENUE AND FIFTY SEVENTH STREET.

-w

.^nfdw

352

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the Croesuses of the metropolis. No poor
men reside within the limits of this pluto
cratic district. They cannot afford to do
so. The aristocracy of descent and the
aristocracy of brains are no more to be
found here, except, perchance, the god of
gold has smiled upon them, than are the

Fifth Avenue as in Piccadilly, and are
the joy of the feminine heart. The whole
avenue is alive with them. They flit
here and there and everywhere down in
the shopping district, up among the big
hotels and the clubs and the palaces that
stir the passion of the .socialist to envy.

RESIDENCE OF THE LATE JAY GOULD, FIFTH AVENUE AND FORTY SEVENTH STREET.

longshoremen or the draymen. And the
reason for this is that none but the very
wealthy can maintain homes on this the
most expensive residential avenue of any
capital.

The repaving of Fifth Avenue with
asphalt last fall made it at once the delight
of the bicyclist and the parade ground of
the pleasure driver, and, in fact, of every
one who can command a hansom. The
hansom, by the way, has literally cap
tured New York. The}- are as thick on

From 59th Street to i loth, Fifth Avenue
runs along the east side of Central Park.
This is the newest, the most exclusive,
and the most fashionable part of the
avenue. Here the lavish expenditure of
money on the homes of the multimillion
aires makes all the world marvel. No
such row of palaces can be found in any
other city new, modern, beautiful, and
all facing Central Park, with its soft
green grass, its graceful and stately trees,
its lakes and its walks and its drives.

TWO MILES OF MILLIONAIRES.

353

RESIDENCE OF MR. CHARLES T. YERKES, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTY EIGHTH STREET.

RESIDENCE OF MR. WILLIAM C. WHITNEY, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTY EIGHTH STREET.

354

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE METROPOLITAN CLUB, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTIETH STREET.

RESIDENCE OF MR. W. K. VANDERBILT, FIFTH AVENUE AND FIFTY SECOND STREET.
From a copyrighted photograph by J. S. Johnston, New York.

TWO MILES OF MILLIONAIRES.

355

RESIDENCE OF MR. GEORGE GOULD, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTY SEVENTH STREET.
From a. copyrighted photograph by J. S. Johnston, New York.

Here are a few of the names that go to make up the two miles of millionaires :

Frederick W. Vanderbilt
Marshall Orme Wilson
Colonel Lawrence Kip
Russell Sage
Henry B. Plant
Mrs. Ogdeii Goelet
General Daniel Butterfield
William Ziegler
IX O. Mills
K. T. Wilson

General Thomas T. Eckert
Miss Helen Gould
Frederick Roosevelt
James B. Haggiii
Robert Goelet

John W. Mackay
William T. Aston
James Tolmaii Pyle
George W. Vanderbilt
William D. Sloane
William K. Vanderbilt
Mrs. Elliott F. Shepard
H. McK. Twombly
William S. Webb
F. Gallatin

Harry Payne Whitney
Cornelius Vanderbilt
Mrs. Moses Hopkins
F. H. Benedict
Andrew Carnegie

George Gould
Isaac Stem
Charles F. Yerkes
William C. Whitney
John H. Inman
H. R. Bishop
John Sloane
James A. Burden
James D. Layng
Elbridge T. Gerry
W. V. Brokaw
Isaac Wormser
H. O. Havemeyer
Ogden Mills
John Jacob Astor

Colonel Oliver H. Payne
H. H. Cooke
Isaac V. Brokaw
H. M. Flagler
H. V. Newcouib
George A. Morrison
William Rockefeller
Levi P. Morton
Calvin S. Brice
James Everard
Benjamin Brewster
Robert D. Evans
Herman Oelrichs
Collis P. Huntington
William. E. Iselin

A single dozen of these names stand in round numbers for twelve hundred million
dollars, or an average of one hundred million dollars each. These are startling

356

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

RESIDENCE OF MR. ISAAC V. BROKAW, FIFTH AVENUE AND

SEVENTY NINTH STREET.
From a. photograph by J S Johnston, New York.

figures, but how much more startling
would they be if the total wealth of these
Two Miles of Millionaires cotild be accu
rately stated. For instance, the combined
Vanderbilt fortunes as repre
sented by the Vanderbilts, the
Webbs, the Sloanes, theShep-
ards, and the Twomblys, is
perhaps five hundred million
dollars. The wealth of the
Astors, not including William
Waldorf Astor, who now re
sides in England, is fully half
as much more. William
Rockefeller s fortune is a good
second to that of the Astors,
and he is followed closely by
John W. Mackay, Colonel
Oliver H. Payne, H. M. Flag-
ler, Collis P. Huntington,
George Gould, and Russell
Sage. The foregoing repre
sent the colossal fortunes of
Fifth Avenue, but there are
a good many estates and in
dividual fortunes here that
run up to possibly as much
as thirty or forty million
dollars each. Of course all
the residents of this Two
Miles of Millionaires are not
on a par with the Vanderbilts,

the Astors, the Mackays, and
the Huntingtons, but they are
all rich. There is not enough
known publicly, however, of
the fortunes of the quieter
families for us to give any
thing like an accurate esti
mate of the total wealth of this
particular residential section.
The man who is undoubtedly
the richest in New York, and
the richest in America, and
the richest in the world as to
that matter, is not included in
this article, as he does not live
on Fifth Avenue. We refer
to John D. Rockefeller. He
lives just off Fifth Avenue on
West Fifty Fourth Street. We
have not included in this arti
cle any of the rich men living
on the cross streets running
out of Fifth Avenue. We
could not include them, as
they would not come strictly under the
heading of the Two Miles of Million
aires we are discussing. If we were to
diverge at all we should certainly have

PROGRESS CLUB, FIFTH AVENUE AND SIXTY THIRD STREET.
From a copyrighted photograph by J. S. Johnston, New York.

353

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

to take in J. Pierrepont Morgan, whose
home is one block east on Madison
Avenue.

But this section of Fifth Avenue is

the Windsor, the Buckingham, the Plaza,
the Savoy, and the Xetherland are the
palatial hotels on this stretch of Fifth
Avenue, and on this same stretch are the

ST. THOMAS CHURCH, FIFTH AVK.NUK AXD FIFTY THIRD STREET.
From a plintograph by J. S. Johnston. New York.

relatively quite as strong socially as finan
cially. The Astors, perhaps, head the
list, of which the Vanderbilts, the Wil
sons, the Goelets, the Whitneys, the Oel-
richs, the Millses, the Twombtys, the
Sloanes, the Webbs, the Bishops, the
Gerrys, and the Mortons are among the
most notable all " Four Hundreders.
The Waldorf-Astoria, the Renaissance,

following clubs : the Manhattan, the New
York, the Union League, the Republican,
the Lotos, the Democratic, the University,
the Military, the Metropolitan, and the
Progress.

We made the statement that none but
rich men, and we meant men of a good
deal of wealth, lived in this district. So
far as the individual homes go, this is

360

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

RESIDENCE OF MR. H. H. COOKE, FIFTH AVENUE AND SEVENTY EIGHTH STREET.

-~^" ~r^z=- -
A GLIMPSE OF FIFTH AVENUE OPPOSITE LENOX LIBRARY.

SAND HOUSES.

361

true, but an exception must be made re
garding the residents of hotels and clubs.
A man does not necessarily have to be a
millionaire to make either of these his
home. The cost of living in them, to be
sure, is vastly in excess of that required
in other sections of the town, but it is not
so great as to be prohibitory to the man
with a handsome income. The clubs in
particular make it possible for him to
reside in this ultra fashionable quarter
and at a comparatively moderate outlay.
They, however, can furnish a home only
for the bachelor, or the man living as a
bachelor. All these are denied to women.
The hotels, then, are the only retreat for

the family man who aspires to live on
Fifth Avenue and hasn t the means to
support an individual establishment. And
they make no mean homes either. They
are in very fact palaces, luxuriously and
artistically furnished. Indeed, so home
like and attractive are they that not a few
families prefer them to housekeeping
families, too, who have the means to
keep up first class independent resi
dences. Since it has become the thing
to own country places, a good many
people find that the big modern hotel
serves their purposes for the few winter
months they elect to be in town bettet
than housekeeping.

SAND HOUSES.

THE summer sun is fair today

Upon the sandy beach ;
The sails are white upon the bay

As far as eye can reach.

With pail and shovel here we build

Frail houses out of sand,
Forgetting that the restless tide

Is creeping up the strand.

We build and still we build, and then

Alas for our array !
A wave runs higher than the rest

And sweeps them all away.

A brief lament, then farther back
We fashion them once more,

Till once again the wave comes in
And takes them as before.

Dear little heart, through life we build

Frail houses out of sand,
And watch the tide of years roll in

And sweep them from the strand ;

Yet keep on building day by day,

Still higher up the beach,
While hope sails white across the bay

As far as eye can reach.

Albert Bigelow Paine.

SWALLOW.

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

" Swallow " is a story of South Africa, where Anglo Saxon, Boer, and Kaffir
still struggle for supremacy, and the reader is like to forget his environment and
imagine that real life is being enacted before him ; that he, too, lives and loves and
suffers with Ralph Kenzie and Suzanne, the Boer maiden This is one of the best
stories from Mr. Haggard s pen since " King Solomon s Mines," " She," and
" Allan Quartermain."

IT is a strange thing that I, an old Boer
vrouw, should even think of beginning to
write a book when there are such numbers
already in the world, most of them worth
less, and many of the rest a scandal and
offense in the face of the Lord. Notably is
this so in the case of those called novels,
which are stiff as mealie pap with lies that
fill the heads of silly girls with vain imagin
ings, causing them to neglect their house
hold duties and to look out of the corners of
their eyes at young men of whom their elders
do not approve. In truth, my mother and
those whom I knew in my youth, fifty years
ago. when women were good and worthy
and never had a thought beyond their hus
bands and their children, would laugh aloud
could any whisper in their dead ears that
Suzanne Naude was about to write a book.
Well might they laugh, indeed, seeing that
to this hour the most that I can do with
pen and ink is to sign my own name very
large in this matter alone not being the
equal of my husband Jan, who, before he be
came paralyzed, had so much learning that
he could read aloud from the Bible, leaving
out the names and long words.

No, no, I am not going to write; it is my
great-granddaughter, who is named Suzanne
after me, who writes. And who that had
not seen her at the work could even guess
how she does it? I tell you that she has
brought up from Durban a machine about
the size of a pumpkin that goes tap tap like
a woodpecker, and prints as it taps. Now,
my husband Jan was always very fond of
music in his youth, and when first the girl
began to tap upon this strange instrument,
he, being almost blind and not able to see
it, thought that she was playing on a spinet

"Copyright, i8g8, by

such as stood in my grandfather s house
away in the old colony. The noise pleases
him and sends him to sleep, reminding him
of the days when he courted me and I used
to strum upon that spinet with one finger,
and therefore I am dictating this history that
he may have plenty of it, and that Suzanne
may be kept out of mischief.

There, that is my joke. Still, there is
truth in it, for Jan Botmar, my husband, he
who was the strongest man among the
fathers of the great trek of 1836, when, like
the Israelites of old, we escaped from the
English, our masters, into the wilderness,
crouches in the corner yonder a crippled
giant with but one sense left to him, his
hearing, and a little power of wandering
speech. It is strange to look at him, his
white hair hanging upon his shoulders, his
eyes glazed, his chin sunk upon his breast,
his great hands knotted and helpless, and to
remember that at the battle of Vechtkop,
when Moselikatse sent his regiments to
crush us, I saw those same hands of his
seize the only two Zulus who broke a way
into our laager and shake and dash them
together till they were dead.

Well, well, who am I that I should talk?
For has not the dropsy got hold of my legs,
and did not that doctor, who, though an
Englishman, is no fool, tell me but yesterday
that it was creeping up towards my heart?
We are old and soon must die, for such is
the will of God. Let us, then, thank God
that it is our lot to pass thus easily and in
age, and not to have perished in our youth, as
did so many of our companions v the voor-
trekkers, they and their children together,
by the spear of the savage, or by starvation
and fever and wild beasts in the wilderness.
Ah, I think of them often, and in my sleep,
which has grown light of late, I see them

H. RiJer Hazard.

SWALLOW.

363

often, and hear those voices that none but
I would know today! I think of them and I
see them, and since Suzanne has the skill to
set down my words, a desire comes upon me
to tell of them and their deeds before God
takes me by the hand and I am borne
through the darkness by the wings of God.

Also, there is another reason. The girl,
Suzanne Kenzie, my great-granddaughter,
who writes this, alone is left of my blood,
since her father and grandfather, who was
our adopted son, and the husband of our
only child, fell in the Zulu war fighting with
the English against Cetewayo. Now, many
have heard the strange story of Ralph
Kenzie, the English castaway, and of how
he was found by our daughter Suzanne.
Many have heard also the still stranger
story of how this child of ours, Suzanne, in
her need, was sheltered by savages, and for
more than two years lived with Sihamba,
the little witch doctoress and ruler of the
Tribe of the Mountains, till Ralph, her hus
band, who loved her, sought her out and
rescued her, that by the Mercy of the Lord
during all this time had suffered neither
harm nor violence. Yes, many have heard
of these things, for in bygone years there
was much talk of them as of events out of
nature and marvelous, but few have heard
them right. Therefore, before I die, I, who
remember and know them all, would set
them down that they may be a record for
ever among my descendants, and the de
scendants of Ralph Kenzie, my foster son,
who, having been brought up among us
Boers, was the best and bravest Englishman
that ever lived in Africa.

And now I will tell of the finding of Ralph
Kenzie many years ago.

To begin at the beginning, my husband,
Jan Botmar, is one of the well known Boer
family of that name, the most of whom lived
in the Graafreinet district in the old Colony
till some of them trekked into the Transkei,
when I was still a young girl, to be as far as
they could from the heart of the British
power. Nor did they trek for a little reason.
Listen and judge.

One of the Bezuidenhouts, Frederick, was
accused of treating one of his black slaves
cruelly, and a body of the accursed pan-
dours, the Hottentots, whom the English
had made into a regiment, were sent to arrest
him. He would not suffer that these black
creatures should lay hands upon a Boer, so
he fled to a cave and fought there till he was
shot dead. Over his open grave his breth
ren and friends swore to take vengeance for
his murder, and fifty of them raised an insur
rection. They were pursued by the pan-
dours and burghers, more law abiding or
more cautious, till Jan Bezuidenhout, the

brother of Frederick, was shot also, fighting
to the last, while his wife and little son
loaded the rifles. Then the rest were cap
tured and put upon their trial, and to the
rage and horror of all their countrymen the
?rutal British governor of that day, who
was named Somerset, ordered five of them
to be han ged, among them my husband s
father and uncle. Petitions for mercy
availed nothing, and these five were tied to
a beam like Kaffir dogs yonder at Slagter s
Nek, they who had shed the blood of no
man. Yes, yes, it is true, for Jan, my man,
saw it; he saw his father and his uncle
hanged like dogs. When they pushed
them from the beam four of the ropes broke;
perhaps they had been tampered with, I
know not, but still the devils who murdered
them would show no mercy. Jan ran to his
father and cast his arms about him, but they
tore him away.

" Do not forget, my son," he gasped, as
he lay there on the ground with the broken
rope about his neck, nor did Jan ever for
get.

It was after this that the Botmars trekked
into the Transkei, and with them some other
families, among whom were the Naudes, my
parents. Here in the Transkei the widow
Botmar and my father were near neighbors,
their steads being at a distance from each
other of about three hours upon horseback,
or something over twenty miles. In those
days I may say it without shame now I
was the prettiest girl in the Transkei, a great
deal prettier than my granddaughter Su
zanne there, although some think well of her
looks, though not so well as she thinks of
them herself, for that would be impossible.
I have been told that I have noble French
blood in my veins, though I care little for
this, being quite content to be one of the
Boers, who are all of noble blood. At least,
I believe that my great-grandfather was a
French Huguenot count who fled from his
country to escape massacre because of his
religion. From him and his wife Suzanne,
so it is said, we women of the Naudes get
our beauty, for we have always been beauti
ful, though by far the loveliest of the race
was my daughter Suzanne, who married the
Englishman, Ralph Kenzie, from which
time our good looks have begun to fall off.
though it is true that he was no ill favored
man.

Whatever the cause, I was not like the
other Boer girls, who for the most part are
stout, heavy, and slow of speech, even before
they are married, nor did I need to wear a
kapje to keep a pink and white face from
burning in the sun. I was not tall, but my
figure was rounded, and my movements
were as quick as my tongue. Also I had

364

MUXSEY S MAGAZINK.

brown hair that curled and brown eyes be
neath it, and full red lips, which all the young
men of that district and there were six of
them who can be counted would have given
their best horse to kiss, with the saddle and
bridle thrown in. But remember this, Su
zanne, I never suffered them to do so, for in
my time girls knew better what was right.

Well, among all the suitors I favored Jan
Botmar, the old cripple who sits yonder,
though in those days he was no cripple, but
the properest man a girl could wish to see.
My father was against such a match, for he
had the old French pride of race in him,
and thought little of the Botmar family, as
though we were not all the children of one
God except the black Kaffirs, who are the
children of the devil. But in the end he
gave way, for Jan was well to do, so after we
had opsitted several times according to our
customs, and burned many very long can
dles, we were married and went to live on a
farm of our own at a distance. For my
part, I have never regretted it, although
doubtless I might have done much better
for myself; and if Jan has, he has been wise
enough not to say so to me. In this coun
try most of us women must choose a man
to look after it is a burden that Heaven
lays upon us so one may as well choose
him one fancies, and Jan was my fancy,
though why he should have been I am sure
I do not know. Well, if he had any wits
left he would speak up and tell what a bless
ing I have been to him, and how often my
good sense has supplied the lack of his, and
how I forgave him, yes, and helped him out
of the scrape, when he made a fool of him
self with but there, I will not write of that,
for it makes me angry, and as likely as not
I should throw something at him before I
had finished, which he would not under
stand.

No, no; I do not regret it, and, what is
more, when my man dies I shall not be long
behind him. Ah, they may talk, all these
wise young people; but, after all, what is
there better for a woman than to love some
man, the good and the bad of him together,
to bear his children and to share his sor
rows, and to try to make him a little better
and a little less selfish and unfortunate than
he would have been alone? Poor men,
without us women their lot would be hard
indeed, and how they will get on in heaven,
where they are not allowed to marry, is more
than I can guess.

So we married, and within a year our
daughter was born, and christened Suzanne
after me, though almost from her cradle the
Kaffirs called her " Swallow." I am not
sure why. She was a very beautiful child
from the first, and she was the only one, for

I was ill at her birth, and never had any
more children. The other women, with
their coveys of eight and ten and twelve,
used to condole with me about this, and get
a sharp answer for their pains. I had one
which always shut their mouths, but I won t
ask the girl here to set it down. An only
daughter was enough for me, I said, and if
it wasn t I shouldn t have told them so, for
the truth is that it is b^est to take these
things as we find them, and, whether it be
one or ten, to declare that that is just as we
should wish it. I know that when we were
on the great trek and I saw the " kinder-
chies " of others dying of starvation, or mas
sacred in dozens by the Kaffir devils, ah,
then I was glad that we had no more chil
dren! Heartaches enough my ewe lamb
Suzanne gave me during those bitter years
when she was lost; and when she died, hav
ing lived out her life just before herhusband,
Ralph Kenzie, went on commando with his
son to the Zulu war, whither her death drove
him, ah, then it ached for the last time!
When next it aches it shall be with joy to
find them both in heaven.

II.

OUR farm where we lived in the Transkei
was not very far from the ocean; indeed,
any one seated on the kopje at the back of
the house, from the very top of which bub
bles a spring of fresh water, can see the great
rollers striking the straight cliffs of the
shore and spouting into the air in clouds of
white foam. Even in warm weather they
spout thus, but when the southeasterly gales
blow the sight and the sound of them are
terrible as they rush in from the black water
one after another for days and nights to
gether. Then the cliffs shiver beneath their
blows, and the spray flies up as though it
were driven from the nostrils of a thousand
whales, and is swept inland in clouds, turn
ing the grass and the leaves of the trees
black in its breath. Woe to the ship that
is caught in those breakers and ground
against those rocks, for soon nothing is left
of it save scattered timbers, shivered as
though by lightning.

One winter it was when Suzanne was
seven years old such a southeast gale as
this blew for four days, and on a certain
evening after the wind had fallen, having
finished my household work, I went to the
top of the kopje to rest and look at the sea,
which was still raging terribly, taking with
me Suzanne. I had been sitting there ten
minutes or more when Jan, my husband,
joined me, and I wondered why he had
come, for he, as brave a man as ever lived in
all other things, was greatly afraid of the

SWALLOW.

365

sea, and, indeed, of any water. So afraid
was he that he did not like the sight of it in
its anger, and that he would wake at nights
at the sound of a storm yes, he whom I
have seen sleep through the trumpetings of
frightened elephants and the shouting of a
Zulu impi.

" You think that sight fine, wife," he said,
pointing to the spouting foam; " but I call
it the ugliest in the world. Almighty! it
turns my blood cold to look at it and to
think that Christian men, aye, and women
and children, too, may be pounding to pulp
in those breakers."

" Without doubt the death is as good as
another," I answered; " not that I would
choose it, for I wish to die in my bed with
the predicant saying prayers over me, and
my husband weeping or pretending to
at the foot of it."

" Choose it!" he said. " I had sooner be
speared by savages, or hanged by the Eng
lish government as my father was."

" What makes you think of death in the
sea, Jan?" I asked.

" Nothing, wife, nothing; but there is that
old fool of a Pondo witch doctoress down
by the cattle kraal, and I heard her telling a
story as I went by to look at the ox that the
snake bit yesterday."

" What was the story?"

" Oh, a short one! She said she had it
from the coast Kaffirs that far away, up
towards the mouth of the Umzimbubu,when
the moon was young, great guns had been
heard fired one after the other, minute by
minute, and that then a ship was seen, a tall
ship with three masts and many eyes in
it I suppose she meant port holes with the
light shining through them drifting on to
the coast before the wind, for a storm was
raging, with streaks of fire like red and blue
lightnings rushing up from her decks."

"Well, and then?"

"And then, nothing. Almighty! that is
all the tale. Those waves which you love to
watch can tell the rest."

" Most like it is some Kaffir lie, husband."

" Maybe, but among these peo-le news
travels faster than a good horse, and before
now there have been wrecks upon this coast.
Child, put down that gun. Do you want to
shoot your mother? Have I not told you
that you must never touch a gun?" and he
pointed to Suzanne, who had picked up her
father s roer for in those days, when we
lived among so many Kaffirs, every man
went armed and was playing at soldiers
with it.

" I was shooting buck and Kaffirs, papa,"
she said, obeying him with a pout.

" Shooting Kaffirs, were you? Well,
there will be a good deal of that to do be

fore all is finished in this land, little one.
But it is not work for girls; you should have
been a boy, Suzanne."

" I can t; I am a girl," she answered;
"and I haven t any brothers, like other girls.
Why haven t I any brothers?"

Jan sighed and looked at me.

Won t the sea bring me a brother?"
went on the child, for she had been told that
little children come out of the sea.

" Perhaps, if you look for one very hard,"
I answered with a sigh, little knowing what
fruit would spring from this seed of a child s
talk.

On the morrow there was a great to do
about the place, for the black girl whose
business it was to look after Suzanne came
in at breakfast time and said that she had
lost the child. It seemed that they had
gone down to the shore in the early morn
ing to gather big shells, such as are washed
up there after a heavy storm, and that Su
zanne had taken with her a bag made of
springbok hide in which to carry them.
Well, the black girl sat down under the
shaaow :. rock, leaving Suzanne to wan
der to and fro looking for the shells, and
not for an hour or more did she get up to
find her. Then she searched in vain, for the
spoor of the child s feet led from the sand
between the rocks to the pebbly shore above,
which were covered with tough sea grasses,
and there was lost. Now, at the girl s story
I was frightened, and Jan was both fright
ened and so angry that he would have tied
her up and flogged her if he had found time.
But of this there was none to lose, so, taking
with him such Kaffirs as he could find, he
set off for the seashore to hunt for Suzanne.
It was near sunset when he returned, and I,
who was watching from the stoep, saw with
a shiver of fear that he was alone.

" Wife," he said in a hollow voice, " the
child is lost. We have searched far and
wide and can find no trace of her. Make
food ready to put in my saddle bags, for
should we discover her tonight or tomor
row she will be starving."

"Be comforted," I said; "at least, she will
not starve, for the cook girl tells me that be
fore Suzanne set out this morning she
begged of her a bottle of milk and with it
some biltong and meal cakes, and put them
in her bag."

" It is strange," he answered. " What
could the little maid want with these unless
she was minded to make a journey?"

" At times it comes into the thoughts of
children to play truant, husband."

" Yes, yes, that is so; but pray God that
we may find her before the moon sets."

Then while I filled the saddle bags Jan
swallowed some meat, and, a fresh horse

366

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

having been brought, he kissed me and
rode away into the twilight.

Oh, what hours were those that followed!
All night long I sat there on the stoep,
though the wind chilled me and the dew wet
my clothes, watching and praying as, I think,
I never prayed before. This I knew well
that our Suzanne, our only child, the light
and joy of our home, was in danger so
great that the Lord alone could save her.
The country where we lived was lonely,
savages still roamed about it who hated the
white man, and might steal or kill her; also
it was full of leopards, hyenas, and other
beasts of prey which would devour her.
Worst of all, the tides on the coast were
swift and treacherous, and it well might
happen that if she was wandering among
the great rocks the sea would come in and
drown her. Indeed, again and again it
seemed to me that I could hear her death
cry in the sob of the wind.

At length the dawn broke, and with it
came Jan. One glance at his face was
enough for me. " She is not dead?" I
gasped.

"I know not," he answered; "we have
found nothing of her. Give me brandy and
another horse, for the sun rises, and I return
to the search. The tide is down; perhaps
we shall discover her among the rocks; "
and he sobbed and entered the house with me.

" Kneel down and let us pray, husband."
I said; and we knelt down weeping and
prayed aloud to the God, Who, seated in the
heavens, yet sees and knows the need and
griefs of His servants upon the earth; prayed
that He would pity our agony and give us
back our only child. Nor, blessed be His
name, did we pray to Him vainly, for pres
ently, while we still knelt, we heard the
voice of that girl who had lost Suzanne, and
who all night long had lain sobbing in the
garden grounds, calling to us in wild accents
to come forth and see. We rushed out, hope
burning up suddenly in our hearts like a fire
in dry grass.

In front of the house, not more than
thirty paces from it, was the crest of a little
wave of land upon which at this moment
the rays of the rising sun struck brightly.
And there full in the glow of them stood the
child Suzanne, wet, disarrayed, her hair
hanging about her face, but unharmed and
smiling, and leaning on her shoulder an
other child, a white boy, somewhat taller
and older than herself. With a cry of joy
we rushed towards her. and reaching her
the first, for my feet were the swiftest, I
snatched her to my breast and kissed her,
whereon the boy fell down, for it seemed
that his foot was hurt and he could not stand
alone.

" In the name of Heaven, what is the
meaning of this?" gasped Jan.

" What should it mean," answered the
little maid proudly, " save that I went to
look for the brother whom you said I might
find by the sea if I searched hard enough?
And I found him, though I do not under
stand his words or he mine. Come, brother,
let me help you up, for this is our home,
and here are our father and mother."

Then, filled with wonder, we carried the
children into the house, and took their wet
clothes off them. It was I who undressed
the boy, and noted that though his garments
were in rags and foul, yet they were of a
finer stuff than any that I had seen, and that
his linen, which was soft as silk, was marked
with the letters " R. M." Also I noted
other things: namely, that so swollen were
his little feet that the boots must be cut off
them, and that he was well nigh dead of
starvation, for his bones almost pierced his
milk white skin. Well, we cleansed him,
and having wrapped him in blankets and
soft tanned hides, I fed him with broth, a
spoonful at a time, for had I let him eat all
he would, so famished was he, I feared lest
he should kill himself. After he was some
what satisfied, sad memories seemed to
come back to him, for he cried and spoke in
English, repeating the word " mother,"
which I knew, again and again, till pres
ently he dropped off to sleep, and for many
hours slept without waking. Then, little
by little, I drew all the tale from Suzanne.

It would seem that the child, who was
very venturesome and full of imaginings,
had dreamed a dream in her bed on the
night of the day when she had played with
the gun, and Jan and I had spoken together
of the sea. She dreamed that in a certain
kloof, an hour s ride and more away from
the stead, she heard the voice of a child
praying, and that, although it prayed in a
tongue unknown to her, she understood the
words, which were: O Father, my mother
is dead, send some one to help me, for I am
starving." Moreover, looking round her in
her dream, though she could not see the
child from whom the voice came, yet she
knew the kloof, for as it chanced she had
been there twice, once with me to gather
white lilies for the funeral of a neighbor who
had died, and once with her father, who was
searching for a lost ox. Now, Suzanne,
having lived so much with her elders, was
very quick, and she was sure when she woke
in the morning that if she said anything
about her dream we should laugh at her, and
should not allow her to go to the place of
which she had dreamed. Therefore it was
that she made the plan of seeking for the
shells upon the seashore, and of slipping

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367

away from the woman who was with her,
and therefore also she begged the milk and
the biltong.

Now, before I go further, I would ask,
what was this dream of Suzanne s? Did
she invent it after the things to which it
pointed had come to pass, or was it verily a
vision sent by God to the pure heart of a
little child, as aforetime He sent a vision to
the heart of the infant Samuel? Let each
solve the riddle as he will, only, if it were
nothing but an imagination, why did she take
the milk and food? Because we had been
talking on that evening of her finding a
brother by the sea, you may answer. Well,
perhaps so; let each solve the riddle as he
will.

When Suzanne escaped from her nurse
she struck inland, and thus it happened that
her feet left no spoor upon the hard, dry
veldt. Soon she found that the kloof she
sought was further off than she thought for,
or perhaps she lost her way to it, for the
hillsides are scarred with such kloofs, and it
might well chance that a child would mis
take one for the other. Still she went on,
though she grew frightened in the lonely
wilderness, where great bucks sprang up at
her feet, and baboons barked at her as they
clambered from rock to rock. On she went,
stopping only once or twice to drink a little
of the milk and eat some food, till, towards
sunset, she found the kloof of which she
had dreamed. For a while she wandered
about in it, following the banks of a stream,
till at length, as she passed a dense clump of
mimosa bushes, she heard the faint sound of
a child s voice the very voice of her dream.
Now she stopped, and, turning to the right,
pushed her way through the mimosas, and
there beyond them was a dell, and in the
center of the dell a large flat rock, and on
the rock a boy praying, the rays of the set
ting sun shining in his golden, tangled hair.
She went to the child and spoke to him, but
he could not understand our tongue, nor
could she understand his. Then she drew
out what was left of the bottle of milk and
some meal cakes and gave them to him, and
he ate and drank greedily.

By this time the sun was down, and as
they did not dare to move in the dark, the
children sat together on the rock, clasped in
each other s arms for warmth, and as they
sat they saw yellow eyes staring at them
through the gloom, and heard strange snor
ing sounds, and were afraid. At length the
moon rose, and in its first rays they per
ceived standing and walking within a few
paces of them three tigers, as we call leop
ards, two of them big and one half grown.
But the tigers did them no harm, for God
forbade them; they only looked at them a

little and then slipped away, purring as they
went. Now Suzanne rose, and taking the
boy by the hand began to lead him home
ward, very slowly, since he was footsore and
exhausted, and for the last half of the way
could only walk resting upon her shoulder.
Still through the long night they crawled
forward, for the kopje at the back of our
stead was a guide to Suzanne, stopping
from time to time to rest a while, till at the
breaking of the dawn, with their last
strength, they came to the house, as has
been told.

Well it was that they did so, for it seems
that the searchers had already sought them
in the very kloof where they were hidden,
without seeing anything of them behind the
thick screen of the mimosas, and having
once sought, doubtless would have returned
there no more, for the hills are wide and
the kloofs in them many.

III.

" WHAT shall we do with this boy whom
Suzanne has brought to us, wife?" asked Jan
of me that day while both the children lay
asleep.

" Do with him, husband?" I answered.
" We shall keep him; he is the Lord s gift."

" He is English, and I hate the English,"
said Jan, looking down.

" English or Dutch, husband, he is of
noble blood, and the Lord s gift, and to turn
him away would be to turn away our luck."

" But how if his people come to seek
him?"

" When they come we will talk of it, but I
do not think that they will come; I think
that the sea has swallowed them all."

After that Jan said no more of this matter
for many years; indeed, I believe that from
the first he desired to keep the child; he who
was sonless.

Now while Ralph lay asleep Jan mounted
his horse and rode for two hours to the
stead of our neighbor, the Heer van Vooren.
This Van Vooren was a very rich man, by
far the richest of us outlying Boers, and he
had come to live in these wilds because of
some bad act that he had done; I think that
it was the shooting of a colored person
when he was angry. He was a strange man
and much feared, sullen in countenance, and
silent by nature. It was said that his grand
mother was a chieftainess among the red
Kaffirs, but if so the blood showed more in
his son, and only child, than in himself. Of
this son, who in after years was named Swart
Piet, and his evil doings, I shall have to tell
later in my story, but even then his dark face
and savage temper had earned for him the
name of " the little Kaffir." The wife of the

368

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Heer van Vooren was dead, and he had a
tutor for his boy Piet, a poor Hollander
body who could speak English. That man
knew figures also, for once when, thinking
that I should be too clever for him, I asked
him how often the wheel of our big wagon
would turn round traveling between our
farm and Cape Town Castle, he took a rule
and measured it, then having set down some
figures on a bit of paper, and worked atthem
for a while, he told me the answer. Whether
it was right or wrong I did not know, and
said so, whereon the poor creature got
angry, and lied in his anger, for he swore
that he could tell me how often the wheel
would turn in traveling from the earth to
the sun or moon, and also how far we were
from those great lamps, .a thing that is
known to God only, Who made them for our
comfort. It is little wonder, therefore, that
with such unholy teaching Swart Piet grew
up so bad.

Well, Jan went to beg the loan of this
tutor, thinking that he would be able to
understand what the boy said, and in due
course the creature came in a pair of blue
spectacles and riding on a mule, for he dared
not trust himself to a horse. Afterwards,
when the boy woke up from his long sleep
and had been fed and dressed, the tutor
spoke with him in that ugly English tongue,
of which I could never even bear the sound,
and this was the story that he drew from
him.

It seems that the boy. who gave his name
as Ralph Kenzie. though I believe that it
was really Ralph Mackenzie, was traveling
with his father and mother and many others
from a country called India, which is one of
those places that the English have stolen in
different parts of the world, as they stole the
Cape and Natal and all the rest. They trav
eled for a long while in a big ship, for India
is a great way off, till, when they were near
this coast, a storm sprang up, and after the
wind had blown for two days they were
driven on rocks a hundred miles or more
away from our stead. So fierce was the sea
and so quickly did the ship break to pieces
that only one boat was got out, which, ex
cept for a crew of six men, was filled with
women and children. In this boat the boy
Ralph and his mother were given a place,
but his father did not come, although the
captain begged him. for he was a man of
importance, whose life was of more value
than that of common people. But he re
fused, for he said that he would stop and
share the fate of the other men. which shows
that this English lord, for I think he was a
lord, had a high spirit. So he kissed his
wife and child and blessed them, and the boat
was lowered to the sea. but before another

could be got ready the great ship slipped
back from the rock upon which she hung
and sank (for this we heard afterwards
from some Kaffirs who saw it), and all
aboard of her were drowned. May God have
mercy upon them!

When it was near to the shore the boat
was overturned and some of those in it were
drowned, but Ralph and his mother were
cast safely on the beach, and with them
others. Then one of the men looked at a
compass, and they began to walk south
wards, hoping doubtless to reach some
country where white people lived. All that
befell afterwards I cannot tell, for the poor
child was too frightened and bewildered to
remember, but it seems that the men were
killed in a fight with natives, who, however,
did not touch the women and children.
After that the women and the little ones
died one by one of hunger and weariness,
or were taken by wild beasts, till at last none
was left save Ralph and his mother. When
they were alone they met a Kaffir woman,
who gave them as much food as they could
carry, and by the help of this food they
struggled on southward for another five or
six days, till at length one morning, after
their food was gone, Ralph woke to find his
mother cold and dead beside him.

When he was sure that she was dead he
was much frightened and ran away as fast as
he could. All that day he staggered for
ward, till in the evening he came to the
kloof, and being quite exhausted knelt upon
the flat stone to pray, as he had been taught
to do, and there Suzanne found him. Such
was the story, and so piteous it seemed to us
that we wept as we listened; yes. even Jan
wept, and the tutor sniveled and wiped his
weak eyes.

That it was true in the main we learned
afterwards from the Kaffirs, a bit here and
a bit there. Indeed, one of our own people,
while searching for Suzanne, found the body
of Ralph s mother and buried it. He said
that she was a tall and noble looking lady,
not much more than thirty years of age, but
we did not dig her up again to look at her,
as perhaps we should have done, for the
Kaffir .declared that she had nothing on her
except some rags and two rings, a plain
gold one and another of emeralds, with a
device carved upon it, and in the pocket of
her gown a little book bound in red. that
proved to be a Testament, on the fly leaf of
which was written in English, " Flora Gor
don, the gift of her mother, Agnes Janey
Gordon, on her confirmation," and with it
a date.

All these things the Kaffir brought home
faithfully, also a lock of the lady s fair hair,
which he had cut off with his assagai. That

SWALLOW.

369

lock of hair labeled in writing remember it,
Suzanne, when I am gone is in the wagon
box which stands beneath my bed. The
other articles Suzanne has, as is right, and
with them one thing which I forgot to men
tion. When we undressed the boy Ralph,
we found hanging by a gold chain to his
neck, where he said his mother placed it the
night before she died, a large locket, also of
gold. This locket contained three little
pictures painted on ivory, one in each half
of it and one with a plain gold back on a
hinge between them. That to the right was
of a handsome man in uniform, who, Ralph
told me, was his father (and indeed he left
all this in writing, together with his will) ;
that to the left of a lovely lady in a low dress,
who, he said, was his mother; that in the
middle a portrait of the boy himself, as any
one could see. which must have been painted
not more than a year before we found him.
This locket and the pictures Suzanne has
also.

Now, as we have said, we let that un
happy lady lie in her rude grave yonder by
the sea, but my husband took men and built
a cairn of stone over it and a strong wall
about it, and there it stands to this day, for
not long ago I met one of the folk from the
old Colony who had seen it, and who told
me that the people that live in those parts
now reverence the spot, knowing its story.
Also, when some months afterwards a
minister came to visit us, we led him to the
place and he read the burial service over
the lady s bones, so that she did not lack
for Christian burial.

Now, this wreck made a great stir, for
many were drowned in it, and the English
government sent a ship of war to visit the
place where it happened, but none came to
ask us what we knew of the matter, and,
indeed, we never learned that the frigate had
been there till she was gone again. So it
came about that the story died away, as such
stories do in this sad world, and for many
years we heard no more of it.

For a while the boy Ralph was like a
haunted child. At night, and now and again
even in the daytime, he would be seized
with terror, and sob and cry in a way that
was piteous to behold, though not to be
wondered at by any who know his his
tory. When these fits took him, strange as
it may seem, there was but one who could
calm his heart, and that one Suzanne. I
can see them now as I have seen them thrice
that I remember, the boy sitting up in his
bed, a stare of agony in his eyes, and the
sweat running down his face, damping his
yellow hair, and talking rapidly, half in
English, half in Dutch, with a voice that at
times would rise to a scream, and at times

would sink to a whisper, of the shipwreck,
of his lost parents, of the black Indian
woman who nursed him, of the wilderness,
the tigers, and the Kaffirs who fell on them,
and many other things. By him sits Su
zanne, a soft kaross of jackal skins wrapped
over her nightgown, the dew of sleep still
showing upon her childish face and in her
large dark eyes. By him she sits, talking in
some words which for us have little mean
ing, and in a voice now shrill, and now sink
ing to a croon, while with one hand she
clasps his wrist, and with the other strokes
his brow, till the shadow passes from his
soul, and, clinging close to her, he sinks
back to sleep.

But as the years went by these fits grew
rarer, till at last they ceased altogether, since,
thanks be to God, childhood can forget its
grief. What did not cease, however, was
the lad s love for Suzanne, or her love for
him, which, if possible, was yet deeper.
Brother may love sister, but that affection,
however true, yet lacks something, since
nature teaches that it can never be com
plete. But from the beginning yes, even
while they were children these twain were
brother and sister, friend and friend, lover
and lover; and so they remained till life left
them, and so they will remain for ay in what
ever life they live. Their thought was one
thought, their heart was one heart; in them
was neither variableness nor shadow of
turning; they were each of each, to each and
for % each, one soul in their separate spirits.
one flesh in their separate bodies. I who
write this am a very old woman, and though
in many things I am most ignorant, 1 have
seen much of the world and of the men who
live in it, yet I say that never have I known
any marvel to compare with the marvel and
the beauty of the love between Ralph Kenzie,
the castaway, and my sweet daughter, Su
zanne. It was of heaven, not of earth; or,
rather, like everything that is perfect, it par
took both of earth and heaven. Yes, yes,
it wandered up the mountain paths of earth
to the pure heights of heaven, where now it
dwells forever.

The boy grew up fair and brave and
strong, with keen gray eyes and a steady
mouth, nor did I know any lad of his years
who could equal him in strength and swift
ness of foot; for, though in youth he was
not over tall, he was broad in the breast and
had muscles that never seemed to tire.
Now. we Boers think little of book learning,
holding, as we do, that if a man can read the
Holy Word it is enough. Still, Jan and I
thought that, as Ralph was not of our blood,
though otherwise in all ways a son to us, it
was our duty to educate him as much in the
fashion of his own people as our circum-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

stances would allow. Therefore, when one
day, after he had been with us some two
years, the Hollander tutor man, with the
blue spectacles, of whom I have spoken,
rode up to our house upon his mule, telling
us that he had fled from the Van Voorens
because he could no longer bear to witness
the things that were practised at their stead,
we engaged him to teach Ralph and Su
zanne. He remained with us six years, by
which time both the children had got much
learning from him; though how much it is
not for me, who have none, to judge. They
.earned history and reading and writing, and
something of the English tongue, but I need
scarcely say that I would not suffer him to
teach them to pry into the mystery of God s
stars, as he wished to do, for I hold that
such lore is impious and akin to witchcraft.

I asked this man why he had fled from the
Van Voorens, but he would tell me little
more than it was because of the wizardries
practised there. If I might believe him, the
Heer Van Vooren made a custom of enter
taining Kaffir witch doctors and doctoresses
at his house, and of celebrating with them
secret and devilish rites, to which his son,
Swart Piet, was initiated in his presence.
That this last story was true I have no doubt
indeed, seeing that the events of after years
proved it to have been so.

Well, at last the Hollander left us to
marry a rich old vrouw twenty years his
senior, and that is all that I have to say
about him, except that, if possible, I dis
liked him more when he walked out of the
house than when he walked into it; though
why I should have done so I do not know,
for he was a harmless body. Perhaps it was
because he played the flute, which I have
always thought contemptible in a man.

IV.

Now I will pass on to the time when
Ralph was nineteen or thereabouts, and, save
for the lack of hair upon his face, a man
grown, since in our climate young people
mature quickly in body if not in mind. I
tell of that year with shame and sorrow, for
it was then that Jan and I committed a great
sin, for which afterwards we were punished
heavily enough.

At the beginning of winter Jan trekked to
the nearest dorp, some fifty miles away, with
a wagon load of mealies and of buckskins,
which he and Ralph had shot, purposing to
sell them and to attend the Nachtmahl, or
Feast of the Lord s Supper. I was some
what ailing just then and did not accompany
him, nor did Suzanne, who stayed to nurse
me, or Ralph, who was left to look after us
both. Fourteen days later he returned, and

from his face I saw at once that something
had gone wrong.

" What is it, husband?" I asked. " Did
not the mealies sell well?"

" Yes, yes, they sold well," he answered,
" for that fool of an English storekeeper
bought them and the hides together for
more than their value."

" Are the Kaffirs going to rise again,
then?"

" No, they are quiet for the present,
though the accursed missionaries of the
London society are doing their best to stir
them up; " and he made a sign to me to
cease from asking questions, nor did I say
any more till we had gone to bed, and every
body else in the house was asleep.

" Now," I said, " tell me your bad news,
for bad news you have had."

" Wife," he answered, " it is this. In the
dorp yonder I met a man who had come
from Port Elizabeth. He told me that there
at the port were two Englishmen, who had
recently arrived, a Scotch lord, and a lawyer
with red hair. When the Englishmen heard
that he was from this country they fell into
talk with him, saying that they came upon
a strange errand. It seems that when the
great ship was wrecked upon this coast ten
years ago there was lost in her -a certain
little boy who, if he had lived, would today
have been a very rich noble in Scotland.
Wife, you can guess who that little boy was
without my telling you his name."

I nodded and turned cold all over my
body, for I could guess what was coming.

Now, for a long while those who were
interested in him supposed that this lad was
certainly dead with all the others on board
that ship, but a year or more ago, how I
know not, a rumor reached them that one
male child who answered to his description
had been saved alive and adopted by some
Boers living in the Transkei. By this time
the property and the title that should be his
had descended to a cousin of the child s, but
his relation, being a just man, determined
before he took them to come to Africa and
find out the truth for himself; and there he
is at Port Elizabeth, or, rather, by this time
he is on his road to our place. Therefore,
it would seem that the day is at hand when
we shall see the last of Ralph."

" Never!" I said; " he is a son to us and
more than a son, and I will not give him up."

" Then, they will take him, wife. Yes,
even if he does not wish it, for he is a minor
and they are armed with authority."

" Oh!" I cried, " it would break my heart,
and, Jan, there is another heart that it would
break also; " and I pointed towards the
chamber where Suzanne slept.

He nodded, for none could live with them

SWALLOW.

and not know that this youth and maiden
loved each other dearly.

" It would break your heart," he answered,
" and her heart; yes. and my own would be
none the better for the wrench; yet how can
we turn this evil from our door?"

"Jan," I said, "the winter is at hand; it
is time that you and Ralph should take the
cattle to the bush veldt yonder, where they
will lie warm and grow fat, for so large a
herd cannot be trusted to the Kaffirs. Had
you not better start tomorrow? If these
English meddlers should come here I will
talk with them. Did Suzanne save the boy
for them? Did we rear him for them,
although he was English? Think how
you will feel when he has crossed the
ridge yonder for the last time, you who are
sonless, and you must go about your tasks
alone, must ride alone and hunt alone, and.
if need be, fight alone, except for his
memory. Think, Jan, think!"

" Do not tempt me, woman," he whis
pered back in a hoarse voice, for Ralph and
he were more to each other than any father
and son that I have known, since they were
also the dearest of friends. " Do not tempt
me," he went on; " the lad himself must be
told of this, and he must judge; he is young,
but among us at nineteen a youth is a bur
gher grown, with a right to take up land and
marry; he must be told, I say, and at once."

"It is good," I said; "let him judge;"
but in the wickedness of my heart I made
up my mind that I would find means to help
his judgment, for the thought of losing him
filled me with blind terror, and all that night
I lay awake thinking out the matter.

Early in the morning I rose and went on
to the stoef&gt;, where I found Suzanne drink
ing coffee and singing a little song that
Ralph had taught her. I can see her now as
she stood in her pretty, tight fitting dress,
a flower wet with dew in her girdle, swing
ing her kapje by its strings, while the first
rays of the sun glistened on the waves of her
brown and silk-like hair. She was near
eighteen then, and so beautiful that my heart
beat with pride at her loveliness, for never
in my long life have I seen a girl of any
nation who could compare with Suzanne in
looks. Many women are sweet to behold
in this way or in that; but Suzanne was
beautiful every way, yes, and at all ages of
her life; as a child, as a maiden, as a matron,
and as a woman drawing near to old, she
was always beautiful, though, like that of the
different seasons, her beauty varied. In
shape she was straight and tall and rounded,
light footed as a buck, delicate in limb, wide
breasted, and slender necked. Her face was
rich in hue as a kloof lily, and her eyes ah,
no antelope ever had eyes darker, tenderer.

or more appealing than were the eyes of
Suzanne! Moreover, she was sweet of
nature, ready of wit, and good hearted yes,
even for the Kaffirs she had a smile.

" You are up betimes, Suzanne," I said,
when I had looked at her a little.

" Yes, mother; I rose to make Ralph his
coffee; he does not like that the Kaffir woman
should boil it for him."

" You mean that you do not like it," I
answered, for I knew that Ralph thought
little of who made the coffee he drank, or,
if he did, it was mine that he held to be the
best, and not Suzanne s, who in those days
was a careless girl, thinking less of house
hold matters than she should have done.
" Did Swart Piet come here yesterday?" I
asked. " I thought that I recognized his
horse as I walked back from the sea."

" Yes, he came."

" What for?"

She shrugged her shoulders. " Oh,
mother, do you ask me? You know well
that he is always troubling me, bringing me
presents of flowers, and asking me to op sit
with him, and what not."

" Then you don t want to opsit with him?"

" The candle would be short that I should
burn with Swart Piet," answered Suzanne,
stamping her foot; " he is an evil man, full
of dark words and ways, and I fear him, for
I think that since his father s death he has
become worse, and the most of the company
he keeps is with those Kaffir witch doctors."

" Ah, the mantle of Elijah has fallen upon
Elisha, but inside out! Well, it is what I
expected, for sin and wizardry were born in
his blood. Had you any words with him?"

" Yes, some. I would not listen to his
sweet talk, so he grew angry and began to
threaten; but just then Ralph came back and
he went away, for he is afraid of Ralph."

" Where has Ralph gone so early?" I
asked, changing the subject.

" To the far cattle kraal to look after the
oxen which the Kaffir bargained to break
into the yoke. They are choosing them this
morning."

" So! He makes a good Boer for one of
English blood, does he not? And yet I
suppose that when he becomes English
again he will soon forget that he ever was a
Boer."

" When he becomes English again,
mother? What do you mean by that say
ing?" she asked quickly.

" I mean that like will to like, and blood
to blood; also that there may be a nest far
away which this bird that we have caged
should fill."

"A nest far away, mother? Then, there is
one here which would be left empty in your
heart and father s. I mean; " and drpppinp

372

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

her sunbonnet she turned pale and pressed
her hands upon her own, adding, " Oh,
speak straight words to me! What do you
mean by these hints?"

" I mean, Suzanne, that it is not well for
any of us to let our love wrap itself too
closely about a stranger. Ralph is an Eng
lishman, not a Boer. He calls me mother,
and your father, father, and you he calls
sister; but to us he is neither son nor
brother. Well, a day may come when he
learns to understand this, when he learns to
understand that he has other kindred, true
kindred, far away across the sea, and when
those birds call who will keep him in the
strange nest?"

"Ah!" she echoed, all dismayed, "who
will keep him then?"

"I do not know," I answered; "not a
foster father or mother. But I forgot.
Say, did he take his rifle with him to the
kraal?"

" Surely, I saw it in his hand."

" Then, daughter, if you will, get on a
horse, and if you can find him tell him that
I shall be very glad if he can shoot a small
buck and bring it back with him, as I need
fresh meat."

" May I stay with him while he shoots a
buck, mother?"

" Yes, if you are not in his way and do not
stop too long."

Then, without more words, Suzanne left
me, and presently I saw her cantering across
the veldt upon her gray mare that Ralph had
broken for her, and wondered if she would
find him, and what luck he would have with
the hunt that day.

Now it seems that Suzanne found Ralph
and gave him my message, and that they
started together to look for buck on the
strip of land which lies between the seashore
and the foot of the hills, where sometimes
theblesbok and springbok feed in thousands.
But on this day there was none to be seen,
for the dry grass had already been burned
off, so that there was nothing for them to
cat.

" If mother is to get her meat today," said
Ralph at length, " I think that we must try
the hillside for a duiker or a bushbuck."

So they turned inland and rode towards
that very kloof where, years before, Su
zanne had discovered the shipwrecked boy.
At the mouth of this kloof was a patch of
marshy ground where the reeds still stood
thick, since being full of sap they had re
sisted the fire.

" That is a good place for a reitbok," said
Ralph, " if only one could beat him out of it,
for the reeds are too tall to see to shoot in
them."

" It can be managed," answered Suzanne.

" Do you go and stand in the neck of the
kloof while I ride in the reeds towards
you."

" You might get bogged," he said doubt
fully.

" No, no, brother; after all this drought
the pan is nothing more than spongy, and if
I should get into a soft spot I will call out."

To this plan Ralph at length agreed, and
having ridden round the pan, which was not
more than fifty yards across, he dismounted
from his horse and hid himself behind a
bush in the neck of the kloof. Then Su
zanne rode in among the reeds, shouting
and singing, and beating them with her
sjambok, in order to disturb anything that
might be hidden there. Nor was her trouble
in vain, for suddenly, with a shrill whistle of
alarm, for which this species of antelope is
noted, up sprang two reitboks and dashed
away towards the neck of the kloof, looking
large as donkeys and as red as lions as they
vanished into the thick cover. So close
were they to Suzanne that her mare took
fright and bucked; but the girl was the best
horsewoman in those parts, and kept her
seat, calling the while to Ralph to make
ready for the buck. Presently she heard a
shot, and, having quieted the mare, rode out
of the reeds and galloped round the dry pan,
to find Ralph looking disconsolate, with no
reitbok in sight.

" Have you missed them?" she asked.

" No, not so bad as that, for they passed
within ten yards of me; but the old gun
hung fire. I suppose that the powder in the
pan was a little damp, and instead of hitting
the buck in front I caught him somewhere
behind. He fell down, but has gone on
again, so we must follow him, for I don t
think that he will get very far."

Accordingly, when Ralph had reloaded
his gun, which took some time for in those
days we had scarcely anything but flintlocks
yes, it was with weapons like these that a
handful of us beat the hosts of Dingaan and
Moselikatse they started to follow the
blood spoor up the kloof, which was not
difficult, as the animal had bled much. Near
to the top of the kloof the trail led them
through a thick clump of mimosas, and
there in the dell beyond they found the
reitbok lying dead. Riding to it they dis
mounted and examined it.

"Poor beast!" said Suzanne. "Look
how the tears have run down its face. Well,
I am glad that it is dead and done with; "
and she sighed and turned away, for Su
zanne was a silly and tender hearted girl,
who never could understand that the ani
mals yes, and the heathen Kaffirs, too
were given to us by the Lord for our use
and comfort.

SWALLOW.

373

Presently she started and said, " Ralph,
do you remember this place?

He glanced round and shook his head,
for he was wondering whether he would be
able to lift the buck on the horse without
asking Suzanne to help him.

" Look again," she said; " look at that
flat stone, and the mimosa tree lying on its
side near it."

Ralph dropped the leg of the buck and
obeyed her, for he would always do as Su
zanne bade him, and this time it was his turn
to start.

" Almighty!" he said, " I remember now.
It was here that you found me, Suzanne,
after I was shipwrecked, and the tigers
stared at us through the boughs of that
fallen tree; " and he shivered a little, for the
sight of the spot brought back to his heart
some of the old terrors that had haunted his
childhood.

Yes, Ralph, it was here that I found you.
I heard the sound of your voice as you knelt
praying on that stone, and I followed it.
God heard that prayer, Ralph."

" And sent an angel to save me in the
shape of a lutle maid, "he answered; adding:
" Don t blush so red, dear, for it is true that
ever since that day, whenever I think of
angels, I think of you; and whenever I think
of you I think of angels, which shows that
you and the angels must be close together."

Which shows that you are a wicked and
silly lad to talk thus to a Boer girl," she
answered, turning away with a smile on her
lips and tears in her eyes, for his words had
pleased her mind and touched her heart.

He looked at her and she seemed so sweet
and beautiful as she stood thus, smiling and
weeping together, as the sun shines through
summer rain, that, so he told me afterwards,
something stirred in his breast, something
soft and strong and new, which caused him
to feel as though of a sudden he had left his
boyhood behind him and become a man,
aye, and as though this fresh found man
hood sought but one thing more from
Heaven to make it perfect, the living love
of the fair maiden who, until this hour, had
been his sister in heart though not in blood.
Suzanne," he said in a changed voice,
" the horses are tired; let them rest, and let
us sit upon this stone and talk a little, for
though we have never visited it for many
years the place is lucky for you and me, since
here it was that our lives first came to
gether."

PRESENTLY they were seated side by side
upon the stone, Ralph looking at Suzanne,
and Suzanne looking straight before her,

for nature warned her that this talk of theirs
was not to be as other talks.

" Suzanne," he said at length.

" Yes," she answered; " what is it?"
But he made no answer, for though many
words were bubbling in his brain, they
choked in his throat and would not come.

" Suzanne," he said again presently, and
again she asked him what it was, and again
he made no answer. Now she laughed a
little and said:

" Ralph, you remind me of the blue jay in
the cage upon the stoef&gt;, which knows but
one word and repeats it all day long."

" Aye," he replied, " it is true; I am like
that jay, for the word I taught it is Su
zanne, and the word my heart teaches me is
Suzanne, and, Suzanne, I love you."

Now she turned her head away and looked
down and answered:

" I know, Ralph, that you have always
loved me since we were children together,
for are we not brother and sister?"

" No," he answered bluntly; " it is not
true."

" Then, that is bad news for me," she said,
" who till today have thought otherwise."

" It is not true," he went on, and now his
words came fast enough, " that I am your
brother or that I love you as a brother. We
are no kin, and if I love you as a brother
that is only one little grain of my love for
you yes, only as one little grain is to the
whole seashore of sand. Suzanne, I love
you as as a man loves a maid and if you
will it, dear, all my hope is that one day you
will be my wife; " and he ceased suddenly
and stood before her trembling, for he had
risen from the stone.

For a few moments she covered her face
with her hands, and when she let them fall
again he saw that her beautiful eyes shone
like the large stars at night, and that, al
though she was troubled, her trouble made
her happy.

" Oh, Ralph," she said at length, speak
ing in a voice that was different from any
he had ever heard her use, a voice very rich
and low and full " oh, Ralph, this is new to
me, and yet, to speak the truth, it seems as
old as as that night when first I found you,
a desolate, starving child, praying upon this
stone! Ralph, I do will it with all my heart
and soul and body, and I suppose that I
have willed it ever since I was a woman,
though until this hour I did not quite know
what it was I willed. Nay, dear, do not
touch me, or at least, not yet. First hear
what I have to say, and then, if you desire it,
you may kiss me if only in farewell."

" If you will it and I will it, what more can
you have to say?" he asked in a quick whis
per, and looking at her with frightened eyes.

374

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"This, Ralph: that our wills, who are
young and unlearned, are not all the world;
that there are other wills to be thought of,
the wills of our parents, or of mine rather,
and the will of God."

" For the first," he answered, " I do not
think that they will stand in our path, for
they love you and wish you to be happy, al
though it is true that I, who am but a wan
derer picked up upon the veldt, have no for
tune to offer you still, fortune can be won,"
he added doggedly.

" They love you also, Ralph, nor do they
think overmuch of wealth, either of them,
and I do not think that they would wish you
to leave us to go in search of it."

" As for the will of God," he continued,
" it was the will of God that I should be
wrecked here, and that you should save me
here, and that the life you saved should be
given to you. Will it not, therefore, be the
will of God also that we who can never be
happy apart should be happy together, and
thank Him for our happiness every day till
we die?"

" I trust so, Ralph; yet although I have
read and seen little, I know that very often it
has been His will that those who love each
other should be separated by death or other
wise."

" Do not speak of it," he said, with a
groan.

" No, I will not speak of it, but there is
one more thing of which I must speak.
Strangely enough, only this morning my
mother was talking of you; she said that you
are English, and that soon or late blood will
call to blood and you will leave us. She
said that your nest is not here, but there, far
away across the sea, among those English;
that you are a swallow that has been fledged
with sparrows, and that one day you will
find the wings of a swallow. What put it in
her mind to speak thus, I do not know; but
I do know, Ralph, that her words filled me
with fear, and now I understand why I was
so much afraid."

He laughed aloud very scornfully. "Then,
Suzanne," he said, " you may banish your
fears, for this I swear to you, before the Al
mighty, that whoever may be my true kin,
were a kingdom to be offered to me among
them, unless you could share it, it would be
refused. This I swear before the Almighty,
and may He reject me if I ever forget the
oath."

" You are very young to make such
promises, Ralph," she said doubtfully, " nor
do I hold them binding on you. At nine
teen, so I am told, a lad will swear anything
to the girl who takes his fancy."

" I am young in years, Suzanne, but I
grew old while I was yet a child, for sorrow

aged me. You have heard my oath; let it
be put to the test, and you shall learn
whether or no I speak the truth. Do I look
like one who does not know his mind?"

She glanced up at the steady gray eyes and
the stern, set mouth, and answered," Ralph,
you look like one who knows his mind, and
I believe you. Pray God I may not be de
ceived, for though we are but lad and girl,
if it prove so, I tell you that I shall live my
life out with a broken heart."

" Do not fear, Suzanne. And now I have
heard what you had to say, and I claim your
promise. If it be your will I will kiss you,
Suzanne, but not in farewell."

" Nay," she answered, " kiss me rather in
greeting of the full and beautiful life that
stretches out before our feet. Whether the
path be short or long, it will be good for us
and ever better, but, Ralph, I think that the
end will be best of all."

So he took her in his arms, and they kissed
each other upon the lips, and, as they told
me afterwards, in that embrace they found
some joy. Why should they not, indeed,
for if anywhere upon the earth, if it be given
and received in youth, before the heart has
been seared and tainted with bitterness and
disillusion, surely in such a pledge as theirs
true joy can be found. Yes, and they did
more than this, for, kneeling there upon that
rock, where once the dying child had knelt
in bygone years, they prayed to Him Who
had brought them together, to Him Who
had given them hearts to love with and
bodies to be loved, and the immortality of
Heaven wherein to garner this seed of love
thus sown upon the earth, that He would
guide them, bless them, and protect them
through all trials, terrors, sorrows, and
separations. As shall be seen, this indeed
He did.

Then they rose, and having, not without
difficulty, lifted the reitbok ram upon Ralph s
horse and made it fast there, as our hunters
know how to do, they started homewards,
walking the most part of the way, for the
load was heavy and they were in no haste,
reaching the farm about noon. Now I,
watching them as we sat at our midday meal,
grew sure that something out of the com
mon had passed between them, for Suzanne
was very silent, and from time to time
glanced at Ralph shyly, whereon, feeling her
eyes, he would grow red as the sunset, and
seeing his trouble she would color also, as
though with the consciousness of some
secret that made her both happy and
ashamed.

" You were long this morning in finding
a buck, Ralph," I said.

" Yes, mother," he answered; "there was
none on the flats, for the grass is burned

SWALLOW.

375

off; and had not Suzanne beaten out a dry
pan for me where the reeds were still green ,
I think that we should have found nothing.
As it was, I shot badly, hitting the ram in
the flank, so that we were obliged to follow
it a long way before I came up with it."

" And where did you find it at last?" I
asked.

" In a strange place, mother; yes, in that
very spot where, many years ago, Suzanne
came upon me starving after the shipwreck.
There, in the glade and by the flat stone on
which I had lain down to die, was the buck,
quite dead. We knew the dell again, though
neither of us had visited it from that hour
to this, and rested there a while before we
turned home."

I made no answer, but sat thinking, and
a silence fell on all of us. By this time the
Kaffir girls had cleared away the meat and
brought in coffee, which we drank, while
the men filled their pipes and lit them. I
looked at Jan and saw that he was making
up his mind to say something, for his honest
face was troubled, and now he took up his
pipe, and now he put it down, moving his
hands restlessly till at length he upset the
coffee over the table. " Doubtless," I
thought to myself, " he means to tell the
tale of the Englishmen who have come to
seek for Ralph. Well, I think that he may
safely tell it now."

Then I looked at Ralph and saw that he
also was very ill at ease, struggling with
words that he did not know how to utter.
I noted, moreover, that Suzanne touched
his hand with hers beneath the shelter of
the table as though to comfort and encour
age him. Now, watching these two, at last
I broke out laughing, and said, addressing
them:

" You are like two green fires of weeds in
a mealie patch, and I am wondering which
of you will be the first to break into flame,
or whether you will both be choked by the
reek of your own thoughts."

My gibe, harmless though it was, stung
them into speech, and both at once, for I
have noticed that, however, stupid they may
be, men never like to be laughed at.

" I have something to say," said each of
them, as though with a single voice, and
paused, looking at each other with irritation.

" Then, son, wait till I have finished.
Almighty! for the last twenty minutes you
have been sitting as silent as an ant bear in
a hole, and I tell you that it is my turn now;
why, then, do you interrupt me?"

" I am very sorry, my father," said Ralph,
looking much afraid, for he thought that
Jan was going to scold him about Suzanne,
and his conscience, being guilty, caused him
to forget that it was not possible that he

could know anything of the matter of his
love making.

" That is good," said Jan, still glaring at
him angrily; " but I am not your father."

" Then why do you call me son? " asked
Ralph.

" Almighty! do you suppose that I sit
here to answer riddles?" replied Jan, pull
ing at his great beard. " Why do I call you
son, indeed? Ah!" he added in a different
voice, a sorrowful voice, " why do I, when
I have no right? Listen, my boy, we are in
sore trouble, I and your mother, or, if she
is not your mother, at least she loves you as
much as though she were; and I love you,
too, and you know it; so why do you seek
to make a fool of me by asking me riddles?"

Now, Ralph was about to answer, but
Suzanne held up her hand, and he was quiet.

" My son," went on Jan, with a kind of
sob, " they are coming to take you away."

"They! Who?" asked Ralph.

"Who? The English, damn them! Yes,
I say, damn the English and the English
government!"

"Peace, Jan," I broke in; "this is not a
political meeting, where such talk is right
and proper."

" The English government is coming to
take me away!" exclaimed Ralph, be
wildered. " What has the government to
do with me? "

" No," said Jan; not the English gov
ernment, but two Scotchmen, which is much
the same thing. I tell you that they are
traveling to this place to take you away."

Ralph leaned back in his chair and stared
at him, for he saw that it was little use to ask
him questions, and that he must leave him
to tell the tale in his own fashion. At last
it came out.

" Ralph," said my husband, " you know
that you are not of our blood; we found
you cast up on the beach like a storm fish
and took you in, and you grew dear to us;
yes, although you are English, or Scotch,
which is worse, for if the English bully us,
the Scotch bully us and cheat us into the
bargain. Well, your parents were drowned,
and have now been in heaven for a long
time, but I am sorry to say that all your
relations were not drowned with them. At
first, however, when we should have been
glad enough to give you up, they took no
trouble to hunt for you."

" No! " broke in Suzanne and I with one
voice, and I added, " How do you dare to
tell such lies in the face of the Lord, Jan?"

" When it would not have been so bad to
give you up," he went on, correcting him
self. " But now it seems that had you lived
you would have inherited estates, or titles,
or both."

376

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" Is the boy dead ? " I asked.

" Peace, wife I mean, had he lived a
Scotchman. Therefore, having made in
quiries and learned that a lad of your name
and age had been rescued from a shipwreck
and was still alive among the Boers in the
Transkei, they have set to work to hunt you,
and are coming here to take you away, for
I tell you that I heard it in the dorp
yonder."

" Is it so ? " said Ralph, while Suzanne
hung upon his words with white face and
trembling lips. " Then, I tell you that I
will not go. I may be English, but my
home is here. My own father and mother
are dead, and these strangers are nothing
to me, nor are the estates and titles far
away anything to me. All that I hold dear
on the earth is here in the Transkei;" and
he glanced at Suzanne, who seemed to bless
him with her eyes.

" You talk like a fool," said Jan, but in a
voice that was full of a joy that he could not
hide, " as is to be expected of an ignorant
boy. Now, I am a man who has seen the
world, and I know better, and I tell you
that although they are an accursed race,
still, it is a fine thing to be a lord among
the English. Yes, yes, I know the English
lords. I saw one once when I went to Cape
Town; he was the governor there, and driv
ing through the streets in state, dressed as
bravely as a bluejay in his spring plumage,
while everybody took off their hats to him,
except I, Jan Botmar. who would not
humble myself thus. Yet to have such
clothes as that to wear every day, while all
the people salute you and make a path for
you, is not a thing to be laughed at. See,
boy, it just comes to this: here you are poor
and little, there you may be rich and much,
and it is our duty not to stand in your road
though it may break our hearts to lose you.
So you had best make up your mind to go
away with the damned Scotchmen when
they come, though I hope that you will

think kindly of us when you get to your own
country. Yes, yes, you shall go, and what
is more, you may take my best horse to ride
away on, the young schimmel, and my new
black felt hat that I bought in the dorp.
There, that is done with, praise be to God,
and I am going out, for this place is so thick
with smoke that I can t see my own hand; "
and he rose to go, adding that if the two
Scotchmen did not want a bullet through
them it would be as well if they kept out of
his way when they came upon the farm.

Now, in saying that the room was thick
with smoke Jan lied, for both the men s
pipes went out when they began to talk.
But as I knew why he lied I did not think
so much of it, for to tell the truth, at that
moment I could see little better than he
could, since, although I would have poi
soned those two Scotchmen before I suf
fered them to take Ralph away, the mere
idea of his going was enough to fill my eyes
with tears, and to cause Suzanne to weep
aloud shamelessly.

Wait a bit, father I beg your pardon,
Jan Botmar," said Ralph, in a clear and
angry voice; " it is my turn now, for you
may remember that when we began to talk
I had something to say, but you stopped
me; but now, with your leave, as you have
got off the horse I will get on."

Jan sat down slowly again and said:

" Speak. What is it?"

" This: that if you send me away you are
likely to lose more than you bargain for."

Now Jan stared at him perplexedly, but I
smiled, for I guessed what was to come.

" What am I likely to lose," he asked,
" beyond my best horse and my new hat?
Allemachter! Do you want my span of
black oxen also? Well, you shall have them
if you like, for I should wish you to trek to
your home in England behind good cattle."

"No," answered Ralph coolly; "but I
want your daughter, and if you send me
away I think that she will come with me."

{To be continued.)

TWO.

WITH musing interest I watch them whiles

On noiseless wings the moments past them range,

Their soft confiding speech, their tender smiles,
Their lingering looks in loving interchange.

Is it but love s light comedy they play,

Or is it that which leads to sighs and tears

A parting fraught with tragedy on a day
Deep hidden in the heart of far off years?

Clinton Scollard.

"ARTISTS

AND THEIR

ORK

N AMERICAN ARTISTS, LIMITED.

The ten American artists whose work
has been on exhibition at one of the gal
leries recently, and who announce that
they have severed themselves from other
bands of artists associated together for

exhibition, had a perfect right to take
that step if it so pleased them. They
have had a great deal of advertising in
the newspapers, and they have charged
an admission fee which ought to have
made their venture profitable, but there

"THE LAST TOUCHES."

From the painting by P. Toussaint.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

379

is nothing very remarkable in what
they have to show. If their exhibition
is no better next year than it is this, it is
puzzling to know why any one would pay
fifty cents to see pictures which are in no
sense great, when New York is full of
better pictures, which can be seen for
nothing at any of the galleries.

there. All of his pictures are brilliant
and decorative, but " A Breezy Day " is
excellent. It carries the very breath of
the uplands. Mr. Childe Hassam has
some fairly good things. Some of the
canvases exhibited are mediocre and dull,
but most of them make a pleasing de
parture from the illustrative picture.

" THE VIRGIN S SLUMBER."

From the painting by Paupion,

The reason people go year after year to
see the Academy exhibition is not be
cause it is particularly good. It isn t.
No exhibition of one year s work ever is
good as a whole. There may be some
good things, and the people who are in
terested in native art go to see what has
been done all over the field, make com
parisons, and weed out the bad things
mentally. It is worth an admission fee
to be able to do this. But the work of the
ten men, who have set themselves up as
being a class apart, is not worth going to
see if you have to pay for the privilege.

Mr. Robert Reid has the best work

But we find some of these same painters
also on exhibition at the Academy. Do
they send to the " Ten Painters " exhi
bition what the} consider their best
things or their worst ones?

T. W. Dewing s picture was charming
in its soft, poetic tones. This artist paints
misty dreams which transport j r ou from
the workaday world into a fain-land.

THE ACADEMY.

In the Academy the story telling pic
ture is, as usual, in full force, and with
out doubt this is just the sort of picture
the crowds like. Kmotions, suggestions,

" ROCK ROSES."

From the painting l&lt;y A.-Seifert By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 2id St.,

New York.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

383

" ST. CECILIA."
From the painting byj, M. StrudwickBy permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 2$J St., JVVrt 1 York.

that intangible thing which moves tis in
a great picture, if it is, like some of
"Whistler s, only a line and a blur, and
which is art all that is not popular.
The crowd wants facts. It gets a good
many of them at the Academy.

One canvas, which has been much ad
mired, is called "Sunday Morning." It
represents a scene in the early part of this
century. It shows what is evidently a
Virginia church, with its dispersing con
gregation, and it is painted by Mr. Henry.

An excellent idea is given of the wny
such a congregation must have looked at
such a time, and for that reason it is of
value, but simply as an illustration.

One of the best pictures is Mr. Beck-
with s portrait of his wife. It is well
painted and full of character.

THE VOGUE OF THE LITHOGRAPH.

The fashions in pictures are past find
ing out. The kindergartners have a
fancy (which the}- teach) that the history

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

385

of a country can be accurately read by a
careful study of its art. They point to
ancient Egypt with its stiffness, and to
modern France with its excesses in art,
and illustrate their remarks. Every pic
ture sale here tells the story of the
changes in fashion, but few of them give
any good reason for it. A picture which
was valuable last year sells for a song to
day, and the old canvas hidden in a
garret then is elaborately framed now.
It appears to be true that the opinions of
the majority are made by the few, and we
are willing to accept that in paintings and
sculpture ; but why, oh why, should a
lithograph be a thing of scorn last year
and most precious this ?

The men who ten years ago were buy
ing etchings look at the rarest print with
languid eyes today. The lithograph,
which had ceased to appear in polite
society at all, and was known to the
world at large through the medium of
circus posters, has become the fad. It is
fair to say that with some artists lith
ography has never gone out of fashion.
That versatile being, James Whistler, has
always made some lithographs, because
he loved the velvety blacks and the deli
cate, pale, intermediate tones. But to
day he is not known even as a leader in
the new school. Willette is the supreme
artist of this medium. It is becoming a
fashion in France to make portraits on
the vStone. Practically, in lithography
every impression is an original, as the
drawing is made on the stone and is not
visible until it is printed. A lith
ographic stone lasts much longer than an
etched plate. Every art student in Paris
considers his stone drawings of para
mount importance at the moment, and-it
is probable that this decade will leave
behind a collection of these beautiful pic
tures, which the far seeing will gather in
while they are cheap. The work is not
difficult, and has the charm of novelty.

Laurens Alma-Taderna is so healthy
looking and so healthy minded that he
has never fallen under the imputation of
trying to "live the life of the beautiful
Greeks," and yet, oddly enough, that is
exactly what he succeeds in doing, at
least so far as surroundings are concerned.
His pictures of antique life could almost

all of them be painted from a model
placed somewhere about his own house
and grounds. He is a Dutchman, born
in Friesland, and his earliest pictures
were of German life in the early middle
ages. This was followed by a Pompeian
period, and then the elaborate representa
tions of the life of ancient Greece and
Rome. But it has been since 1870, when
he went to England, and married the
enormously rich Miss Epps of the cocoa
fortune, that he has been able to realize
his dreams of ancient grandeur in his sur
roundings. He built a London house on
the north side of Regent s Park, which is
filled with the cool marbles, the frescos,
and the decorations which his pictures
have taught us to know.

* * # *

We have not many of Sir Frederick
Leighton s pictures in this country, but
no more beautiful example of his work
can be seen anywhere than the Andro
meda at the Tooth gallery on Fifth
Avenue. Sir Frederick Leighton has
so recently died that the story of his work
is in everybody s mind. This picture is
an excellent example of his best output.
It is essentially decorative in effect, the
dragon filling up much of the picture and
sheltering the maiden under his wing. In
the sky Perseus can be seen on his winged
horse coming to the rescue. But it is this
decorative effect, this decorative excel
lence, which is too pronounced a feature of
all of I/eighton s work. His lines are
full of poetry, but they are too carefully
composed. His pictures are so great that
it is impossible not to wish that so much
that is great should not be ablaze with
the very fire of genius. But as a magnifi
cent example of Leighton s work this
Andromeda should be seen.

# # # *

Mr. George H. Bough ton, who has
made a study of Puritans and their his
tory, that he might represent them in his
pictures, has discovered an odd old
Dutch picture, which is now on exhibi
tion at the Avery galleries in New York.
It is supposed to be the sailing of the
Speedwell from Delftshaven.

The picture has no name nor date, but
there is a label on the back which shows
that it once belonged to the Blenheim
collection. When the first Duke of Marl

3 86

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

borough came back from the L,ow Coun
tries he brought several pictures with him,
and this was undoubtedly one of them.

The picture is by no means extraordi
nary from an artistic point of view, but it
should be bought by one of the museums
for its historic value. The ship, with its
gay figurehead, flags and guns, might be
another than the Speedwell, but the little
band of solemn, black coated, ruffed and
hatted men are unmistakable. These are
the English Puritans who settled in New
England.

* * * *

One collection of pictures which was
disposed of in New York in April was of
more than usual interest. Many of them
were old English paintings, and their
genuineness was guaranteed by Mr.
Sedelmeyer, who sold them. One of the
most charming was a portrait by Romney
of Miss Eleanor Gordon. This was an
excellent example of the work of this
artist, the heavy hair, the arch expres
sion, and the sweet white frock, with its
red sash, making a picture which was
delightful, irrespective of its artistic
qualities as a painting.

Beside this good Ronine}^ there were
portraits by Sir Joshua, Gainsborough,
Opie, and Shee. One picture by a French
artist was of the Old Pretender, James
Stuart. It was almost full length, and
clad in armor. Another royal picture
was Constable s " Embarkation of George
IV from Whitehall," on the occasion of
the opening of Waterloo bridge.

The modern pictures were very good.
The}- included a first rate Corot, two
Meissoniers, a Munkacsy, and a Fortuny,
besides many others of the first class.
*. # * *

Mr. James Ellsworth, of Chicago, was
the purchaser of the Troyon of the Fuller
sale, which the French government
coveted, and he is going to take his
pictures from Chicago to New York on
account of Chicago s atmosphere. This
brought Mr. Charles Yerkes magnifi
cent collection of pictures to Gotham,
and will take Potter Palmer s from Chi
cago to Newport. Mr. Ellsworth has
spent more than a million dollars on his
paintings, and he has selected them with
rare judgment. He owns ten Innesses.
When Mr. W. A. Clarke, of Montana,

finishes his picture gallery on Fifth
Avenue and Mr. Ellsworth has settled his
collection, the metropolis will have the
most remarkable assemblage of paintings
ever brought together in one city since
the beginning of the world. There are
probably as many good pictures in many
European cities, but they came there by
entirely different means. In the older
countries, pictures were collected through
inheritance, a process going on from
generation to generation. Many of the
great portrait collections are made up
almost entirely from gifts. In this
country the owners of our great private
galleries not only made their own col
lections of pictures, but the money which
purchased them. And in nine cases out
of ten they require no weeding.

* * # #
Besides "The Standard Bearer," by

Rembrandt, Mr. George Gould has pur
chased Gainsborough s portrait of Lady
Mulgrave, which was sold at Christie s
about a year ago.

It would be a most excellent thing if
the owners of our private galleries would
allow the public to visit them, as is so
commonly done in England, and was so
long the practice of the late Mr. Walters,
of Baltimore.

# * # *

At the Knoedler gallery hangs a Corot
which is an interesting specimen of this
master s work especially to students, as
it is painted in his "early manner." It
is hard to realize that Corot belongs to
the last century as well as to this. He
was born in 1796 and died in 1875. This
large canvas, showing a landscape with
wood centers and a wagon with four
horses crossing a stream, was painted in
1832. At the first sight it does not sug
gest Corot, but a look at the detail shows
that even then he had the same infallible
way of painting nature by means that
seem almost intangible.

Corot was not understood, at first.
The critics were accustomed to a different
sort of painting. These gray canvases
did not appeal to them ; but as the years
went by, the painter s charm asserted
itself. Finally his country, always ready
to reward her artists, gave him every
honor in its power, and he died in the
consciousness of his great fame.

BY JAMES A. GARY,

Postmaster General of the United States.

The head of our Post Office Department points out the advantages to be derived from a
system which will encourage the masses to lay by small sums, and suggests means by which
the benefits of the institution may be confined to this element of our population.

THE proposition to establish Postal
Savings Depositories in the United
States is meeting with the most generous
consideration throughout the country.
In my report, recently issued, I expressed
the conviction that the time was "ripe
for their establishment in connection with
other duties of this department, and that
belief has been amply justified by the
interest and cordiality with which the
public has received the proposition. My
reasons for the confidence expressed were
that the country had just passed through a
period of profound depression, and that
the people had thereby acquired the in
estimable lesson of the need of looking
ahead, and of saving something for the
time to come. I believed that one such
experience would be enough for the
American people, and that the} 7 were ready
to do anything which guaranteed to
ameliorate, at least, the recurrence of the
late unfortunate conditions. That this
was a correct view is no longer to be
doubted. Fortunately the conditions are
favorable, and the people are in the frame
of mind to provide for a surplus over and
above the necessaries of life, and to save
it, and it remains for the government to
provide the means and instrumentality of
saving it.

The theory upon which these means
should be based is to teach the value of
small economies ; to induce and to enable
the people to get something ahead ; to
make them independent of the harsh ex
actions of the credit system ; and to re
lieve many of them of a condition that is
often moneyless. The theory is not to
help them to become rich by finding
profitable investments for their large ac

cumulations. The development of such
large accumulations must necessarily be
left to private enterprise and individual
skill and intelligence. The Postal Sav
ings Depository, wherever applied, was
designed for the use of the humblest
members of society, and wherever this
object has been perverted by persons of
generous means taking advantage of the
system to have their surplus capital
profitably invested without any trouble
to themselves, it has operated to clog the
system and to increase its cost and labor
far beyond that judicious degree which
the State should exercise. A few simple
restrictions applied to the Postal Savings
Depositories would readily serve to keep
their operations within healthful bounds.
The amount of any one deposit should be
limited to a comparatively small figure.
The total amount of deposits allowed in a
single year, as well as all together, should
be limited to a modest sum. The num
ber of deposits permitted in a week or a
month should also be restricted. By such
methods the system will offer no tempta
tion to rich people, accustomed to handle
generous sums, or to those who are con
stantly looking for profitable investments.
It will be confined, as it is intended to be,
to the depositors of the smaller amounts,
who are more solicitous of securing their
money than of finding a profitable invest
ment. I am sure, from the information I
am receiving in letters almost daily, that
the government could be made the recep
tacle of millions of dollars anntially for
the mere guarantee of its safe and prompt
return, without the pledge of one cent of
interest. The first consideration in the
mind of every one is security and the cer-

3 88

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

tainty of return of the principal. The
profit coming from interest is a secondary
consideration. Therefore, the system can
be established in this country with the
lowest known rate of interest, and yet
with every assurance of success.

The Postal Savings System, under such
conditions, would in no sense be a com
petitor of the existing banks of the coun
try. On the contrary, it would take the
place of a great primary school for the
benefit of the existing banks. It is esti
mated that there are not more than ten
million persons in the whole country who
are using the facilities of banks, trust
companies, building and loan associa
tions, etc. The remaining sixty million
know little or nothing about the modern
banking and loan associations, and they
realize no benefit from them except in a
remote and indirect way. The Postal
Savings System would attract many of
the latter class. It would probably double
the number of persons now acquainted
with and enjoying the benefits of banking
facilities, and would also, to a very large
extent, increase the amount of money in
active circulation. It would lead men,
women, and children to take their ac
cumulated savings, the result of small
economies, from the postal depository, and
place them in the savings banks, the
trust companies, loan associations, or
other institutions, which today do not
seek and have not the use of this class of
savings. It stands to reason, if the gov
ernment, for example, should pay interest
at the rate of two per cent while the sav
ings banks were paying from three to four
per cent, that as soon as the depositors
had learned, through their experience
with the government system, of the ad
vantages to be derived from a use of the
present banking establishments, they
would transfer their deposits, having
reached the limited amount, from the
government institutions to those which
guaranteed the larger income. It is the
experience of other countries where the
Postal Savings System is in vogue, that
only about one eighth of the sum of the
many deposits made in the course of a
year is allowed to remain for permanent
investment, seven eighths of it being
withdrawn within the j-ear for current
use ; that is, persons of small incomes

take this way of laying up the necessary
money for their rent, their winter fuel, or
their annual stock of clothing, or for the
equipment of the home with new furni
ture, or the purchase of instruments of
industry. In many ways they utilize the
money the} 7 are thus enabled to save in
sums large enough to be useful, and at
the same time they secure their financial
independence. It is the daily experience
of foreign bureaus to have depositors
withdraw their savings of years for the
purchase of a little home, or for the
establishment of a modest business. Al
most invariably these depositors begin
again the pleasant task of accumulating
their savings for the future, for, when the
habit of saving is once acquired, it is
only abandoned in the rarest instances.

It is the uniform testimony of the
philanthropists and statesmen of Europe
that no other system or custom of their
countries has done so much to improve
the condition of their people as the sav
ings system, whether operated through
the post offices or through other state and
municipal methods. Nor is it necessary
to go to Europe to find demonstrations of
that great fact. The savings banks of
the United States furnish ample data to
prove that they have been the best means
of developing thrift and the other con
servative qualities that make a people
great. In the communities where these
banks have been operated for the longest
time, and the system has been most
generally applied, are found the greatest
comfort, the most general diffusion of
wealth, and the highest intelligence and
progress. As extravagance is destructive
of the best forces of society, so is econoni}-
the most efficient quality for the building
up of human character and civilization.
The opponents of the Postal Savings
System, to prove the superiority of
private enterprise over government super
vision in such matters, point out the
magnificent results of the savings banks
in the Middle and New England States,
and the unparalleled accumulations of
the people of that section of the countrj-,
especially in Massachusetts, where more
than one half of the inhabitants have
savings bank accounts. To my mind, these
facts furnish one of the most unanswer
able arguments in behalf of this project.

POSTAL SAVINGS DEPOSITORIES.

389

Legislation alone made these extraor
dinary results possible. The mutual sav
ings banks are protected and surrounded
by the most careful provisions of law.
The protection of the State has inspired
that confidence which has attracted the
millions of depositors. Private enterprise
in Boston, in Philadelphia, and Balti
more originated the mutual savings banks
about eighty years ago, wisely imitating
similar movements begun about twenty
years earlier in England and Scotland;
but the original instittitious and their
imitators in this country were puny
affairs, isolated as to places and very
limited as to patrons, so long as the State
did not look after them. In Massachu
setts, the first bank was founded in 1817,
and during the following eighteen years
twenty one other banks were established.
All of these banks had a different char
ter, and none of them was subject to
the general supervision of the State.
They attracted depositors very slowly and
accumulated barely $3,500,000. About
that time the banks were subjected to a
rigid legislative scrutiny, and the re-
sposibility of the trustees was enlarged.
That was the beginning of the savings
banks progress in Massachusetts. Forty
years later they had accumulated
$75,000,000. During the seventies the
banking laws in Massachusetts, as well
as in several other States, were again
rigidly overhauled, and the safeguards to
the depositors were strengthened, and as
a consequence, during a period of about
twenty years, the accumulations in the
banks of Massachusetts have risen from
$75,000,000 to nearly $500,000,000, and
the number of depositors to nearly
1,500,000. The history of savings
banks in other States is the same, with
some modifications, as it is in Massachu
setts. The people have more confidence
in the national government than they
have in anything else. Many of the
States to a degree share this distinction
with the national government, and it is
only where the national government
in respect to national banks, or the
State in respect to the various other
classes of banks, has stepped in and ex
tended its protection and guarantee to
the depositors that we find the extraor
dinary accumulations of this period.

The opponents of the Postal Savings
System assert that private enterprise will
do in every community what it has done
in the Middle and New England States,
just as soon as there is a demand for it.
I wonder if this is true ? Does the history
of the growth of the banks justify this
assertion ? For example, do the larger
cities of Chicago, St. Louis, San Fran
cisco, and New Orleans furnish the
same opportunities for the deposit and
investment of the smaller savings that are
furnished by Boston, New York, Phila
delphia, and Baltimore ? All the former
cities have so called savings banks, but
they are not of the character and do not
furnish the inducements, not paying the
interest nor giving the security, of the
mutual savings banks of the latter cities.
The former have what are known as stock
savings banks, and are established and
managed for the benefit of the stock
holders, while the latter are conducted
exclusively for the benefit and enrich
ment of the depositors. The times and
conditions seem to have changed. The
benevolence and kindly foresight which
induced the foremost business men of the
older communities to take up the task of
leading the people to save their money,
and to invest it for them, exercising over
it often more care than they did over
their own possessions, do not appear to be
the controlling motive among the man
agers of savings banks in the newer com
munities. The altruistic spirit which led
the good men of Boston, Philadelphia,
and Baltimore, almost simultaneously,
to establish the mutual savings banks,
which still exist in these cities, sur
rounded by their successful imitators,
has not made its appearance in the newer
cities of the country. The savings banks
established years ago are nearly all
in operation, and are doing a splendid
work. If their counterpart were found in
every town throughout the country there
would perhaps be less occasion for the
Postal Savings System, but unfortunately
they are confined to a limited field, to the
country north and east of the Potomac
River, with a few isolated banks in West
Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, and Wisconsin.
In other places where what are known as
stock savings banks have been estab
lished, the stockholders, naturally, receive

390

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the first consideration and the depositors
the second. The managers of these stock
savings banks confine themselves to the
investment of their own capital or to the
capital the profits of which will largely
accrue to themselves. At any rate, ad
mirable as the mutual savings bank of
New England is in every respect, it has
inspired no imitators in the great States
south of the Potomac, in the Mississippi
Valley and the farther West. Perhaps
the difference in conditions is at the
bottom of the great difference in banks,
which I have pointed out above.

Many of the latter States have been de
veloped by a method entirely different
from that of the slow and more natural
growth of the Eastern and a few Northern
States. The former have usually been
the product of large capital which was,
and in many instances is today, controlled
by a few men or corporations, whose
tendency naturally is to ignore the smaller
schemes of men ; to overlook, if not to
discountenance, those petty economies
which were indispensable to the life and
the very existence of the original settlers
of this country. The larger and more
rapid plans of development have neces
sarily produced an atmosphere of extrav
agance, of large means, and of princely
investment. Ownership involves, in
man} instances, plantations, square
miles, certainly not less than quarter
sections. Mining companies reach out
for the mountain ranges, and individual
wheat growers and cattle breeders occupy
the valleys between. The few are owners
and employers. The many are tenants
and employees. Under such a condition
of society there is little opportunity or
inducement to save.

There is another condition, peculiar to
the South, which makes saving there
very difficult, or confines it to a portion
of the population only. It is unreason
able to expect the millions of freed men to
have acquired that sense of saving and
foresight which created the savings banks
of the North and East, and yet the}- com
pose more than one half of the population
in several of the States of that section.
They constitute the laboring class of their
communities, and are, therefore, in a
peculiar sense the class from which most
of the depositors in the Postal Savings

System may be expected. These people
have great faith in their government, and
with the means at their hand, under the
seal and security of the national author
ity, they will promptly learn the benefi
cent lesson of saving, just as they have
learned, -in a few decades, to earn their own
living, to educate their children, to build
churches and homes and schoolhouses,
and to regard themselves as citizens. I
cannot conceive of anything that could
supply a greater inspiration for good to
the colored people of the South than the
means and machinery of saving which the
Postal Savings System would give them.
The} have industry, they have a desire
to earn money ; but as a class they have
not } T et acquired the habit of saving.
They live from hand to mouth, giving
little care to the morrow, and freely spend
ing as fast as they can earn and often
faster.

Some opponents of the Postal Savings
System insist that legislation cannot im
prove society, which is the sum and sub
stance of that school of political econo
mists who are forever preaching to "let
well enough alone." Philosophers of
that school may be able to prove their
case in countries of " arrested growth " ;
but not in America, whose institutions
are the result of written law, and whose
development is still in its -infancy. To
appreciate what legislation can do for a
people, we need but regard the influence
exerted upon American society by the
public school system, by the ballot, and
by the establishment of the postal system.
Their uses in shaping American character
have been, and are, of incalculable value,
and yet the}- are the offspring of legisla
tion.

If the United States had "let well
enough alone, " there would be no "be
yond the Mississippi on its maps, no safe
harbors, no frowning fortifications and
protective navies to keep out armed
enemies, no national banking system, no
national postal system. Indeed, the
United States would not be united at all.
The United States would not be in ex
istence. " Let well enough alone " is the
philosophy of indifference, of callousness,
of heartlessness. An armed enemy of
the State is less to be dreaded than its
indifferent friend. There are today, un-

POSTAL, SAVINGS DEPOSITORIES.

fortunately for the country, many men,
otherwise happily equipped for the duties
of good citizenship, who affect and prac
tise this baneful policy of indifference.
It foreshadows a condition in which the
refinement of civilization appears to be
eliminating the bloou. and spirit - out of
the national life. Let well enough
alone " is the refuge of timid statesman
ship, which fears to follow the common
judgment of the common people, which
harbors distrust of popular sentiment,
and which lacks the courage to grapple
with new conditions.

In bright contrast with these timid
critics who seem to think that our govern
ment is filling the full measure of its
destiny, are the men and women, and
especially the newspaper writers, who
are aggressively at work in all parts of
the country helping to solve the one over
shadowing problem involved in this
project : How is the money to be invested ?
To this question every intelligent friend
of the system is now devoting himself,
and I am in receipt almost daily of inter
esting and frequently of very instructive
suggestions. The leading bills already
introduced during this session of Con
gress, by Senators Mason and Butler in
the Senate, and by Mr. L,orimer and Mr.
Bartholdt in the House of Representa
tives, include the same provisions for in
vesting the savings. These include
national, state, county, and municipal
bonds. The existing bonds of the
government are placed first. It is argued
in behalf of this mode of investment that
these bonds would afford an ample field
for the accumulations of th^. next ten or
fifteen years ; that the government is not
likely to pay off the remaining third of
the war debt so rapidly as it paid off the
other two thirds ; and that ten years from
now, when the last of that class of bonds
will fall due, there will probably remain
at least $750,000,000 unpaid which, it is
urged, would be enough to absorb all the
savings. The United Kingdom, with
half the population of this country, has
accumulated nearly $600,000,000 since
1862. It is believed that the capacity of
the American people to lay up money,
when once they shall have learned the
lesson of saving, will be much greater
than that of the English peop.le, but as

an offset to this it is noted that the oppor
tunities for profitable investment in this
country far exceed those of the British
Islands. Comparatively, therefore, the
American people would invest more in
private securities and projects and less in
the Postal Savings Depository than is the
case with the English people. It is true,
in prosperous times, the facilities for
investment in the United States are
almost without limit.

The second proposition of the bills now
pending in Congress, which is only to be
considered after the national debt is taken
up or paid, authorizes the savings to be
invested in state, county, and municipal
bonds, the States to guarantee the repay
ment of loans made to the two latter.
This proviso would open a practically
limitless field, which is being enlarged
by the steady tendency of American
cities to improve their streets, to acquire
parks, and to own and control all quasi
public works. This tendency is very
marked, and the time is not far distant
when the larger American municipalities
will be vying with each other, and offer
ing the very best security for enormous
sums of money to be expended in public
improvements.

The Hon. Roy Stone, of the Agricul
tural Department, and president of the
National League of Good Roads, is en
gaged in a propaganda attracting much
attention, which points out a way of in
vesting the people s savings through the
intervention and upon the guarantee of
the several States. Mr. Stone s plan is
to invest the money in building good
roads, and it appears to have touched a
popular chord.

Canada, which has accumulated about
$40,000,000 in thirty years, is devoting
the money to public improvements, mak
ing a permanent debt due to its depos
itors, and paying three and one half per
cent interest thereon. Of this money
twenty per cent must be invested in the
securities of the Dominion. The balance
is " handed over " to the treasury to be
dealt with as any other revenue. It may
be paid out for current expenses. It is
not likely that the United States will
ever adopt this policy. It would furnish
a constant temptation to cover up deficits
by drawing upon the deposits.

39 2

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

The English system invests the savings
in government securities only. Much
has been made recently by the opponents
of the system of the fact that the English
banks have been run at a loss to the
government during the last current year.
This loss was less than $19,000, upon
operations involving the investment of
$550,000,000. Twenty years ago the
system involved a loss of as many
pounds, or about $90,000. It also failed
to make both ends meet during the first
three years of its operation. Neverthe
less, the English system has earned after
paying two and one half per cent interest
on deposits, the handsome sum of
,1,550,000 or nearly $7,750,000, which
the government has, from time to time,
divided among the depositors. There
is, therefore, little comfort in the English
experience for the American opponent of
the system. Last year the deficiency was
an apparent loss only, making it com
pulsory upon the Chancellor of the
Exchequer to buy such securities in the
open market, or else let the money lie
idle, which naturally advanced the
premium on such securities. The condi
tion of the times during the last three
years also contributed to this state of
things. English industries were pros
perous enough, and there was a fair
demand for money for home use ;
but there was no demand for the
surplus of English capital in this
country, which had heretofore been
one of its best markets. As a con
sequence, the English money market,
always fully stocked, became plethoric,
government securities came in great de
mand, and the price of consols went up to
112; the rate of interest fell even below
two and one half per cent, w r hich is the
rate guaranteed to the depositors in the
savings batiks.

The simplest form of investment, and
that most generally emplo} ed by coun
tries using the Postal Savings System,
is in government securities. These are
preferred almost everywhere. Municipal
bonds constitute a very common form of
investment. They afford a good market
in France, Belgium, the Australian col
onies, New Zealand, and in a few other
minor countries. But real estate appears
to be the most popular channel for this

kind of investment. Mortgage bonds of
continental Europe, where land has be
come valuable, are sought after by every
bank. This is true of France, the Nether
lands, Belgium, Austria, Sweden, Nor
way, and also by the municipal banks of
Prussia, Bavaria, and Switzerland,

It is constantly being urged upon me
by correspondents from every part of the
country, from the East no less than from
the West, to secure a provision for the in
vestment of savings funds in real estate,
which is usually intended to mean farms.
Manj- excellent reasons are advanced for
this disposition of the money, but thus
far no one has been able to present a
practical plan for its realization. Any
plan for the investment of the money that
would require such infinite detail in its
administration as the loaning of money
on ordinary mortgage bonds, would prob
ably be found impracticable.

In conclusion, I wish to call attention
to the remarkable liberality of the char
ters under which the original savings
banks of Massachusetts were organized.
The banks were governed by trustees
who had absolute control of the funds,
subject only to the limitations that they
should in no way profit by the handling
of money, and that it shoiild be invested
in the following seven distinct classes of
securities :

1. The stock of any bank, state or na
tional.

2. Loans by deposit in any bank, state
or national, on time and on interest.

3. Bonds or notes of individuals, se
cured by bank stock, to ninety per cent
of the par value of the latter.

4. Bonds and mortgages to an amount
not exceeding three fourths of the total
deposits in hand. The real estate might
be situate in any State.

5. Public funds of the State and of the
United States.

6. Bonds of counties, cities, and
towns.

7. To private citizens on personal se
curity by two promisors, to the amount
of one fourth of the deposits in hand.

In 1841 railway stock was added to the
classes enumerated above.

There was practically no limit to in
vestment in those securities that were

THE SPELL OF NIGHT.

393

then and are today regarded as absolutely
safe. Those ancient charters were made
to recognize two important principles.
First they gave large, almost absolute
power to the managers of the banks ;
and second, they provided for the greatest
possible variety of investment consistent
with safety. After eighty years of ex

perience it is difficult to improve upon
these provisions. Coupled with the
statutes which the State from time to
time enacted for the protection of the
depositors, it is a w r onder no longer that
the savings banks of Massachusetts have
outstripped all other savings institutions
in the world.

James A. Gary.

THE SPELL OF NIGHT.

THE faded roses drift along the west,

To die in silver windrows on its rim ;
Pearl gauzes drop across the meadow s breast ;

The flocks of white petunias are dim,
And shadows soothe them into fragrant rest.

A nighthawk s signal quivers in the gloom,

A clear, sharp lance of sound ; then droops the wing

Of silence, dipped in forest born perfume,
Where flavors of the dawning summer cling,

Blent with the breath of spring s departing blootn.

My soul is restless for, I know not what

Cool, mossy walks ; the drip of woodland springs ;

Some half remembered, half imagined spot
A scarce caught echo in the silence brings

A glimpse, a dream, of something I have not.

Dark violet, the mighty heavens sweep.

Behold, the pain is soothed, and peace is here.
Pure mists of dew the drowsy flowers steep ;

The balm of rest for weary hearts is near ;
God lights the stars and sends the world to sleep.

Hattie Whitney.

INTO BATTLE AND THROUGH IT.

BY ELLIOTT F. SHAW.

A National Guardsman s trying experiences as a volunteer in the United States
army of invasion A graphic pen picture of the grim reality of war.

I^RAMP, tramp, tramp.
We have been at it all day, and are still
trudging wearily onward. All day in the
dust of a dry plain and the heat of the trop
ics we have kept it up; that is, the strongest
of us. The others have literally dropped
by the wayside played out. There is a
scant two thirds of us left now, for we are
not seasoned veterans. On the contrary,
we are citizen soldiers, volunteers, militia,
who have never before known acute physi
cal suffering. From sun up until sun down,
and now far into the hot night, we have
been making a forced march. Where? We
do not know. Some of our officers know,
and that is enough. The friends we have
left behind us at home are better informed
about it than we are. They have their pa
pers to tell them. As for ourselves, we
have learned how little the individual sol
dier knows of what is going on around him.
A battle is being fought somewhere in
our front. This we know, for we have heard
the firing of the heavier guns. It cheered us
on while it lasted, for we knew our com
rades were being hard pressed, and we were
going to their rescue ; but when night fell,
as it does in the tropics suddenly, the
firing ceased and our minds became more
than ever conscious of our tired muscles.
We are making barely three miles an hour
now. We are tired, sleepy, hungry, and,
far worse, thirsty, with no means to re
lieve our thirst. Our canteens have been
empty for hours, though we each carry
two. A man uses a great amount of water
in a hot climate. The w r orst of it is
that most of us foolishly used part of the
water in one canteen to moisten the canvas
cover of the other, so that the water in
the latter would be cooled by the evapo
ration. It is a tropical trick which we
have learned in this case to our dis
advantage. We shall know better next
time. But will there be a next time? We
are going into battle. Will we go through
it? Not all of us. There are prizes in this
game we have been so anxious to play, and
the prizes are death.

We are sadly out of temper. What is
worse, our officers are also, for the strain
has told on them as well as on the men, and
their cries of " Close up! " and " Stop
straggling! " become harsher and sharper
as we drag ourselves, half stumbling, along
the dusty road. A band of specters we seem
to each other, a long, swaying serpent with
its tail lost in the darkness behind.

A strange army we would seem to the
people who flocked to see us in New York.
While we have not been in battle yet,
we have been in the field long enough to
learn to throw away everything that is not
absolutely necessary. There is not even a
blanket in the command now, for the nights
are so hot we do not need them, and as to
tents well, we turned them over to the
quartermaster long ago. But we have
added some things of more use. A number
of pickaxes and spades have been dealt out
to us, and we take turns carrying them with
many a complaint. Our brigade commander
is quoted as saying that we will, be more
willing to carry them after we have been
under fire a few times. They are handy
things to dig trenches with, and the
trenches will save our lives some of them.

Twenty five miles we have made today,
they tell us, and we have five more to make.
They seem endless; but in reality they prove
to be a scanty three and a half, for our
comrades who have been in the fight of the
day have been vastly outnumbered, and
have been driven back by the enemy, though
they have stubbornly fought every inch of
the ground.

With delight we hear a rough challenge,
"Who comes there?" and are halted and
ordered to stack our arms, while our com
manding officer goes forward to give an
account of himself. It is a joyous oppor
tunity to rest, and we are most of us asleep
by the side of the road before he comes
back. We get but a cat nap, however, and
are soon moving again, this time in a direc
tion at right angles to the road. We know
what that means. We have arrived at the
field of battle for tomorrow s fight. Be-

INTO BATTLE AND THROUGH IT.

395

hind us we can hear, indistinctly, the com
mands for other regiments to form " left
front into line." Now we are brought to
" attention " ourselves. Our column of
fours wheels left into line, and we are halted
again. Again our guns are stacked, and
after being cautioned not to wander away
from them, we hear the welcome order
" Dismissed."

" Water! " is now the cry on every lip,
and after a time we find some and quench
our feverish thirst. This satisfied, hunger
takes its turn, and we seek wood with
which to build a fire, delighted now with
anticipations of hot coffee and delicious
fried bacon. For days our stomachs have
turned at the thought of bacon, for it has
been the only meat issued to us for over a
month, but tonight it will surely be
delicious. Alas! we have counted without
our host. The moment a fire is started we
get a dozen orders to put it out, and an offi
cer springs toward it and kicks the pieces
of burning wood in a dozen directions.
Even before he does so there is a queer
buzzing, humming, and whistling in the air,
and we know why we must do without it.
It was an excellent mark for the enemy,
and the whistling we heard was of bullets.
We have been under fire. The firing has
ceased, but the idea gives us a strange feel
ing of elation. We are something more
than the average run of our fellow men.
Without a complaint we, who have often
dined at Delmonico s, sit down to a meal
of raw bacon, hard tack, and cold water.
Then, like so many satisfied animals, we
drop in our places and fall asleep on the
bare ground with our coats for pillows.

Sleep, did I say? Surely we did not
sleep. It is still night, but a sergeant is
awakening us with a rough order to be
quiet and fall into ranks. The roll is called,
again we break ranks, and are given ten
minutes to bolt more raw bacon and hard
tack. Still more of it is issued to us to
carry, for once in battle there will be little
chance for us to get food until it is over.
We are ordered to fill our canteens and be
more careful of our water supply in future
(which we will surely be), and then our
half numbed and aching bodies are loaded
down with a further issue of ammunition.

In the east there is a faint strip of light,
and we are hurriedly marched forward into
our place on the right of our line, for the
twilight of morning is of as short duration
as that of night, and we must get as near
the enemy as we can under cover of the
darkness. Today it is our side which has
the greater numbers, unless the enemy has
also been reinforced during the night, and
we are to attack and win back all that was

lost yesterday, and more if we can. Orders
are given in muffled tones, and we plunge
forward in the darkness, leaving the fighters
of yesterday behind as a reserve.

The light in the e \st grows brighter. We
can see a company fall back now and then,
as it is ordered into position as a reserve
or support. Then comes an order from
our own battalion commander: " Form for
attack the first the base company march!"
Our captain halts every other section to
form the company supports, and the rest
are hurried forward into line of squads, still
moving forward, but now more cautiously.

A flame of fire bursts from the eastern
horizon, and as it does so another bursts in
front of us with a roar. A man who has
just been joking with us falls dead at our
side; we hear a rolling of musketry, and
know the battle has begun. Day breaks in
an instant; we can see the puffs of smoke
from the enemy s position, and we are
given the welcome order to fire a few
rounds at them. In an instant we are wild
with the excitement of battle, and it is well
that we are held in this line of squads and
under the immediate command of a non
commissioned officer, or we should fire
away all our ammunition before the battle
was half fought.

We are well into the zone of fire now,
and the squads of our line advance alter
nately in rushes of about thirty yards. This
line then lies down and fires while the other
makes a similar rush, gaining half that dis
tance to our front. Now we cease firing
and take our turn at the forward movement
while the other squads fire. Men begin to
fall in these rushes now, but we are too ex
cited and too busy to notice or think of
them thank God. Very willingly we obey
orders not to expose ourselves more than
we can help, but to take advantage of every
tree, rock, or gully that can shield us.

The enemy s fire is hot and effective.
The bullets " zip " by our ears or over our
heads, and some go with a " spat " into the
earth at our feet, but many find their mark,
and we are soon deployed by squads into
line of skirmishers. A thin line it seems to
us, with too much distance between the in
dividual skirmishers, for our dead and
wounded are not in it, and they are more
than we thought. We glance anxiously
backward, and wonder if it is not time for
the supports to be brought to our aid. This
looks too much like fighting the entire
army of the enemy by ourselves. Yes,
there they come, already deployed like our
selves into line of skirmishers, and back in
the distance we can see the battalion and
brigade reserves closing up. We know
what that means. We are nearer the ene-

396

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

my s position than we think. When those
reserves get on the line there will be one
wild charge and the enemy will be de
feated, or we will a trifling matter depend
ing upon which has the greater numbers
and which the best fighters.

The supports are with us now, and we
rush forward with more confidence, this
time by sections. Our fire becomes more
rapid as we halt in turn and more men
drop at each rush. But behind us the re
serves are coming, and we know that they
will more than fill their places. On the
drill ground at home the reserves always
seemed ludicrously useless. What confi
dence they give us now!

The trees and rocks grow scarcer now,
and the whole line is suddenly halted. In
a rift of the smoke we can see the enemy s
position, not two hundred yards away.
They have anticipated our intention to at
tack, and have thrown up rude intrench-
ments. Now comes the order for " rapid
fire," and we pump bullets at the enemy un
til our rifle barrels are so hot we cannot
touch them. If the enemy give way at this,
we know we will not have to charge them.
But they answer the fire ferociously. The
combined firing sounds like the "rolling"
of a thousand deafening drums, punctuated
irregularly by the booming of cannon and
the steady whir of the enemy s machine
guns.

Now comes the final test. We are com
manded to " fix bayonets," and then con

tinue the rapid fire. There is the tramp of
thousands of men in our rear. Up come
the reserves. Another long rush is made,
followed by " rapid fire " again. And then
comes the command we are so impatient to
hear: "To the charge march!" and we
spring forward through the smoke with our
bayonets at the charge. There are plucky
men against us, and they stand to their
posts and pour a murderous tire into us as
we dash over that last hundred yards. But
we reach their line at last, and go over their
intrenchments at a couple of bounds. An
indescribable melee follows of individual
fighting with bayonets, revolvers, swords,
and clubbed muskets. And then, panting
and exhausted, we cease victors, for our
enemies have either surrendered or died at
their posts.

On we go again, mad with joy, this time
turning to our left. We have turned their
flank. The enemy s cavalry charge us, but
they are met and driven back by cavalry of
our own. Our light artillery dashes up to
some high ground to our right and opens
fire. Our cavalry plunges in to reap the
fruits of victory in captures; we can see the
enemy s line giving way all along their
front, hotly pursued by our own. All is
practically over save the pursuit, in which
at present we are too exhausted to join. We
are halted to guard prisoners and captured
cannon and get time to think, to realize
that we have been into battle and through
it victoriously.

THE THOUGHT OF HER.

THE thought of her is like a breath of spring,

Sweet with a promise even as the wind.

It warms my heart again and clears my mind,
And sets the flowers of pleasure blossoming.
Love, like a bird, returns with it to sing,

Life leaves the shadows everywhere behind ;

It bubbles up and hastens on to find
The sunlight that the birds and blossoms bring.

And like the flowery fragrance of the breeze,
This happy thought is sweet with memories

Of long ago when we were children yet ;
Of other days, like this, which she made bright
For with me with so much happiness and light

As I shall never while I live forget.

Frederic Fairchild Sherman.

LIKE SOLDIERS, ALL.

BY TOM HALL.

An incident in warfare with the Indians The story that was told the civilian
on the march, and what the civilian saw himself in battle.

I SAT on the top of a flat boulder and
watched while my saddle nag and pack
mule nibbled at the sparse bunches of grass
that may be found in Arizona occasion
ally. Before me stretched the blue gray
panorama of a mountain desert, and the
same was on either hand and behind.
Dots of greenish gray cactus pricked the
sand at irregular intervals. Here and there
bleached bones were slowly disintegrating,
constant reminders of the serious end of
life, and the frequent rattle of a snake s tail
offered the means of exit. To make up for
the quiescence of the rest, pink and green
lizards scudded about as though the fate of
the universe depended on their haste. It
was the God forsaken land of the Apache,
with nothing to redeem it but its cold
beauty.

To my left stretched a desert mirage, and
from it I now heard the fall of the feet of
many horses. A chill of fear ran down my
spine, for I knew Cochise had jumped"
the San Carlos reservation with his band of
Chiricahuas; but before I could reach for
my rifle I heard a stern, martial voice
shouting gruffly, " Close up in rear! " and
I knew I had fallen in with pursuers, rather
than pursued.

Presently they emerged from the foggy
mirage, mounted specters in single file. A
boyish, worried looking officer rode at the
head, and he galloped to my little elevation,
clapped a pair of field glasses to his eyes,
and looked anxiously ahead. Then he
marched on without a word, and by that I
knew that he was new to the business. In
the desert one greets a stranger as a long
lost friend, and parts with him reluctantly.
Following him went the troop, on whose
felt campaign hats I read the legend
" B-I2," by which I knew that this was the
second troop of the Twelfth Regiment of
Uncle Sam s cavalry.

"Better jog along with us, sir, if you re
moving south," said a voice at the rear.
And thus I fell in and made friends with the
second sergeant and the blacksmith of the
command.

"After Indians? " I asked, knowing per
fectly well they were, but feigning a proper
civilian ignorance.

"Aye, and a long ways after them, I m
taking it," answered the sergeant. "And
it s all owin to our bein recently an orphan
troop."

"An orphan troop? "

"A troop without commissioned officers.
Our captain s on sick leave, our first loo-
tinint detached on special duty, an our old
second recently promoted. Whereby we
come to be commanded by this bloomin
red cheeked babe you see in front."

"A wasp waisted idiot fresh from the
military school," growled the blacksmith,
" commanding men who fought with
Sheridan."

"And a sick job he s having of it," added
the sergeant, whereatthe blacksmith laughed
loud and uproariously, bringing down upon
him the objurgations of many dusty files
in front, and commands, devoid of authority,
to " shut up and act like a soldier."

" Like a soldier it is," laughed the ser
geant. " Now, if you were in front with the
little lootinint boy when he heard that,
you d a seen him blush like a fresh kissed
girl. It s a phrase we tantalize him with."

" Why that? " I asked.

" Because he used it to admonish us when
he took over command, not liking our
looks or our ways us, who were soldiers
when he wore dresses. We weren t clean
enough to suit him, not having drawn cloth
ing in half a year, having been scouting
that time in the mountains with the orderly
sergeant in command."

"And we weren t set up quite as straight
as the cadets he was used to."

" And swore."

"An got drunk and fought."

"An chewed tobacco, an used bad lan
guage of other kinds."

" Yes, he didn t like the looks of us, an
we didn t like the style of him. So we made
his life a living hell, which the private sol
dier can do with his officer when he has the
mind."

398

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" And your orderly sergeant? " I asked.

" Looked on without a word. He s the
maddest of em all, cause he s working for
his shoulder straps an looked to command
the troop on this campaign himself, and
win much glory."

" Yes, we nearly lost the campaign alto
gether, for they kept us in post with the
doughboys all on account of him, until
necessity compelled them, and now we ll
be the laughing stock of the regiment, just
as he has been of the doughboys and their
officers."

"Why?"

In answer the blacksmith simply held up
his saber with scorn.

" He made us take these pig stickers with
us, as though we were going to charge
squares of civilized infantry. It s the first
time they ve been carried on an Indian
campaign, but, faith, we must needs be like
the soldiers he has been reading about in
his books at West Point an it ll nickname
the refiment, see if it don t."

The slender trail stretched ahead, visible
for miles, and I let them tell their story.
And ere the end was reached my heart went
out in sympathy to poor little, bewildered
Lieutenant Raines, who was riding so man
fully and silently at our head.

This poor fellow, filled with the ideals of
soldier life, had stumbled out into the desert
to command this grumbling troop of human
devils, without the aid or counsel of an
older officer, for well I knew the infantry
officers associated with him would help him
not at all. He had fallen from the highest
ideal to plainest real in a day, and the de
scent had not been made easy for him.

" He proceeded to jump on us at the very
first parade he attended," continued the ser
geant, " and he was not sparing in his re
marks, which we considered impudent, not to
say imprudent. He told us flatly tnat we
looked like a lot of cowboys, and bade us
brace up and look like soldiers. He found
dirt in our guns and dirt in our quarters,
likewise dirt in our mess and dirt in our
stables which was not surprising, as the
dirt was surely there. But he did more
than find it; he made us clean it up. He was
very free with disparaging remarks con
cerning our personal appearance, and insti
tuted certain regulations that pleased him,
though it did not us, concerning the num
ber of baths we were to take per week and
the number of times we were to shave.
Then he got us out every morning before
breakfast for an hour of setting up drill,
with the same end in view of making us
look more like soldiers, and that was the
needle that broke the camel s eye, or what
ever the saying is. That made us the laugh

ing stock of the doughboys, who looked on
insolently from the porch of their barracks.
Like soldiers became a byword they
taunted us with, and by the same token a
byword we taunted him with, pretending,
of course, that we did not expect to be over
heard, which is a way all soldiers have.

"At mounted revolver practice we drove
him near crazy. Oh, the scores we made!
Never a man missed at all. Did a revolver
go off in the air-, Hit ! the scorer would
roar, and gravely stick a paster on the target
that like enough hadn t a hole in it any
where. And the lootinint would compli
ment and wonder till it was a roarin farce.
But he found that out himself, and when
he did he sent us back to barracks in a
hurry and rode away to his quarters alone,
no doubt with his heart breaking.

" But the climax came at last, and then
we quit for shame of ourselves. He s a
willin little fellow, God knows, and he
started a night school for us, he to be the
teacher and giving his time to it, when he
might be flirting with the women or play
ing cards with the doughboy officers, which
latter, no doubt, they wanted him to do, for
he would have been easy plucking. He
had a tent pitched where it was quiet, and
called for volunteers to attend school. Not
a man went, though some might have been
willing under other circumstances. But
when we discovered that the doughboy offi
cers, the younger ones, any way, had hidden
behind the tent to make the more fun of
him, we got mad at them instead and let up.
Then for a while we were model soldiers,
although it was hard at times, during drill.
You must know, sir, that it s a queer mix
ture of learning they put into a man at
West Point; and when a cadet graduates
he s as much of an engineer as he is of the
line, and as much of an artillery officer as
he is officer of cavalry or infantry. So we
were never surprised to hear amazin com
mands at drill; and when marching in col
umn of platoons we heard him roar out
such a command as On right into bat
tery ! you can imagine it was hard work
for us to keep our faces straight. But we
behaved like soldiers."

" Until he armed us with these pig stick
ers," grunted the blacksmith, never raising
his eyes from the ground, for it was his
duty to look for lost shoes.

" It broke out, then, again," assented the
sergeant. " Small wonder. Is he going
to have us charge the red divils with cold
steel? We might start, but twould be
riderless horses that would gallop through
and hardly them. O Brien, our orderly
sergeant, protested; but with new impor
tance in his mind, the boy lootinint bade

LIKE SOLDIERS, ALL.

399

the sergeant shut up and obey. And now
O Brien is mad clear through, and getting
madder every minute of the march, for not
once since we started has the boy asked his
advice even about a camping place, which
is quite customary and proper with shave
tail officers."

" Shavetail? " I queried.

" The army equivalent for tenderfoot.
You must know that when an army mule
comes fresh frorr the East its tail is prop
erly shaved, all exceptin a little bunch at
the end. Afterwards that part of its toilet
is not attended to, and the old ones have
tails like worn out feather dusters. By that
you can tell them apart."

" I should think he would have to ask
more or less about the trails," said I.

" But he hasn t," the sergeant replied.
" By sheer good luck he is marching us in
the right direction, but I ll lay me life that
we re not within a hundred and fifty miles
of those Apaches or any other troop that
is after them, and this is our sixth day out."

Apparently from the bosom of the blue
haze that lay on the horizon came an indis
tinct tapping.

" What s that? " asked the blacksmith
sharply.

" By the powers, it s shooting or I m a
naygur!" answered the other. I could see
a slight commotion at the head of the col
umn, and by that I knew that the orderly
sergeant had heard, also.

" It s off to the left," said the blacksmith.

" To the right, you half deaf idiot," re
turned the sergeant. " It s from around
that point of rocky hill. It s a fight, sure.
We ll be going in a minute, sir, and I ad
vise you to stay with the pack train." I
reined up, and fell back as he suggested,
for I have a family to take care of, and am
not paid to fight.

"Attention column half right gallop
march! " I heard the boy lieutenant cry out
in a high pitched voice, and I saw him wave
his saber over his head. The bugle re
peated the command, and then for the first
time I saw the cavalry of my country gal
lop into battle.

" God be with you all, boy and men," I
muttered to myself; and then took up the
gallop with the slower mules of the pack
train, now whipped up by their swearing
drivers, and a guard of two men from the
troop.

We were not far behind when the troop
formed left front into line on a little ridge,
the continuation of the salient angle of the
rocky hill which had before hidden the bat
tle from sight. Before them stretched a
sloping, sandy plain, dotted with blooming
cactus and detached boulders. Among the

boulders I could see occasionally the red
headband characteristic of the Apache, and
from the rocks continuous spurts of white
smoke. A few bullets now began to sing
over our heads, for we were in plain sight
of the Indian line and on its right flank. Off
to the left I could indistinctly see the herd
of Indian ponies being driven hurriedly
away from the danger that this new body of
troops threatened.

Eight hundred yards or more to the
right, at the base of the hills, was the line
of troops already in action. They, too,
were protected by boulders, there more fre
quent, and by some straggling scrub trees
hardly higher than bushes. From the top
of the hill, also, there came now and then
a stray shot at long range, showing where
they had dismounted and left their horses.

The pack train was hurried into a little
gully, out of sight, but I rode on, excitedly,
to the motionless troop. The lieutenant
was making a speech to them, in what I,
and no doubt they, thought a childish way,
and I caught the last two words of it " like
soldiers " and I smiled to myself. Then
I saw him wheel his horse slowly and face
in the direction of the hidden Apaches.

" Draw saber! " he cried, his voice rising
with excitement. " Forward, gallop march
charge! " And suiting the action to the
word he spurred his horse and galloped
on alone. Not a man had drawn saber.
Not a man had stirred.

" It s certain death, and no good to come
from it," said one.

" He s but a boy and unfit to command,"
said another.

" He s crazy," said a third, and there was
a confused murmur from the rest to the
same effect.

The orderly sergeant, big, burly, savage
looking, sat on his horse in front of the
right platoon, biting his lip and frowning.

Fifty yards away now, the boy lieutenant
was galloping on alone with his saber
raised over his head and never looking
back.

Then I heard an oath that made my heart
jump with joyous anticipation.

" Fool boy or no, he shall not go to his
death by himself." It was the orderly ser
geant who both spoke and swore. " The
man dies in his tracks who does not follow.
Draw saber gallop charge! " And away
they went, with a wild, shrieking cheer,
boot to boot and with sabers flashing in the
air cuirassiers of Napoleon charging an
English square, rather than American cav
alrymen driving redskins from their chosen
battle ground of rocks. I flung my hat in
the air and shouted at the glory of it. And
from the line on the right came an answer-

400

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ing cheer as the men tumbled out from
their rocks and charged on foot, taking
wise advantage of the diversion, and no
doubt soldierly joy in the unusual spectacle.

I saw men fall from their saddles and
riderless horses gallop away, snorting with
fear and pain. I also saw brown bodies
jump into the air and fall back limply.
There was a din of shouts and shots and a
varying curtain of dust and smoke, but I
saw the charge go through, saw the troop
what was left of it reform beyond and
charge back. Twice was this repeated, the
troop of the boy lieutenant growing ever
smaller, but the troops originally attacking
coming nearer and nearer. After the sec
ond charge the boy lieutenant disappeared,
and after the third the troop was led by the
second sergeant, with whom I could now
claim acquaintance. Then, with a despair
ing, angry yell, the Apaches broke and fled
in a dozen different directions.

That night I camped with the victors and
their prisoners. The foray of Cochise and
his dreaded Chiricahuas was at an end.
Long after taps had fallen from the brazen
lips of the bugle a hand was laid on my
shoulder as I was lying on my blanket, too
much excited to sleep.

" Did you see it? " queried the familiar
voice of my friend, the sergeant.

"All," I answered. " How is your boy
lieutenant? "

"Alive, thank God, and like to live to
be the pride of his regiment and the darling
of his troop. Think of it! This morning

we despised him, and tonight we would
charge into the infernals just to amuse him,
if he asked it. Oh, man dear, it was grand!
I am clean lifted out of my ordinary self.
And I am not the only one. You should
see old Black Jack Carpenter of ours. He
is the captain of one of those three compa
nies that were lined up over yonder. The
other two are troops of the Eleventh that
think themselves particular pumpkins and
have always made more or less fun of us.
Black Jack is walking on air. Says old
Billings to Black Jack (Billings is one of
the Eleventh s captains) : Why the devil
don t they send youngsters like that to our
regiment. We ve got nothing but fops
lately. Oh, the compliment of it! We re
the star regiment of horse now, I will have
you understand. We did with one troop,
led by a beardless boy, what three troops
led by experienced captains were failing to
do. Tis satisfaction enough for a lifetime.
But the point I wanted to make with you is
this: I was telling you some things on the
trail that I had better have left unsaid. We ll
not be thinking or feeling that way again,
and I wanted to ask you never to tell any
one the mean things that we did to that
brave boy. You won t, will you? "

Perhaps I promised. But the boy lieu
tenant is a field officer now and will not
care, and the men of the old troop are prob
ably dead or pensioned; and I have con
cluded to tell at last, because it seemed
worth telling. If I have done wrong I am
sure they will forgive me like soldiers, all.

REVOLT.

Is it for hearts to disobey ?

Down, you vagabond, down, I say !

I have work to do, I have watch to keep ;

There is naught for you but to lie and sleep.
I have chosen to work and to walk alone
Peace ! Have done with your senseless moan !

Why are you clamoring long and shrill,
Why do you leap when the road is still ?

Are there steps too distant for human ear,

Steps that only a heart can hear ?
Heed them not, for my will shall rule
Curse you, then, for a restless fool !

I have hidden that none might find the way
Down, you vagabond, down, I say !

Would you bring them around with your foolish whine ?

I have chosen the trail, and the trail is mine !
I must go alone but the path is steep
And the dark has visions I pray you, sleep !

Marian West.

DBWBY S INVINCIBLE SQUADRON.

The famous ships that have made May \ a notable date in our nation s history The battle in
Manila harbor, and why it was the cleverest naval engagement ever fought.

*~PHESE invincible boats have been pict
ured before ; til ey can not be pictured
too often. The}- are a part of our na
tional history now. That this little
squadron could steal into Manila harbor
and fight not only eleven war ships but
the shore fortifications as well, destroy
ing the entire Spanish squadron, killing
or wounding seven or eight hundred men,
and come out with hardly a scratch, under
terrific fire, as the}- were, is one of the
marvels of the world. And yet ten times
more marvelous is the fact that on these
boats of ours not a man was killed, and

only half a dozen or so slightly injured.
Meager though the news is at this writ
ing, enough is already known to warrant
the statement that this is the cleverest,
cleanest, neatest naval engagement of
history. There have been fiercer fights,
but none with so big a victory at so little
cost.

Rear Admiral Dewey seems to be a
modest, unassuming man, with a busi
ness head on his shoulders. He has
waited a long time for his opportunity.
When it came he was ready for it the
man for the hour.

THE RALEIGH. PROTECTED CKTISKR: 1H I1,T IX (089; SPEED 10 KNu lS; COST |I,IOO,OOO J

CARRIES TEN 5 INCH AND ONE 6 INCH RAPID FIRE GUNS, EIGHT 6 POUND RAPID

FIRE AND FOUR I POUND RAPID FIRE CANNON, TWO CATLINGS, AND

FOUR TORPEDO TUBES.
from a copyriglitcd photograph by J. S. Johnston, .AVrn York.

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404

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

PROTECTED CRUISER, SECOND RATE ; BUILT IN 1883 | SPEED 15.6 KNOTS ; COST
CARRIES SIX 6 INCH AND TWO 8 INCH BREECH LOADING RIFLES, TWO 6
POUND AND TWO 3 POUND RAPID FIRE, TWO I POUND RAPID FIRE CANNON,
TWO HOTCHKISS REVOLVING CANNON, AND TWO CATLINGS.

From a copyrighted photograph by J S. Johnston, New York.

THE CONCORD. GUNBOAT J BUILT IN l888 ; SPEED l6.8 KNOTS ; COST $49O,OOO J CARRIES SIX

6 INCH RIFLES, TWO 6 POUND AND TWO 3 POUND RAPID FIRE GUNS, TWO HOTCHKISS

REVOLVING CANNON, TWO CATLINGS, AND SIX TORPEDO TUBES.

From a copyrighted photograph by J. S. Johnston, Nnv York.

DEWEY S INVINCIBLE SQUADRON.

405

THE PETREL. GUNBOAT ; BUILT IN iSSj ; SPEED II. 7 KNOTS ; COST $247,OOO ; CARRIES FOUR 6

INCH BREECH LOADING RIFLES, ONE I POUND RAPID FIRE GUN, TWO HOTCHKISS

REVOLVING CANNON, AND TWO CATLINGS.

THE McCULLOCH. REVENUE CUTTER, PROPELLER CLASS, CARRYING FOUR GUNS. ATTACHED
TO ADMIRAL DEWEY S SQUADRON AS A DESPATCH BOAT.

WHEN GEORGE WAS KING.

AN ancient hallway, generous and square ;

A drowsy fire ghostly shadows throwing ;
An old clock ticking slowly on the stair,

As one who tells a story worth the knowing ;
And prone upon the bearskin, showing clear
In the red light, a sleeping cavalier.

His listless fingers closed about a book,

One red sleeved arm above his head reposing,
And on his rugged face the weary look

He wore, perchance, before his eyes were closing.
And one stands laughing eyed upon the stair,

Half merry, half confused, to find him there.

A maiden, rustling in her stiff brocade,

A girlish bud fast blooming into woman,
With the same face that Gainsborough oft made,

Coquettish, most divine, and wholly human,
Who watches the dark sleeper as he lies,
With something more than mischief in her eyes ;

And, step by step, comes down with bated breath,
With lips half curled and yet not wholly smiling,

And bends above him (as the old tale saith
Dian above Endymion bent beguiling)

And notes the gray streak in his dusky hair,

And wonders timidly what brought it there.

Then, as a sudden thought conies flashing red,

All guiltily, as though the whole world knew it,

She first inclines and then draws back her head,

Though the old clock ticks, " Do it, do it, do it ! "

And then, with hurried look, yet tender air,

She drops a tiny kiss upon his hair,

And shamefaced, flies as some Titania might ;

And still about the room the shades are creeping,
And the old clock looks down with steady sight

To where he lies, still motionless and sleeping,
And ticks with all the denseness of a poet
A secret, and I know it, know it, know it ! "

Then suddenl} 7 wide open flash his eyes,

And, on the shaggy bearskin quickly turning,

He glances round, half shamed, half laughing- wise,
And, seeing nothing but the great logs burning

And the old clock, he marks with stifled yawn

How many hours since he slept have gone ;

And, thinking, checks the smile upon his face ;

For in his dreams he vaguely can remember
He thought his mother from her heavenly place

Stooped down and kissed him, lovingly and tender,
And then, self mocking, brushes off a tear,
And strides away, this red coat cavalier.

Theodosia Pickering.

THE CASTLE INN.*

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Mr. "Weyman, whose "Gentleman of France " created a new school of
historical romance, has found in the England of George HI a field for a story
that is no less strong in action, and much stronger in its treatment of the
human drama of character and emotion, than his tales of French history.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

The villains had laid their plans well for abducting the girl. Taking her off her guard while
strolling some distance from the inn, they throw a huge cloak over her head and bundle her into
a waiting post chaise. The next moment the carriage is whirling rapidly away, and when she
succeeds in releasing her head from the folds of the cloak, and is about to scream for assistance,
a sudden horror conies over her, and she sits frozen, staring, motionless. On the seat beside her,
almost touching her, sits a man.

XXI (Continued). riage swayed and shook with the speed at

which it traveled. More than once she

HP HE carriage rumbled on. From her thought that the hand which rested on the

* corner Julia watched the man, her eyes seat beside him a fat white hand, hateful,

glittering with excitement, her breath com- dubious was moving, moving slowly and

ing quick and short, her mind made up: stealthily, toward her; and she waited shud-

if he moved nearer to her, if he stretched dering, a scream on her lips. The same ter-

out but his hanfl toward her, she would tear ror which a while before had frozen the cry

his face with her fingers. She sat with them in her throat now tried her in another way.

on her lap and felt them as steel to do her She longed to speak, to shriek, to stand up.

bidding. Would he never move? In reality to break the hideous silence, the spell that

not three minutes had elapsed since she bound her. Every moment the strain on

discovered him beside her; but it seemed nerves grew tenser, the fear that she should

to her that she had sat there an age watch- swoon more immediate, more appalling:

ing him, aye, three ages. The light was dim and still the man sat in his corner, motion-

and untrustworthy, stealing in through a less, peeping at her through his fingers,

crack here an-! a crevice there. The car- leering, and biding his time.

* Copyright, 189$, by Stanley J. M eynmn.

THE CASTLE INN.

411

It was horrible, and it seemed endless.
If she had had a weapon it would have been
better. But she had only her bare hands
and her despair; and she might swoon. At
last the carriage swerved sharply to one
side, and jolted over a stone; and the man
lurched nearer to her, and moaned.

Julia drew a deep breath and leaned for
ward, scarcely able to believe her ears. But
the man moaned again; and as if the shak
ing had roused him from a state of semi un
consciousness, sat up slowly in his corner;
she saw now, peering more closely at
him, that he had been strangely huddled
together before. At last he lowered his
hand from his face and opened his eyes.
It was her astonishment was immense it
was Mr. Thomasson!

Julia uttered a cry in her surprise. He
opened his eyes and looked languidly at her,
muttered something incoherent about his
head, and shut his eyes again, letting his
chin fall on his breast.

But the girl was in a mood only one degree
removed from frenzy. She leaned forward
and shook his arm. " Mr. Thomasson!"
she cried. " Mr. Thomasson!"

The name and the touch were more effec
tual. He opened his eyes and sat up with a
start of recognition feigned, she fancied.
On his temple just under the edge of his
wig, which was thrust awry, was a slight
cut. He felt it gingerly with his fingers,
glanced at them, and, finding them stained
with blood, shuddered. " I am afraid I
am hurt," he muttered.

His languor and her excitement wnt ill
together. She believed he was pretending;
she had a hundred ill defined, half formed
suspicions of him. Was it possible that he
he had dared to contrive this? Or was he
employed by others by another? " Who
hurt you? " she cried sharply, breathlessly.
At least, she was not afraid of him.

He pointed in the direction of the horses.
" They did," he said stupidly. " I saw it
from the lane, and ran to help you. The
man I seized struck me here. Then I
suppose they feared I should raise the coun
try on them. And they forced me in I
don t well remember how."

" And that is all you know?" she cried
imperiously.

His look convinced her. " Then help me
now!" she cried, rising impetuously to her
feet and steadying herself by setting one
hand against the back of the carriage.
"Shout! Scream! Threaten them! Don t
you see that every yard we are carried puts
us farther in their power? Shout, sir! "

" They will murder us!" he said faintly.
His cheeks were pale, his face wore a scared
look, and he trembled visibly.

"Let them!" she answered passionately,
beating on the nearest door. " Better that
than be in their power! Help! Help!
Help here!"

Her shrieks rose above the rumble of the
wheels and the steady hoof beats of the
horses; she aided them by kicking and beat
ing on the door with the fury of a mad
woman. Mr. Thomasson had had enough
of violence for that day, and shrank from
anything that might bring on him the fresh
wrath of his captors; but a moment s reflec
tion showed him that if he allowed himself
to be carried on he would sooner or later
find himself face to face with Mr. Dun-
borough than which he feared nothing
more and that in any case it was to his
interest now to stand by his companion;
and presently he, too, fell to shouting and
drumming on the panels. There was a
quaver in his " Help! Help!" that betrayed
the man; but in the shrill clamor which she
raised and continued to maintain obstinately,
it passed well enough.

" If we meet any one they must hear
us!" she gasped presently, pausing a mo
ment to take breath. " Which way are we
going?"

" Toward Calne, I think," he answered,
continuing to drum on the door in the inter
vals of speech. " In the street we must be
heard."

" Help! Help!" she screamed again, still
more recklessly. She was growing hoarse,
and the prospect terrified her. " Do you
hear? Stop, you villains! Help! Help!
Help!"

" Murder!" Mr. Thomasson shouted,
seconding her now with voice and fist.
" Murder! Murder!"

But in the last word, despite the valiant
determination to throw in his lot with her,
was a sudden, most audible quaver. The
carriage was beginning to draw up; and that
which he had imperiously demanded a mo
ment before he now as urgently dreaded.
Not so Julia; her natural courage had re
turned, and the moment the vehicle came to
a standstill and the door was dragged open,
she flung herself towards it. The next in
stant she recoiled, pushed forcibly back by
the muzzle of a huge horse pistol which a
man outside clapped to her breast, while the
glare of the bull s eye lanthorn which he
thrust in her face blinded her.

The villain uttered the most horrid im
precations. " You noisy slut," he growled,
shoving his face, hideous in its crape mask,
into the coach, and speaking in a voice
husky with liquor, " will you stop your
whining? or must I blow you to pieces
with my Toby? For you, you white livered
sneak, give me any more of your piping,

412

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

and I ll cut out your tongue! Who is hurt
ing you, I d like to know! And for you, my
fine lady, have a care of your skin, for if I
pull you out into the road it will be the
worse for you! D ye hear me?" he con
tinued, with a volley of savage oaths. " A
little more of your music, and I ll have you
out and strip the clothes off your back!
You don t hang me for nothing. Damn
you, we are three miles from anywhere, and
I ve a mind to gag you, whether or no! I
will, too, if you open your squeaker again!"

" Oh, let me go! " she cried faintly.
" Let me go."

" Oh, you will be let go fast enough the
other side of the water!" he answered, with
a villainous laugh. " I m bail to that. In
the mean time keep a still tongue, or it will
be the worse for you! Once out of Bristol,
and you may pipe as you like!"

The girl fell back in her corner with a low
wail of despair. The man laughed his tri
umph and in sheer brutality passed his light
once or twice across her face; then he closed
the door with a crash and mounted, the car
riage bounded forward, and in a trice was
traveling onward as rapidly as before.

Night had set in, and darkness a dark
ness that could almost be felt reigned in
the interior of the chaise. Neither of the
travelers could now see the other, though
they sat within arm s length. The tutor, as
soon as they were well off, and his nerves,
shaken by the man s threats, permitted him
to think of anything but his own safety, be
gan to wonder that his companion, who had
been so forward before, did not speak; to
look for her to speak, and to find the dark
ness and this silence, which left him to feed
on his fears, strangely uncomfortable. He
could almost believe that she was no longer
there. At length, unable to bear it longer,
he spoke:

" I suppose you know who is at the bot
tom of this?" he said abruptly he was
growing angry with the girl who had
brought him into this peril.

She did not answer, or, rather, she an
swered only by sudden weeping; not the
light, facile weeping of a woman crossed or
overfretted or frightened, but the convul
sive, heartrending sobs of utter grief and
abandonment.

The tutor heard, and was first astonished,
then alarmed. " My dear, good girl, don t
cry like that," he said awkwardly. " Don t!
I I don t understand it! You you
frighten me. You you really should not.
I only asked you if you knew whose work
this was."

" I know! I know!" she cried passion
ately. " Ah, I know only too well! God
help me! God help all women."

Mr. Thomasson wondered. Was she re
ferring to the future and her fate? If so,
her complete surrender to despair seemed
strange; seemed even inexplicable, in one
who a few minutes before had shown a
spirit above a woman s. Or did she know
something that he did not know? Some
thing that caused this sudden collapse. The
thought increased his uneasiness; for the
coward dreads everything, and his nerves
were shaken. " Pish!" he said pettishly.
" You should not give way like that! You
should not, you must not, give way!"

" And why not?" she cried, arresting her
sobs. There was a ring of expectation in
her voice, a hoping against hope. He
fancied that she had lowered her hands and
was peering at him.

" Because we we may yet contrive some
thing," he answered lamely. " We we
may be rescued. Indeed. I am sure we shall
be rescued," he continued, fighting his fears
as well as hers.

"And what if we are? " she cried, with a
passion that took him aback. " What if we
are? What better am I, if we are rescued?
Oh, I would have done anything for him!
I would have died for him! And he has
done this for me. I would have given him
all. all freely, for no return, if he would have
it so; and this is his requital! This is the
way he has gone to get it," she continued
wildly. "Oh, vile! Vile!"

Mr. Thomasson started. He understood
at last; he was no longer in the dark. She
fancied that Sir George, Sir George whom
she loved, was the contriver of this villainy!
She thought that Sir George was the
abductor and that she was being carried off,
not for her own sake, but as an obstacle to
be removed from his path. The conception
took the tutor s breath away; he was even
staggered for the moment, it agreed so well
with one part of the facts. And when, an
instant later, his own certain information
came to his aid and showed him its un
reality and he would have blurted out the
truth, he hesitated. The words were on the
tip of his tongue, the sentence was arranged
but he hesitated.

Why? Simply because he was Mr.
Thomasson; because it was not in his nature
to do the thing that lay straight before him
until he had considered whether it might not
profit him to do something else. In this
case the bare statement that Mr. Dunbor-
ough, and not Sir George, was the author
of the outrage, might weigh little with her.
If he proceeded to his reasons he might con
vince her, indeed: but he would also go far
to fix himself with a foreknowledge of the
danger a foreknowledge he had not im
parted to her, and that must sensibly de-

THE CASTLE INN.

tract from the merit of the service he had
already and undoubtedly performed.

This was a risk; and there was a further
consideration. Why give Mr. Dunborough
new ground of complaint by discovering
him? True, at Bristol she would learn the
truth. But if she did not reach Bristol?
If they were overtaken midway? In that
case the tutor saw possibilities if he kept
his mouth shut possibilities of profit at
Mr. Dunborough s hands.

In intervals between fits of alarm when
the carriage seemed to be going to halt he
turned these things over. He could hear
the girl weeping in her corner, quietly, but
in a heartbroken manner; and continually,
while he thought and she wept, and an im
penetrable curtain of darkness hid the one
from the other, the chaise held on its course
up hill and down hill, now bumping and
rattling behind flying horses, and now rum
bling and straining up Yatesbury downs.

At last, " What makes you think," he
said, " that it is Sir George? "

She did not answer or stop weeping for
a moment. Then, " He was to meet me at
sunset at the corner," she muttered. " Who
else knew that I should be there?"

" But if he is at the bottom of this, where
is he?" he hazarded. " If he would play the
villain with you "

" He would play the thief!" she cried pas
sionately. " Oh, it is vile, vile!"

" But I don t understand," Mr. Thomas-
son stammered; he was willing to hear all
he could.

" His fortune, his lands, all he has in the
world, are mine!" she cried. " Mine! And
he goes this way to recover them! But I
could forgive him that, I could forgive him
that, but not "

" But not what?"

" But not his love!" she cried fiercely.
"That I will never forgive him! Never!"

She spoke as she had wept, more freely
for the darkness. He fancied that she was
writhing on her seat, that she was tearing
her handkerchief with her hands. " But
it may not be he," he said, after a silence
broken only by the rumble of wheels and
the steady trampling of the horses.

"It is!"

" It may not "

" I say it is!" she repeated in a kind of
fury of rage, shame, and impatience. " Do
you think that I, I who loved him, I whom he
fooled to the -op of my pride, judge him too
harshly? I tell you if an angel had wit
nessed against him I would have laughed
the tale to scorn. But I have seen, I have
seen with my own eyes. The man who
came to that door and threatened us had
lost a joint of the forefinger. Yesterday I

saw that man with him; I saw the hand that
held the pistol today give him a note yester
day. I saw him read the note, and I saw
him point me out to the man who bore it
that he might know today whom he was to
seize! Oh, shame! Shame on him! " And
she burst into fresh weeping.

The chaise, which had been proceeding
for some time at a more sober pace, at this
moment swerved sharply to one side; it ap
peared to go round a corner, jolted over a
rough patch of ground, and came to a
stand.

XXII.

LET it not be forgotten, by those who would
judge her harshly, that to an impulsive and
passionate nature Julia added a special disad
vantage. She had been educated in a sphere
alien from that in which she now moved. A
girl bred up as Sir George s cousin and
among her equals would have known him
to be incapable of treachery as black as this.
Such a girl would have shut her eyes to the
most pregnant facts and the most cogent
inferences, and scorned all her senses, one
by one, rather than believe him guilty. She
would have felt, rightly or wrongly, that the
thing was impossible; and certified of his
love, not only by his words and looks, but
by her own self respect and pride, would
have believed everything in the world, yes,
everything, possible or impossible, yet never
that he had lied when he told her that he
loved her.

But Julia had been bred in a lower con
dition, not far removed from that of the
famous Pamela; among people who re
garded a macaroni or a man of fashion as a
wolf ever seeking to devour. To distrust a
gentleman and repel his advances had been
one of the first lessons instilled into her
opening mind; nor had she more than
emerged from childhood before she knew
that a laced coat forewent destruction, and
held the wearer of it a cozener, who in
ninety nine cases out of a hundred kept no
faith with a woman beneath him, but lived
only to break hearts and bring gray hairs to
the grave.

Out of this fixed belief she had been
jolted by the upheaval that placed her on a
level with Sir George. Persuaded that the
convention no longer applied to herself, she
had given the run to her fancy and her
romance,, no less than to her generosity; she
had indulged in delicious visions, and seen
them grow real; nor probably in all St.
James was there a happier woman than
Julia when she found herself possessed of
this lover of the prohibited class, who to the
charms and attractions, the niceness and re-

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finement, which she had been bred to con
sider beyond her reach, added a constancy
and devotion, the more delightful since he
believed her to be only what she seemed
as it lay in iier power to reward them amply.
Some \ omen would have swooned with joy
over such a conquest effected in such cir
cumstances. What wonder that Julia was
deaf to the warnings and surmises of Mr.
Fishwick, whom delay and magnitude of
the stakes rendered suspicious; as well as
to the misgivings of old Mrs. Masterson,
slow to grasp a fresh order of things? It
would have been strange had she listened to
either of them, when youth and wealth and
love all beckoned one way.

But now, now in the horror and darkness
of the post chaise, the lawyer s warnings and
the old woman s misgivings returned on her
with crushing weight; and more, and worse
than these, her old belief in the heartless-
ness, the perfidy, of the man of rank. Had
any one told her that a man of the class
with whom she had principally mixed could
so smile while he played the villain as to
deceive not only her eyes but her heart, she
would have laughed at him. But here, on
the mind that lay behind the smooth and
elegant mask of a gentleman s face, she had
no lights; or only the old lights which
showed it desperately wicked. But applied
to the circumstances, what a lurid glare they
shed on his behavior. How quickly, how
suspiciously quickly, had he succumbed to
her charms! How abruptly had his insou
ciance changed to devotion, his impertinence
to respect! How obtuse, how strangely
dull, had he been in the matter of her claims
and her identity! Finally, with what a
smiling visag had he lured her to her
doom, showed her to his tools, settled to a
nicety the least detail of the crime!

More weighty than any one fact, a thing
he had said to her on the staircase at Ox
ford came back to her mind. " If you were
a lady," he had flung at her in smiling in
solence, " I would kiss you and make you
my wife." In face of these words, she had
been rash enough to think that she could
bend him, ignorant that she was more than
she seemed, to her purpose! She had in
tended to quote those very words to him
when she surrendered the sweetest sur
render in the world. And all the time he
had been fooling her to the top of her
bent! He had known who she was, and
been plotting against her devilishly! Ap
pointing time and place, and and it was all
over.

It was all over. The sunny visions of joy
and love were done ! It was all over. When
the sharp, fierce pain of the knife had done
its worst, the consciousness of that re

mained; remained a dead weight on her
brain. When the paroxysm of weeping had
worn itself out, yet brought no relief to her
passionate nature, a kind of apathy super
vened. She cared nothing where she was
or what became of her; for the worst had
happened, the worst been suffered! To be
betrayed, cruelly, heartlessly, without scru
ple or care by those we love, is there a
sharper pain than this? She had suffered
that, she was suffering it still. What did
the rest matter?

Mr. Thomasson might have undeceived
her. But the sudden stoppage of the chaise
had left no place in the tutor s mind for any
thing but terror. At any moment the door
might be opened and he be hauled out to
meet the fury of his pupil s eye, and cower
under the smart of his brutal whip. It
needed no more than this to sharpen Mr.
Thomasson s long ears his eyes were use
less; but for a time, crouching in his corner
and scarce daring to breathe, he heard only
the confused muttering of several men talk
ing at a distance. Presently the speakers
came nearer, he caught the click of flint on
steel, and a bright gleam of light entered
the chaise through a crack in one of the
shutters. The men had lighted a lamp.

It was a slender shaft only that entered,
but it fell athwart the girl s face and showed
him her closed eyes. She lay back in her
corner, her cheeks colorless, an expression
of dull, dead, hopeless suffering stamped on
her features. She did not move or open her
eyes, and the tutor dared not speak lest his
words should be heard outside. But he
looked, having nothing to check him, and
looked; and in spite of his fears and his pre
occupation, the longer he looked the deeper
was the impression which her beauty made
on his senses.

At length he rose stealthily and applied
his eyes to the crack that admitted the light;
but he could distinguish nothing outside,
the lamp, -which was close to the window,
blinding him. He could hear no more of
the men s talk than muttered grumblings
plentifully bestrewn with curses; and won
der what was forward, and why they re
mained inactive, grew more and more upon
him. At times he caught the clink of a
bottle, and fancied that the men were sup
ping; but he knew nothing for certain, and
by and by the light was put out. A brief
and agonizing period of silence followed,
during which he thought he caught the not
distant tramp of horses; but he had heard
the same sound before, it might be the beat
ing of his heart now, and before he could
decide, oaths and exclamations broke the
silence, there was a sudden bustle; in less
than a minute the chaise lurched forward, a

THE CASTLE INN.

whip cracked, and they rumbled forward
again.

The tutor breathed more freely now, and,
rid of the fear of being overheard, regained
a little of his native unctuousness. " My
dear, good lady," he said, moving a trifle
nearer to her, and even making a timid
plunge for her hand, " you must not give
way! I beg that you will not give way!
Depend on me! Depend on me and all
will be well. I oh, dear, what a bump!
I " this as he retreated precipitately to his
corner " I fear we are stopping! "

They were, but only for an instant, that
the lamps might be lighted. Then the
chaise rolled on again, but from the way in
which it jolted and bounded, shaking its
passengers this way and that, it was evident
that it no longer kept the Bristol road.
The moment this became clear to Mr.
Thomasson, his courage vanished as sud
denly as it had appeared.

" Where are they taking us?" he cried
feverishly, rising and sitting down again,
and peering first this way and then the
other. "My. God, we are undone! I shall
be murdered, I know I shall! Oh! Oh,
what a jolt! They are taking us to some
cutthroat place! There, didn t you feel it?
Don t you understand? Oh, Lord, why
did I mix myself up with this trouble? "

She did not answer, and, enraged by her
silence and insensibility, the cowardly
tutor could have found it in his heart to
strike her. Fortunately the ray of light
which now penetrated the carriage sug
gested an idea which he hastened to carry
out. He had no paper, and if he had had
paper he had no ink; but falling back on
what he had, he lugged out his snuff box,
and penknife, and, holding the box in- the
ray of light and himself as still as the road
permitted, he set to work, laboriously and
with set teeth, to scrawl on the bottom of
the box the message of which we know. To
address it to Mr. Fishwick and sign it Julia
were natural precautions, since he knew that
the girl, and not he, would be the object of
pursuit. When he had finished his task,
which was no easy one, the road growing
worse and the carriage shaking more and
more, he went to thrust the box under the
door, which fitted ill at the bottom. But
stooping to remove the straw for the pur-
pose, he reflected that the road they were in
was a mere country lane or no better, where
the box would be ill to find; and in a voice
trembling with fear and impatience he called
to the girl to give him her black kerchief.

She did not ask him why or for what, but
complied without opening her eyes. No
words could have described her state more
eloquently.

He wrapped the box loosely in the ker
chief which he calculated would catch the
passing eye more easily and knotted the
ends together. But when he went to push
the package under the door, it proved too
bulky, and with an exclamation of rage he
untied it again, and made it up anew and
more tightly. At last he thought that he
had got it right, and he was stooping to
feel for the crack when the carriage, which
had been traveling more and more heavily
and slowly, came to a standstill, and in a
panic he sat up, dropping the box and
thrusting the straw over it with his foot.

He had scarcely done this when the door
was sharply opened, and the masked man
who had threatened them before thrust in
his head. " Come out!" he said curtly,
addressing the tutor, who was the nearer,
" and be sharp about it!"

But Mr. Thomasson s eyes sought in vain
the least sign of house or village. Beyond
the yellow glare cast by the lamp on the wet
road, he saw nothing but black darkness,
night, and the gloomy shapes of trees; and
he hung back. " No," he said, his voice
quavering with fear; " I I, my good man,
if you will promise

The man swore a frightful oath. " None
of your tongue!" he cried. " But out with
you, unless you want your throat cut. You
cursed, whining, psalm singing sniveler,
you don t know when you are well off! Out
with you!"

Mr. Thomasson waited for no more, but
stumbled out, shaking with fright.

"And you!" the ruffian continued, ad
dressing the girl, " unless you want to be
thrown out the same way you were thrown
in! The sooner I see your back, my sulky
madam, the better I shall be pleased. No
more meddling with petticoats for me!
This comes of working with fine gentle
men, say I!"

Julia was but half roused. " Am I to
get out?" she said dully.

"Aye, you are! By God, you are a cool
one!" the man continued, watching her in a
kind of admiration, as she rose and stepped
by him like one in a dream. " And a pretty
one, for all your temper! The master is
not here, but the man is; and if

"Stow it, you fool!" cried a voice from
the darkness. " And get aboard!"

"Who said anything else?" retorted the
ruffian but with a look that, had Julia been
more sensible of it, must have chilled her
blood. " Who said anything else? So
there you are, both of you, and none the
worse, I ll take my davy! Lash away, Tim!
Make the beggars fly!"

As he uttered the last words he sprang on
the wheel, and before the tutor could believe

416

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in his good fortune, or feel assured that
there was not some cruel deceit playing on
him, the carriage splashed and rattled away,
the lights were gone, and the two were left
standing side by side in the darkness. On
one hand a mass of trees rose high above
them, blotting out the gray sky; on the
other the faint outline of a low wall ap
peared to divide the lane in which they
stood from a flat, misty expanse over which
the night hung low.

It was a strange position, but neither of
the two felt this to the full; Mr. Thomasson
in his thankfulness that at any cost he had
eluded Mr. Dunborough s vengeance, Julia
because at that moment she cared not what
became of her. Naturally, however, Mr.
Thomasson, whose satisfaction knew no
drawback save that of their present con
dition, and who had to congratulate himself
on a risk safely run, and a good friend
gained, was the first to speak.

" My dear young lady," he said, in an
oily tone very different from that in which
he had called for her kerchief, " I vow I am
more thankful than I can say that I was able
to come to your assistance! I shudder to
think what those ruffians might not have
done had you been alone, and and unpro
tected! Now, I trust, all danger is over.
We have only to find a house in which we
can pass the night, and tomorrow we may
laugh at our troubles."

She turned her head slowly towards him.
" Laugh?" she said; and then a sob took
her in the throat.

He felt himself set back; then remembered
the delusion under which she lay and went
to dispel it pompously; but his evil angel
was at his shoulder, and again at the last
moment he hesitated. Something in the
utter despondency of the girl s pose, in the
hopelessness of her tone, in the intensity of
the grief that choked her utterance, com
bined with the remembrance of her beauty
and abandon in the coach to set his crafty
mind working in a new direction. He saw
that she was, for the time, utterly hopeless,
utterly heedless what became of herself.
That would not last; but his cunning told
him that with returning sensibility would
come pique, resentment, the desire to be
avenged. In such a case one man was
sometimes as good as another. It was im
possible to say what she might not be in
duced to do if" full advantage were taken of
a moment so exceptional. Fifty thousand
pounds! And her young, fresh beauty!
What a chance it was! The way lay far
from clear, the means were yet to find; but
faint heart never won fair lady, and Mr.
Thomasson had known things as strange
come to pass.

He was quick to choose his part. "Come,
child," he said somewhat sharply, assuming
a kind ol paternal authority. " At least, we
must find a roof. We cannot spend the
night here."

" No," she said; " I suppose not."

" So shall we go this way?"

" As you please," she answered, with the
same indifference.

But they had not moved far along the
miry road before she spoke again. " Do
you know," she asked drearily, " why they
set us down?"

" They may have thought that the pur
suit was gaining on them?"

" Pursuit?" she said, in a tone of gloomy
surprise. " Who would pursue us?"

" Mr. Fishwick," he suggested.

"Ah!" she said bitterly. "He might,
If I had listened to him! But but it is all
over now."

" I wish we could see a light," Mr.
Thomasson said anxiously, looking forward
into the darkness; " or a house of any kind,
I wonder where we are."

She did not speak.

I do not know even what time it is,"
he continued, somewhat pettishly; and he
shivered. "Take care!" She had stum
bled and nearly fallen. " Will you be
pleased to take my arm? We shall be able
to proceed more quickly. I am afraid that
your feet are wet."

Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not
answer.

" However, the ground is rising," he said,
" By and by, it will be drier underfoot."

They were an odd couple to be trudging
a strange road, in an unknown country, at
the dark hour of the night. The stars must
have" twinkled to see them. Mr. Thomas-
son owned the influence of solitude, and
longed to pat the hand she had passed
through his arm it was the sort of caress
that came natural to him; but for the time
discretion withheld him. He had another
temptation: to refer to the past, and to the
part he had taken at the inn, to the old past
at the college, to make some sort of apology;
but again discretion intervened, and he went
on in silence.

As he had said, the ground was rising;
but the outlook was cheerless enough, and
as far as appearances went they were
doomed to spend the night in the road,
when the moon on a sudden emerged from a
bank of cloud and disclosed the landscape.
Mr. Thomasson uttered a cry of relief,
Fifty paces before them the low wall on the
right of the lane was broken by a pillared
gateway, whence the dark thread of an
avenue, trending across the moonlit flat,
seemed to point the way to a house.

THE CASTLE INN,

417

The tutor pushed the gate open. " Diana
favors you, child," he said, with a confident
smirk, lost on Julia. " It was well she
emerged when she did, for now in a few
minutes we shall be safe under a roof.
Tis a gentleman s house, too, unless I mis
take."

A more timid or a more suspicious woman
might have refused to leave the road, or to
tempt the chances of the dark avenue, in his
company. But Julia, whose thoughts were
bitterly employed elsewhere, complied with
out thought or hesitation, perhaps uncon
sciously. The gate swung to behind them,
they plodded a hundred yards along the
avenue, arm in arm; then one, and then a
second, light twinkled out in front. These
as they approached were found to proceed
from two windows in the ground floor of
a large house. The travelers had not ad
vanced many paces farther before the peaks
of three great gables rose in front, vandyk-
ing the sky and cutting the last sparse
branches of the elms.

Mr. Thomasson s exclamation of relief, as
he surveyed the prospect, was cut short by
the sharp rattle of a chain, followed by the
roar of a watch dog; in a second a horrid
raving and baying, as of a score of hounds,
awoke the night. The startled tutor came
near to dropping his companion s hand in
his fright, but fortunately the threshold,
dimly pillared and doubtfully Palladian, was
near, and resisting the impulse to put him
self back to back with the girl for the pro
tection of his calves rather than her skirts
the reverend gentleman hurried to occupy
it. Once in that coign of refuge, he ham
mered on the door with all the energy of a
frightened man.

When his anxiety permitted him to pause,
a voice was heard within, cursing the dogs,
and roaring for Jarvey. A line of a hunting
song, bawled at the top of a musical voice,
and ending in a shrill View Halloa!" fol
lowed; then "To them, Beauties, to them!"
and a crash of an overturned chair. Again
the house echoed "Jarvey! Jarvey!" and
finally an elderly man servant, with his wig
set on one side, his waistcoat unbuttoned,
and his mouth twisted in a tipsy smile, con
fronted the visitors.

XXIII.

IN a hand wildly wavering, and strewing
tallow broadcast, he held a candle, the light
from which for a moment dazzled the visit
ors. Then the draft of air extinguished it,
and looking over his shoulder he was short
and squat Mr. Thomasson s anxious eyes
had a glimpse of a spacious hall, paneled
and furnished in oak, with here a blazon,

and there antlers or a stuffed head. At the
farther end of this hall a wide staircase
started up, and divided at the first landing
into two flights, that returning formed a
gallery round the apartment. Between the
door and the foot of this staircase, in the
warm glow of an unseen fire, was a small,
heavily carved oak table with Jacobean legs
like stuffed trunk hose. It was strewn with
cards, liquors, glasses, and a China punch
bowl but especially with cards, which lay
everywhere, not only on the table, but in
heaps and batches beneath and around it,
where the careless hands of the players had
flung them.

Yet, for all these cards, the players were
only two. One, a man something over
thirty, in a peach coat and black satin
breeches, sat on the edge of the table, his
eyes on the door, and his overturned chair
lying at his feet. It was his voice that
had shouted for Jarvey; and that now
saluted the arrivals with a boisterous " Two
to one in guineas, it s a catchpoll! D ye take
me, my lord?" the while he drummed mer
rily with his heels on a leg of the table.
His companion, an exhausted young man,
thin and pale, remained in his chair which
he had tilted on its hind feet and contented
himself with staring at the doorway.

The latter was our old friend, Lord Al-
meric Doyley; but neither he nor Mr.
Thomasson recognized the other until the
tutor had advanced some paces into the
room. Then as the gentleman in the peach
coat cried, " Curse me, if it isn t a par
son! The bet s off! Off! " Lord Almeric
dropped his hand of cards on the table, and,
opening his mouth, gasped in a paroxysm of
dismay.

" Oh, Lord! " he exclaimed at last.
" Hold me, some one! If it is not Tommy!
Oh, I say," he continued, rising and speak
ing in a tone of querulous remonstrance,
"you have not come to tell me the old man s
gone? And I d backed him against old Bed
ford to live to to but it s like him, and
monstrous unfeeling. I vow and protest it
is! Eh? it is not that? Hal-loa!"

He paused on the word, his astonishment
even greater than that he had felt on recog
nizing the tutor. His eyes had fallen on
Julia, whose figure was now visible on the
threshold.

His companion did not notice this.
" Gad! It is old Thomasson!" he cried,
recognizing the tutor; for he, too, had been
at Pembroke. "And a petticoat! And a
petticoat!" he repeated. " Well, I am
spun!"

The tutor raised his hands in astonish
ment; the surprise was not all on their side.
"Lord!" he said, with an indifferent show

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of enthusiasm, " do I really see my old
friend and pupil, Mr. Pomeroy, of Bast-
wick?"

" Who put the cat in your valise? When
you got to London kittens? You do,
Tommy."

" I thought so! I was sure of it! I
never forget a face when my my heart
has once gone out to it," Air. Thomasson
answered effusively. " And you, my dear,
my very dear Lord Almeric, there is no
danger I shall ever "

" But crib me, Tommy," shrieked Lord
Almeric, cutting him short without cere
mony, " it s the little Masterson!"

" You old fox!" Mr. Pomeroy chimed in,
shaking his finger at the tutor with leering
solemnity he, belonging to an older gener
ation at the college, did not know her.
Then, " The little Masterson, is it?" he con
tinued, advancing towards the girl and
saluting her with mock ceremony. "Among
friends, I suppose? Well, my dear, for the
future be pleased to count me among them.
Welcome to my poor house! And here s
to bettering your taste, for fie, my love, old
men are naughty. Have naught to do with
them!" And he laughed wickedly; he was
a tall, heavy man, with a hard, bullying,
sneering face; a Dunborough grown older.

" Hush, my good sir, hush!" Mr. Thomas-
son cried anxiously, after making more than
one futile effort to stop him. Between his
respect for his companion and the deference
in which he held a lord, the tutor was in an
agony. " My good sir, my dear Lord Al
meric, you are in error," he continued
strenuously. " You mistake, I assure you,
you mistake "

" Do we, by Gad?" cried Mr. Pomeroy
winking at Julia. " W r ell, you and I, my
dear, don t, do we? We understand each
other very well."

The girl only answered by a look of con
tempt. But Mr. Thomasson was in despair.
" You do not, indeed!" he cried, almost
wringing his hands. " This lady has lately
come into a a fortune, and tonight was
carried off by some villains from the Castle
Inn at Marlborough in a in a post chaise.
I was fortunately on the spot to give her
such protection as I could, but the villains
overpowered me, and to prevent my giving
the alarm, as I take it, bundled me into the
chaise with her."

" Oh, come!" said Mr. Pomeroy, grinning.
" You don t expect us to swallow that?"

" It is true as I live," the tutor protested;
" every word of it."

" Then how came you here?"

" Not far from your gate, for no rhyme or
reason that I can understand, they turned
us out, and made off."

"Honest Abraham?" asked Lord Almeric,
who had listened open mouthed.

" Every word of it," the tutor answered.

" Then, my dear, if you have a fortune, sit
down!" cried Mr. Pomeroy waggishly; and
seizing a chair he handed it with exagger
ated gallantry to Julia, who still remained
near the door, frowning darkly at the trio;
neither ashamed nor abashed, but simply
and coldly contemptuous. " Make yourself
at home, my pretty," he continued reck
lessly, " for if you have a fortune, it is the
only one in this house, and a monstrous un
common thing. Is it not, my lord?"

" Lord! I vow it is! " the other drawled;
and then taking advantage of the moment
when Julia s attention was engaged else
where she dumbly refused to sit " Where
is Dunborough?" my lord muttered.

Heaven knows!" Mr. Thomasson whis
pered, with a wink that postponed inquiry.
" What is more to the purpose, my lord,"
he continued aloud, " if I may venture to
suggest it to your lordship and Mr. Pom
eroy, is that Miss Masterson has been much
distressed and fatigued this evening. If
there is a respectable elderly woman in the
house, therefore, to whose care you could
intrust her for the night, it would be well."

" There is old Mother Olney, who locked
herself up an hour ago, for fear of us young
bloods," Mr. Pomeroy answered, assenting
with a readier grace than the tutor expected.
" She should be old and ugly enough! Here,
you, Jarvey, go and bid her come down."

" Better still, if I may suggest it," said the
tutor, who was above all things anxious to
be rid of the girl before too much came out,
" might not your servant take her above
stairs to this good woman, who will doubt
less see to her comfort and refreshment?
Miss Masterson has gone through some
surprising adventures this evening, and I
think if you would allow her to withdraw at
once, Mr. Pomeroy, it would be better."

"Jarvey, take the lady!" cried Mr. Pom
eroy. " A sweet, pretty toad she is! Here s
to your eyes and fortune, child!" he continued
impudently, filling his glass and pledging
her as she passed. After that he stood
watching while Mr. Thomasson opened the
door and bowed her out; and this done and
the door closed after her, " Lord, what cere
mony!" he said, with an ugly sneer. " Is t
real, man, or are you biting her? And what
is this Cock Lane story of a chaise and the
rest? Out with it, unless you want to be
tossed in a blanket."

" True, upon my honor!" Mr. Thomas-
son asseverated.

" Oh, but, Tommy, the fortune? " Lord
Almeric protested. "I vow you are sharp
ing us."

THE CASTLE INN.

419

" True, too, my lord, as I hope to be
saved! "

" Eh? Oh, but it is too monstrous
absurd!" my lord wailed. The little Mas-
terson? As pretty a little tit as was to be
found in all Oxford!"

" She has eyes and a shape," Mr. Pom-
eroy admitted generously. " And what is
the figure, Mr. Thomasson?" he continued.
" There are fortunes and fortunes."

Mr. Thomasson looked at the gallery
above, and thence and slyly to his com
panions, and back again to the gallery; and
swallowed something that rose in his throat.
At length he seemed to make up his mind
to speak the truth, though when he did so
it was in a voice little above a whisper.
" Fifty thousand," he said; and looked
guiltily round him.

Lord Almeric rose up as if on springs.
" Oh, I protest! " he said. " You are roast
ing us! Fifty thousand! It s a bite!"

But Mr. Thomasson nodded. " Fifty
thousand," he repeated softly.

"Pounds?" gasped my lord. "The little
Masterson?"

The tutor nodded again; and without ask
ing leave, with a dogged air singularly un
like his ordinary bearing when he was in
the company of those above him, he drew
a decanter towards him and filling a glass
with a shaking hand raised it to his lips and
emptied it. The three were all on their feet
round the table, on which some candles
luridly lighting up their countenances
still burned; while other candles had flick
ered down, and smoked in the guttering
sockets, among the empty bottles, and the
litter of cards. In one corner of the table
the lees of wine had run upon the oak and
dripped over to the floor, and formed a pool,
in which a broken glass lay in fragments
beside the overturned chair. An observant
eye might have found on the panels below
the gallery the vacant nails whence Lelys
and Knellers, Cuyps and Hondekoeters,
had looked down on two generations of
Pomeroys. But apart from this, the dis
order of the scene centered in the small
table and the three men standing round it;
a lighted group, islanded in the middle of
the shadows of the stately hall.

Mr. Pomeroy waited with some impa
tience until Mr. Thomasson lowered his
glass. Then, " Let us have the story," he
said coolly. " A guinea to an orange the
fool is nicking us."

The tutor shook his head and turned to
Lord Almeric. " You know Sir George
Soane," he said. " Well, my lord, she is his
cousin."

" Oh, tally, tally!" my lord cried feebly.
" \ ou you are romancing. Tommy!"

" And under the will of Sir George s
grandfather, she takes fifty thousand pounds,
if she makes good her claim within a cer
tain time from today."

" Oh, I say, you are romancing!" my lord
repeated, still more feebly. " You know,
you really should not! It is too uncom
mon absurd, Tommy."

" It s true!" said Mr. Thomasson.

"What? That this porter s wench at
Pembroke has fifty thousand pounds?" cried
Mr. Pomeroy. " She is the porter s wench,
isn t she?" he continued abruptly. Some
thing had sobered him. His eyes shone and
the veins stood out on his forehead, but his
manner was concise and harsh and to the
point.

Mr. Thomasson glanced askance at him,
stealthily, as one gamester scrutinizes an
other over the cards. " She is Masterson
the porter s foster child," he said guardedly.

" But is it certain she has the money?" the
other cried rudely. " Is it true, man? How
do you know? Is it public property? "

" No," Mr. Thomasson answered, rock
ing himself slowly to and fro by the pur
chase of his hands on the table; " it is not
public property. But it is certain, and it is
true! " Then, after a moment s hesitation,
" I saw some papers by accident," he said,
his eyes on the gallery-

" Oh, damn your accident!" Mr. Pomeroy
cried brutally. " You are very fine tonight.
You were not used to be a Methodist!
Hang it, man, we know you! " he continued
violently, "and this is not all! This does
not bring you and the girl tramping the
country, knocking at doors at midnight with
Cock Lane stories of chaises and abduc
tions. Come to it, man, or "

" Oh, I say!" Lord Almeric protested
feebly, " Tommy is an honest man in his
way, and you are too stiff with him. He

" Curse him, let him come to the point,
then! " Mr. Pomeroy retorted savagely.
" Is she in the way to get the money? "

" She is," said the tutor sullenly.

" Then what brings her here with you,
of all people? "

" I will tell you if you will give me time,
Mr. Pomeroy," the tutor said plaintively.
And with that he proceeded to describe in
some detail all that had happened, from the
fans et origo mail Mr. Dunborough s pas
sion for the girl to the stay at the Castle
Hotel, the abduction at Manton Corner, the
strange night journey in the chaise, and the
stranger release.

When he had done, " Sir George was the
girl s fancy, then?" Pomeroy said, in the
harsh, overbearing tone he had lately
adopted.

420

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

The tutor nodded.

" And she thinks he has tricked her?"

" But for that and the humor she is in,"
Mr. Thomasson answered, with a subtle
glance at the other, " you and I might talk
here till doomsday and be none the better,
Mr. Pomeroy."

His frankness provoked Mr. Pomeroy to
greater frankness. " Consume your imper
tinence! " he cried furiously. " Speak for
yourself."

" She is not that kind of woman," said
Mr. Thomasson firmly.

" Kind of woman?" cried Mr. Pomeroy.
" I am that kind of man oh, curse you,
if you want plain speaking you shall have it!
She has fifty thousand, and she is in my
house, and I am not the kind of man to let
that money go out of the hojise without hav
ing a fling at it! It is the devil s luck has
sent her here, and it will be my folly will
send her away if she goes. Which she
does not if I am the kind of man I think I
am! "

" You don t know her," said Mr. Thomas-
son doggedly. " Mr. Dunborough is a gen
tleman of metal, and he could not bend her."

" She was not in his house!" the other re
torted, with a grim laugh. Then in a lower,
if not more amicable tone, " Look here,
man," he continued, " d ye mean to say that
you had not something of this kind in your
mind when you knocked at this door? "

" I?" said Mr. Thomasson, virtuously in
dignant.

" Aye, you! Do you mean to say you did
not see that here was a chance in a hundred?
In a thousand? Aye, in a million? Fifty
thousand pounds is not found in the road
any day."

Mr. Thomasson grinned in a sickly fashion.
" I know that," he said.

" Well, what is your idea? What do you
want?"

The tutor did not answer immediately,
but after stealing one or two furtive glances
at Lord Almeric, looked down at the table.
At length, when Mr. Pomeroy s patience
was nearly exhausted, he looked up, a nerv
ous smile distorting his mouth. " I I want
her," he said; and passed his tongue guiltily
over his lips, as he looked down again at
the table.

" Oh, Lord!" said Mr. Pomeroy, in a voice
of intense disgust.

But the ice broken, Mr. Thomasson had
more to say for himself. "Why not?" he
said plaintively. " I brought her here
with all submission. I know her, and and
am a friend of hers. If she is fair game for
any one, she is fair game for me. I have
run a risk for her," he continued pathetic
ally, and touched his brow, where the slight

cut he had received in the struggle with
Dunborough s men showed below the
border of his wig, " and and for that mat
ter, Mr. Pomeroy is not the only man who
has bailiffs to avoid."

" Stuff me, Tommy, if I am not of your
opinion!" cried Lord Almeric, suddenly
striking the table with energy.

" What?" Pomeroy cried, turning to him
in surprise as great as his disgust. " What?
You would give the girl and her money
fifty thousand to this old hunks?"

"I? Not I! I would have her myself!"
his lordship answered stoutly. " Come,
Pomeroy, you have won three hundred of
me, and if I am not to take a hand at this I
shall think it monstrous low! Monstrous
low I shall think it!" he repeated, in the tone
of an injured person. " You know, Pom, I
want money as well as another, want it
devilish bad "

" You have not been a Sabbatarian, as I
was for two months last year," Mr. Pom
eroy retorted, somewhat cooled by this
wholesale rising among his allies, " and
walked out Sundays only, for fear of the
catchpolls."

" No, but "

" But / am not now either is that it?
Why, d ye think, because I pouched six
hundred of Flitney s, and three of yours,
and set the mare going again, it will last
forever?"

" No, but fair s fair, and if I am not in
this it is low! It is low, Pom," Lord Al
meric continued, sticking to his point with
abnormal spirit. " And here is Tommy will
tell you the same. You have had three hun
dred of me "

"At cards, dear lad, at cards," Mr. Pom
eroy answered easily. " But this is not
cards. Besides," he continued, shrugging
his shoulders and pouncing on the argu
ment, "we cannot all marry the girl!"

" I don t know," said my lord, passing his
fingers grandly through his wig. " I I
don t commit myself to that."

" Well, at any rate, we cannot all have the
money!" Pomeroy replied, with sufficient
impatience.

" But we can all try! Can t we, Tommy?"

Mr. Thomasson s face, when the question
was put to him in that form, was a curious
study. Mr. Pomeroy had spoken aright
when he called it a chance in a hundred, in
a thousand, in a million. It was a chance,
at any rate, that was not likely to come in
Mr. Thomasson s way again. True, he ap
preciated far more correctly than the other
the obstacles in the way of success, the girl s
strong will and wayward temper; but he
knew also the strange humor which had
now taken hold of her, and how probable it

GRATITUDE. 421

was that it might lead her to strange abduction in the first instance. Without

lengths if the right man spoke at the right Mr. Pomeroy, therefore, the master of the

moment. house and the strongest spirit of the

The very fact that Mr. Pomeroy had seen three

the chance on the instant and gauged the He got no further, for at this juncture
possibilities gave them a more solid aspect LordAlmeric repeated his question; and the
and a greater reality in the tutor s mind, tutor, meeting Pomeroy s bullying eye,
Each moment that passed left him less will- found it necessary to say something. " Cer-
ing to resign pretensions which were no tainly," he blurted out, in pure nervous-
longer the shadowy, half formed creatures ness, " we can all try, my lord. Why not?"
of the brain, but had acquired the aspect of " Aye, why not?" said Lord Almeric.
solid claims claims made by his skill and " Why not try?"
exertion. "Try? But how are you going to try?"

But if he defied Mr. Pomeroy. how would Mr. Pomeroy responded, with a jeering

he stand? The girl s position in this soli- laugh. " I tell you, we cannot all marry

tary house, apart from her friends, was half her, and "

the battle; for the other half he depended " I vow and protest I have it!" Lord Al-

on pique and her apathy. But her position meric exclaimed, with a chuckle. " We ll

here was the main factor; in a sneaking way, play for her! Don t you see, Pom? We ll

though he shrank from facing the fact, he cut for her! Ha, ha! That is surprising

knew that she was at their mercy; as much clever of me, don t you think? We ll play

at their mercy as if they had planned the for her!"

(To be continued. )

GRATITUDE.

WITHIN the land of vexing cares

Thej- lived and suffered, yearned and died.

Sometimes at low ebb of the tide
They came upon it unawares

That path of wet sand leading far
To where it met the happy isle,
Which beckoned with alluring smile ;

But no one dared to cross the bar.
And there was one who loved the rest ;

He longed to see them reach the goal

They wept for heart and brain and soul
He gave ungrudging to the quest

Of a safe pathway for their feet ;

He strove and labored, and at last

He built a bridge so stanch and fast
They joyed to see it there complete.

He stood aside to let them go
And bade them Godspeed on their way,
Thinking that he himself would stay

Until none else was left, and so
He waited till the light grew dim,

The bridge was dark, the night was cold,

His feeble limbs were stiff and old,
And no one cared or thought of him.

He slipped and fell they were afraid
To save him, so they let him die,
And said, " He had no right to try

To cross our bridge the bridge we made."

Grace H. Boutelle.

RICKSHAW COOLIE No. 72.

BY R. CLYDE FORD.

/How the pagan Teng Po underwent voluntary slavery for the sake of the
man who had befriended him A tale of the far east.

THE reservoir at Kolam Ayer lay like a
piece of burnished silver in the twi
light. A slight ripple creased its surface,
but the breeze was light and came in gasps
like the disturbed breathing of some sleep
er. Across the water a bank of forest
loomed up dimly, and out of its shadows
could be heard the screeching of monkeys
and the strident call of night birds; and
down where the pipe left the embankment a
little stream trickled off into the gloom.

Ever since sunset a man had sat on the
stonework that faced the Kolam and
drummed his heels. Seen from the rest
house he might easily have passed for some
spooking hantu, for his silhouette rested
like a gray blotch above the wall and was
projected back in ungainly shape upon the
jungle behind. From time to time, when
he moved his head or his arms, the shape
wobbled in uncanny fashion, and mysteri
ous sounds came across to the shore; but it
was only the man talking to himself.

" And so it s five years last week since
you came, is it? Dan Smith, you ve been a
fool!"

The man was evidently arraigning himself
in the solitude there, but at first no answer
came. Instead, a frog croaked contentedly
in the lowlands where the stream gurgled,
and the monkeys chattered on noisily.

" Where is that two hundred pounds you
brought to the Straits, Dan Smith? "

This time the man on the wall answered
his own blunt question.

" Gone in Jelebu mining stock."

" And what do you do with your wages
as fast as you can earn them? "

The reply came promptly: "Spend em.

" And how much do you owe that money
lender, Kushdoo Rhoosab? "

" Five hundred dollars."

The self examination ceased here, and the
man buried his face in his hands. He sat
motionless and pensive so long that a
monkey ventured out along the wall toward
him, and when he looked up the little beast
was trying on his cork helmet.

" You look like Kushdoo Rhoosab when

he demands his interest," he muttered aloud
at which the animal gave a chatter and
scampered away.

The twilight turned to leaden darkness,
and the man still sat on the embankment.
His thoughts were torturing him, and at
last he spoke them out wildly and vehe
mently:

" Oh, what a fool! I came out here five
years ago with a thousand dollars in gold,
and good prospects. I ve spent my money
in speculation, my salary, big as it is, can
not keep me, and I owe that chcttie, Rhoosab,
five hundred dollars; and when I m behind
with my monthly three per cent interest he
turns up his hands and looks toward heaven
and says, Very well, Tuan; I see the firm.
And so it s debt, debt, debt, and such nights
as this such nights as this! "

The man reached his hand into his pocket
and drew out a letter, which he fumbled in
his fingers. It was too dark to read it,
but he knew the contents by heart. " Poor
mother! " he said, with a sigh, " she thinks
I m doing well."
DEAR DAN :

Your last letter has gone to pieces from fre
quent reading. It s a long while since you have
written; but I suppose you are very busy out
there. One must attend to business first, I
know

The man laughed a hoarse laugh that had
no mirth in it. " She thinks I m indispen
sable to the firm," he commented, then he
grew moody again and crumpled the letter
in his fingers.

Things have not been going very well at home.
Arabella ought to have some new gowns, but
with your father s sickness and the doctor to pay,
there s no money. Tom will have to leave school
soon, I m afraid. If you could send us a hun
dred pounds of that we fitted you out with when
you went to the Straits, it would relieve us
nicely. Of course, Danny, we never thought
that we would ask you for it when you went
away; but, as I have said, we have not got along
very well at home.

This was the part of the letter that had
plunged Dan Smith into despair. What he

RICKSHAW COOLIE NO. 72.

423

owed the chettie could be settled some way,
and his other debts were no worse than they
had been for two or three years past; but to
raise any more money that was plainly an
impossibility. And so he sat on the wall at
Kolam Ayer in the dark and nursed his
misery.

" No more fun for me till I see one hun
dred pounds started for England on the P. &
O. Mail," he muttered between his teeth.

He arose and walked along the wall to
the foot path that led down from the bunga
low to the big road to the city. As he
strode along dejectedly in the dark, the
smell of gardens through the hedges came
to him and brought tears to his eyes.
Makes me think of spring at home," he
thought, " and the hawthorn in blossom.
But I wonder where they obtained that two
hundred pounds for me when I came out
here? They must have pinched hard some
where."

He had reached the main road, which lay
a little beyond the Kolam. Usually he
looked around for a rickshaw here, but to
night, though he saw the gleam of a lamp
down the road, he gave no call. " Might as
well begin to save now," he said to himself.
" I ll walk."

At the corner he passed under the gas
lamp near the rickshaw stand, and a coolie
came toward him, pulling his vehicle with a
clatter. " Here I am, Tuan," he said, as he
swung the vehicle around.

"What! You here, Teng Po?" said
Smith, in surprise. " You won t get any
fares out here."

I ve been waiting for you," the coolie
answered timidly. "Ah Beng said he pulled
you out here "

" You are a pagan," Smith interrupted.
" But all right, I ll ride; mind, you ve got
to take pay for it, though."

The Chinaman grinned as he answered in
a proverb of the Straits: "A man does not
take toll of his brother."

Teng Po s devotion to Dan Smith was the
most remarkable thing in the latter s life,
and Smith knew it, though he laughed at it
when among his cronies. It had begun
two years before, when Smith was returning
one night on foot from a shooting excur
sion. A couple of miles out of town he had
met a rickshaw. The coolie was young and
jolly, and spoke Malay with a fluency that
would have been astonishing in a Baba
Chinaman, to say nothing of a coolie. He
was interesting, and the young Englishman
was entertained ; before they reached
Smith s quarters they were chatting away
like old acquaintances. As Smith paid his
fare he noticed the coolie s number. " 72."

During the next few days Smith had oc

casion to hire No. 72 several times, then
the man suddenly disappeared. Upon in
quiry he learned that he was sick in a coolie
boarding house near High Street, so he
dropped around to take a look at him. He
found the place to be a rambling old build
ing in a dirty alley, with every room filled
with men, smoking, gambling, or sleeping.
The man he was looking for was lying on a
mat in a dark, foul corner of an overcrowded
room. The noise around was maddening,
and the air pestilential; no wonder the
Coolie was thin and delirious with fever.
Smith s curiosity was speedily changed to
pity, and before night rickshaw coolie 72
was lying in an empty room at Dan Smith s
bungalow with an English doctor attend
ing him. This was the reason why Teng Po
had become Dan Smith s shadow.

On the way back from the Kolam, Smith
got out of the rickshaw at the foot of Bukit
Besar to walk up. It was a hill of consider
able height and a hard pull for a coolie. As
he walked along in the dim light of the lan
terns the contrast between him and the
Chinaman was striking. He was tall, slim,
jaunty, and dressed in natty duck; the coolie
was not tall, but heavily built, and clad only
in baggy trousers. His broad yellow back
between the shafts of the rickshaw was cor
rugated with muscles, and his towdiang,
coiled about his head under the wide plaited
hat, left his heavy neck bare.

" Teng Po," said the Englishman, laying
his white hand over the coolie s brown one,
" I m about in the last ditch."

The Chinaman said nothing, for he did
not understand what the other meant.

" I m one of your foreign devils who
has made it badly out here. I don t know
what I m going to do."

" Money? " asked Teng Po bluntly.

" Yes, money," said Smith, looking away
into the dark wall of mangosteen trees that
lined the roadside. And then, impelled by
a longing to unburden his heart of its load
and pour out his troubles to some sympa
thetic ear, though he knew no help could
come from it, he told Teng Po everything.
The speculation in Jelebu mining stock the
Chinaman easily understood, and the wast
ing grip of the Hindoo money lender was no
new experience to him; but when Smith
spoke of England and the beautiful old
house at the end of the lane, and the haw
thorn hedge in blossom, the coolie no lon
ger saw the picture.

And then Smith told also how his old
father and mother had saved for the chil
dren, how he had left home with two hun
dred pounds which he had squandered
how Tom must leave school soon, and Ara
bella become a broken spirited wife in some

4 2 4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

obscure country home. But here again
Teng Po failed to understand, though he
saw from the fervor and emotion of his
friend that the case was desperate.

During the next few weeks Smith
writhed under his load. He grew thin and
hollow eyed from worry and despair. There
seemed no relief either for him or for the
folks at home. With close economy he
might hope to pay the chettie in a year or so,
but to raise a hundred pounds now as well
try to borrow a million!

So harassed was he that he no longer
noticed that Teng Po did not wait for him
at night or come for him in the morning;
there were always enough rickshaws around.
But one night as he sat on the veranda of
his bungalow, moody and tired, he sud
denly recollected the fact. " The poor beg
gar has forsaken me like the others," he
said aloud. Half an hour later the servant
appeared and announced that an old China
man was waiting below and asking for him.

" Let him come up here," Smith rejoined
petulantly.

The attendant withdrew like a shadow,
and soon afterward an old man crept up the
stairs.

" Tabeh Tuan! " he said humbly.

Smith stared at him, and the man seemed
to grow more and more abject under his
gaze. He was old, very old, and little, and
dressed like a coolie. His hands were long
and horny, and he wore sandals instead of
shoes. He came forward slowly, and held
out a package. " From Teng Po," he said.

" From Teng Po! " speculated Smith, in
surprise, taking the parcel.

He unwrapped it slowly, while the old
man watched him eagerly. At the last turn
of the paper Smith jumped from the chair.
He held a roll of bank notes in his hand.
He turned them back with his fingers and
counted them mechanically six hundred
dollars in good Straits. money. He glanced
at the old man helplessly. " I don t under
stand," he gasped.

" From Teng Po," repeated the old man,
with shining eyes; then, as the other said
nothing, he continued:

" For twelve years I have been bound to
a rich towkay in Pahang for debt. Teng
Po has worked all this time to save money
to release me, for I am his father. Last
year he sent word, One year more and I
have money enough! Ten days ago he
came to me in Pahang and said: I have
money enough, but I must help my friend.
My heart sank at that, for I am an old man,
and time has been long in Pahang; but
Teng Po said: I take your place. I am
strong. You go back and give this to my
friend. I said, I am an old man and will

not last long; let me work en. But Teng
Po went to the towkay and made out a paper,
and I have come with the money."

The old man paused, dismayed at his own
loquacity. Smith stood as if turned to
stone. Finally he spoke: " Do you sup
pose I ll let him go into slavery for me? "

" Teng Po said you would refuse," an
swered the old man, " but he made me
promise to leave the money never to touch
it again after giving it into your hands. I
shall do so, Tuan; I am an old man, but I
have promised; " and before Smith could
stop him he was gone.

That was a trying night to Dan Smith.
He was writing a letter home, but not till
daylight did he bring himself to add this
postscript:

I send draft for a hundred pounds. A friend
advanced it to me.

The next morning, on his way to the go-
down, a messenger in the livery of a down
town firm met him and handed him a chit.
He opened it carelessly and read:
DAN. SMITH, ESQ. :

Dear Sir I have the honor to inform you that
Jelebu mining- stock is worth today 150^.

Very truly,
JOHN W. CONELLY, Sec y.

Jelebu Development Company, limited.

Smith gave a yell of joy, and hugged the
messenger in his exuberance of feeling.
Then he called a rickshaw and tore off to
town like mad. The tide had turned at last.
That night he called upon Kushdoo Rhoo-
sab, the money lender, whom he found sit
ting tailor fashion on a raised seat in his
dingy office.

" I ve come to settle," said Smith.

" So soon? " asked the chettie, startled. It
was very unwelcome news, for in spite of all
his threats, he knew Smith was his best pay
ing victim.

" Take that, will you! " As he spoke the
caller threw a bag holding a hundred Mexi
can dollars very near the Hindoo s head,
and the fusillade continued until four more
bags had plumped against the wall or his
flabby ribs.

" Did you ever see money paid in so rap
idly? " Smith asked sardonically. " Give
me my note now; " and he left the shop,
tearing up the ugly paper.

" Great Krishna! " stammered the money
lender to himself. "And such are the men
who rule this land."

From Kushdoo Rhoosab s, Smith hurried
to the cable office and wired the British
Resident in Pahang as follows:

Six hundred dollars sent to release a China
man held for debt by rich towkay at Serapi. The
man s name Teng Po. He is a prince.

OUR FLYING SQUADRON.

The Brooklyn, the Massachusetts, the Texas, the Minneapolis, and the Columbia as they

appeared when stripped for battle and in their war paint Commodore Schley s

formidable fleet that composed the Flying Squadron.

THE MINNEAPOLIS. PROTECTED CRUISER ; BUILT IX 189! ; 2O,S62 HORSE POWER ; 23.7 KNOTS ; COST

$2,690,000 ; CARRIES ONE 8 INCH BREECH LOADING RIFLE, TWO 6 INCH, EIGHT 4 INCH,

AND TWELVE 6 POUND RAPID FIRE GUNS, FOUR I POUND RAPID FIRK

CANNON, FOUR CATLINGS, AND FIVE TORPEDO TUBES.
/ fain n photograph Copyrighted, i^v^, I } Charles /". Holies, Brooklyn.

t/f a

2 M

& P
C H

a, o

HAVANA.

Views of the Plaza de Armas, palace of the Governor General, the Prado, Morro Castle, and

the fortress at La Cabanas.

WITH all eyes centered on Cuba,
Havana becomes to Americans a
city of surpassing interest. The pictures
presented herewith for the most part tell
their own story. Havana harbor, where
the tragedy of the Maine was enacted,
has the capacity for a thousand ships and
is guarded at one side by the much talked
about Morro Castle. This was a fortress
which the Spanish considered impreg
nable before it was captured by the
English over a hundred years ago. After
they regained possession of it through an

exchange with England, the}- built Ca
banas, on the same shore to the south.
The bill was sent to Charles III, in
Madrid. He studied it carefully, then
took up a small telescope lying near by,
and pointing it toward the west, re
marked : "If that fort cost as much as
this bill claims, it ought to be big enough
to be visible from here.

At this writing Morro is little more than
a prison and a signal station, with a great
stone lighthouse towering high above it.
Adjoining the castle is the Velasco bat-

PALACE OF GOVERNOR GENERAL BLANCO, ON THE WEST SIDE OF THE PLAZA DE ARMAS, IN
THE OLD CITY A STUCCO HOUSE WITH OFFICES ITNDERNEATH, LIKE A HOTEL.

HAVANA.

MORRO CASTLE, WHICH GUARDS HAVANA. IT CONTAINS, BESIDES BATTERIES AND PRISONS, THE

O DONNELL LIGHTHOUSE. ITS WATER BATTERY is KNOWN AS THE "TWELVE APOSTLES."

THK CHAPEL IN THE CAMPO SANTO, THE CHIEF CEMETERY, THREE MILES FROM HAVANA.
CEMETERY CONSISTS OF A SERIES OF OVEN-LIKE TOMBS.

432

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE CATHEDRAL DE LA VIRGEN, MARIA DE LA CONCEPCION, AT THE CORNER OF EMPEDRADO AKD
SAX YGXACIO STREETS. THE OLDEST CHURCH IX HAVANA WITH VERY AXCIEXT CHIMES.

ter}-. La Cabanas, too, has deteriorated.
It has a jail and a place of execution.
Governor General Blanco s residence is

an imposing structure fronting on one of
the city s squares. Another parkway is
called the Prado, and here guard mount

THE PRADO, THE AVENUE OF PALMS, WHICH BEGIXS AT THE SEA AND RUNS THROUGH THE
CITY, MAKIXQ^THE LIXE ALONG WHICH SQUARES AND PARKS ARE LOCATED.

HAVANA.

435

THE PRISON AND FORTRESS OF CABANAS, ONE OF THE GUARDS TO THE CHANNEL TO HAVANA.
IT WAS BUILT AFTER MORRO WAS TAKEN BY THE ENGLISH IN 1762.

in the morning is one of the events of the Prado three times during the week, and

day, designed to impress the populace fashionable Havana was supposed to walk

with Spain s importance. The band has there from eight to ten o clock in the

been in the habit of playing in the evening.

INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL ON EMPEDRADO STREETS. ON THE RIGHT OF THE ALTAR IS THE
TABLET TO COLUMBUS, CONTAINING HIS EFFIGY. IT IS HERE HIS BONES WERE LAID IN 1796.

WILLIAM ORDWAY PARTRIDGE.

f- riim a pliotograph by Marshall, Bnstnti.

SCULPTOR AND STUDENT.

William Ordway Partridge, "whose reputation as an artist is rivaled by his fame as a poet and

literary man A glance at the creator of some of the best specimens of American

sculpture, who is also professor of Fine Arts at "Washington University.

AN artist cannot do his best work in
a foreign country. If a writer can
not accomplish his masterpiece in the
language of another race, why should
a sculptor or a painter think that he can
live in Rome or Paris all his life compet
ing with native artists, while he is con
tinually handicapped by the fact that the
Italians and Frenchmen are working in

atmospheres and towards ideals that have
been theirs for all time ?

Mr. William Ordway Partridge has in
his own life followed this idea of his con
cerning the influence of an artist s native
environment. Though born in Paris, he
is an American, and his sentiment for his
country brought him home to be edu
cated at Columbia. With his natural love

STATUE OF ALEXANDER HAMILTON, IN FRONT OF THE

HAMILTON CLUB, BROOKLYN.
Modeled by William Ordway Partridge.

438

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

of art stimulated by his college training
he determined to carry out his dearest
ambition and become a sculptor. He
wanted to go abroad and study, but the

Hale, he began to read in public from
Keats and Shelley. Partridge s person
ality and the perfect harmony of his
temperament with that of the poets, would

FIGURE OF "MEMORY."

ideled by William Ordivay Partridge.

means were lacking. Consequently he
was drawn to the stage, whose outward
attractions charmed his artistic nature.
But the life soon proved too great a strain
on him, and he sought solace and a means
to accomplish his one ambition in the
poets.

Encouraged by Phillips Brooks and Dr.

have sufficed to have immediately in
terested the coldest audience ; but when
there was added to these qualities his
careful stage training, to hear him read
was, as one woman said, "As if the
youth was filled with the spirit of Shelley
and Keats sanctified by coming from
Heaven. "

440

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

STATUE OF GRANT KY PARTRIDGE, KKICCTKD BY THK UNION LKAGUK CI.I K OF BROOKLYN.

" The Song Life of a Sculptor " shows
that in taking up his profession Mr.
Partridge robbed the world of a poet of
sympathy and tenderness ; yet what is
literature s loss is sculpture s gain.
After years of study abroad we find the
young reader and poet a great artist, and
above all things a true American, as can
be seen by his answer to a question con
cerning American artists abroad, at the
beginning of this sketch.

So much for the man. As for the sculp
tor, the statues here shown are some
of the most representative of Partridge s
work. Two features are immediately
apparent, individuality and nationality.
Alexander Hamilton is represented as
delivering to the patriots the famous
Poughkeepsie oration that saved New
York, and possibly the cause itself. The
conception of the statue shows the
nationality of the sculptor, and the way

in which he has worked it out expresses
his individual qualities of strength and
virility.

In the Grant monument there is shown
another phase of Americanism : deter
mination and tenacity of purpose. Critics
both here and abroad join in commending
Mr. Partridge in having created an artistic
triumph, as well as a lasting memorial,
in this statue of the hero of Appomattox.

In his estate at Milton, Massachusetts,
with its old colonial mansion and gardens
laid out in the Italian style, Partridge has
a studio where he can work at all times.
When the sun is shining, or when it is
raining, the interior of the studio is the
.sculptor s workshop ; but on a cloudy
day, when there are no shifting shadows,
the statue is run out of doors on a rail
way, where it is possible to see the work
under the same conditions as when it is
completed and set up.

Charles Chapin Sargent, Jr.

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT

BY MAX PEMBERTON.

XXII.

I)AUIy rested his gloved hands upon the
doors of his cab, and smoked content
edly. For the first time since he had set foot
in London, the streets and the people were
without interest to him. A boyish readiness
to accept the possible for the actual had
already carried him in his mind to the reali
zation of fine schemes. He was sure that fate
would work some miracle of surprise for his
particular benefit.

"I shall tell the truth ; it will do no good
to conceal anything," he thought. " Feodor
will write to the prince at Petersburg, and say
that I am here in London protecting the
secrets of my city. If they had kept Marian
at Alexander, there would have been trouble
with the English government ; possibly they
would have been compelled to release her,
and she would have returned here with all
those plans in her head. I do not see why it
should be so great an affair. I have done
them a service, and they know that I am not
a traitor. Granted that they will not restore
me to my regiment, there is other work for a
clever man to do. I might even go to the
Balkans and serve Ferdinand, or the Aus-
trians. When they learn how small my
offense is, they will not be too hard upon me.
And I shall marry the little girl, and take
her where these English fellows will not
trouble her. Ma foi, what crowds ! and
not a soldier among them."

He was passing the Criterion at the mo
ment. The crowds of idlers, the youth of
bars and stage doors, the sleek dandies, the
hastening clerks, all moved him to a fine
contempt for their stooping bodies and
undrilled gait. A soldier s blood had run in
his veins since his birth. To wear gold and

to carry a sword, to strut it in the market
place, to serve the Czar what other career
was open to an honest man ! Merchants and
traders he regarded them as so many
licensed thieves. Priests were necessary to
minister to the superstitions of the people
and to pray for the sins of the army. Pro
fessions were all very well for little men and
knaves ; but they were not a career. As for
himself, he had inherited wits above the
ordinary ; but it never dawned upon him that
they could be used to other ends than those
of his regiment. There was no better scholar
in Kronstadt, no more promising officer of
artillery, but that, he thought, was his good
fortune. But for the music of the great
guns and the clash of steel, his wits would
never have been awakened. W ^.^ver lay
before him, he determined to work with but
one aim, the right to carry a sword once
more ; once more to be the master of the
guns.

The cab bumping roughly against the curb
brought him back from the success of thought
to the broken baskets of reality. He saw
that they were in a narrow street, before the
doors of a large but ugly house, which had
no ornaments for its windows and little paint
for its door. He paid the cabman the money
which Marian had put into his hand, and
rang the bell of the house timidly. A mo
ment later he stood in a hall furnished so
richly and with such exquisite taste that he
could scarce believe it to be the hall of the
house before which the cabman had set him
down. But the man who opened the door
was a Russian, and he reassured him.
" Count Feodor is he at home ? "
" He expects you ; he is waiting."
Paul entered the house confidently. The
magnificence of the antechamber astonished

442

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

him, for lie had lived his life in barracks, and
such splendor of habitation as he had known
was the splendor of palaces of Petersburg
or of hotels at Paris When he followed
the footman up a broad flight of stairs and
through a conservatory upon the first floor,
the same richness of decoration and of
ameubletnent testified to the luxury with
which Feodor Talvi had surrounded himself.
The apartment into which he was shown at
last, though of limited extent, was draped
with exceeding taste. Dainty water color
sketches gave color to the silk paneled walls ;
lounges, cunningly contrived, were the em
blems of ample leisure ; flowers stood upon
many little tables ; a stained glass window
hid from the eyes the ugly stone wall which
bounded the garden of the mansion. Paul
put his hat upon a sofa and sat down with a
great air of content.

"These diplomatists," he said to himself,
" they talk all day and dance all night. They
are paid twenty thousand rubles a year for
telling their neighbors that black is white.
When there is any work to be done they go
home. Fichtre it should be easy to tell lies
for twenty thousand rubles a year ! And
Feodor has no need of them ; he was rich
always ; he must be very rich now."

The footman had left him when he had
given his name, saying that the count would
be disengaged presently. Paul took up a
Russian paper and read it through. It was
a pleasure to be carried in spirit back to
Petersburg and his home. He found himself
wondering how all his friends were old
Stefanovic, who had loved him, and Bonzo,
whom he had feared and never under
stood. Karl, too, and Sergius and the
others had one among them taken pity upon
him, and remembered that he had been a
friend of the old time ? The pathos of
memory was very bitter. He was as a child
shut out from his old home ; imagination
kindled for him a fire burning redly upon the
hearth of that home ; the rays shone upon
the unpitying faces of those who had been
brothers to him.

This occupation of regret so carried him
away from the house of Feodor Talvi that he
forgot where he was and upon what errand
he had come. .When the little gilt clock
upon the mantel shelf struck one, he put the
paper down quickly and remembered with
amazement that he had been in the room an
hour. That rascal of a lackey must have for
gotten to speak to the count. Impatiently
he pressed the button of an electric bell. It
was answered immediately, not by the Rus
sian who had brought him to the boudoir,
but by an English servant, who seemed
astounded to find a stranger in the place.

" You are waiting for the count, sir ? "

" If I am waiting ! " explained Paul, turn
ing on the man as he would have turned
upon a defaulting corporal. "I have been
here an hour. Is your master out ? "

" I don t know r , sir. I will ask, if you
like that is, if you wish it, sir."

Paul stared at the man with astonishment.
If he had been in Russia, he would have laid
his cane sharply upon the rogue s shoulders ;
but he was not in Russia, and the English
barbarians did not permit a man to flog his
servants. He was still fuming with rage
when the lackey shut the door and left him
to reflect upon a state of civilization so
monstrous.

The little gilt clock struck a quarter past
one ; the man had not returned. There was
no sign of Feodor. Paul went to the door of
the room and threw it open. The house was
silent as one of his own cells at Alexandria.
He could hear a great clock ticking in the
hall below ; there was a rumble of passing
carts from the street without, but of human
life within the house no evidence. He re
turned to the boudoir and rang the bell for
the second time. To his amazement the
Russian answered him and began at once to
apologize.

" We expect the count every moment," he
said stolidly. "My master is sorry to keep
you waiting. He has been called away. We
are to offer you lunch, excellency."

Paul assented indifferently.

" It is a peep show," he said with scorn :
"first the English rogue and then you. I
shall speak to the count and tell him that he
has made a mistake. You should both dance
in a booth to the music of the whip."

The Russian listened without changing a
muscle of his face. He was accustomed to a
role of servility. When Paul had finished,
the man set to work to clear a little table and
to prepare it for luncheon. Then he disap
peared once more and another quarter was
struck upon the bell.

" Sacre 110111 ! " said Paul, pacing the room
angrily, " the servants lie better than the
master. If this is the house of a diplomatist,
to the devil with the twenty thousand
rubles ! "

" My dear fellow," cried a voice at the
door, " do you know that the chair you are
kicking was once the property of Napoleon ? "

Paul turned and stood face to face with the
intruder. A spectator would have said that
the two men resembled each other as two
drops of water. Both were tall and finely
built ; both had flaxen hair and blue eyes ;
both held themselves as those trained in the
school of the world. If the newcomer was
slightly shorter than the captain of artillery,

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

443

if his face was less sunburnt and more fur
rowed, that was to be set down to the burdens
which the life of cities had put upon him.

" Paul ! it is you, then ? "

" Feodor my friend ! "

" You have been waiting here? "

" A century ! "

" The devil ! it is that rogue Demetrius
again. You are hungry fat s toi, we shall
lunch and talk afterwards ! I have a thou
sand things to say you a thousand things to
tell. I become a boy again at sight of you."

He talked with a boy s enthusiasm, but
said nothing of that great and engrossing
subject which Paul desired so earnestly to
broach. For the moment, indeed, they
might have been students together ; students
enjoying such a rare day of fortune that they
ate the dishes of princes, and washed them
down with the wine of kings. Paul
wondered, in the moments of silence, if he
had, indeed, branded himself as an outcast
and a traitor. For if that charge were true,
how came it that he ate and drank with
Feodor Talvi and was called brother by him ?
He could not believe in such good fortune.
" He does not know," he thought ; "he will
not call me brother when I tell him."

The dishes were many before luncheon was
done. Champagne foamed in long Venetian
glasses. When the cloth was cleared, Deme
trius carried cigars and liqueurs to a little
bower of palms in the conservatory. Paul
found himself reclining indolently upon a
sofa, while the count curled himself up in a
basket armchair which sleep herself might
have designed. For the first time since they
had met, an embarrassing interlude of silence
gave the men opportunity for remembrance.
Paul made up his mind that this was the time
to speak, but before he could open his lips
Feodor asked him a question.

" The young English lad} 7 she is well?"

The question was astonishing, embarrass
ing. Paul opened his eyes very wide, for he
thought it was a jest.

" Oh, she is very well ! " he stammered
" that is to say you know about her?"

The count answered sympathetically.

" I know your story, Paul, my friend. I
read it in a despatch four days after you left
Kronstadt."

Paul took heart.

"If yovi know my story, you know also
that I am no traitor to Russia ; you know
that I am here in London to guard her
secrets."

Kxactly or how should I receive you at
my house? It was all clear to me from the
first. A pretty face, a clever little head, a
bribe from the English government my old
friend falls in love with the pretty face and

persuades the woman to deliver up to him all
the plans she has stolen. He comes here to
give me those plans and to tell me that the
woman may go to the devil, while he goes
back to Russia.

The smile left Paul s boyish face. He
stood up awkwardly against the mantel shelf.

" You do not understand," he said gravely.
" It is not that, count. There are no maps to
be given up ; Miss Best has none. I am con
vinced of it. When I left Russia it was to
make sure that she did not see any of her
friends that she did not betray us. It is
true that her father and mother died some
years ago, but she has relations in London
the Englishman who tempted her. I did not
wish her to meet those people. Judge me as
you will for what is past, I have this to say,
that by God s help I will never leave her
side again."

Feodor, no longer the diplomatist, but
the man of amatory affairs, laughed good
humoredly.

" Oh ! " he said, " we are still in that stage,
then ? It is the second stage, I think. When
I was the bel ami of La Superbe in Paris I
took the course. You begin with a bad ap
petite and end by buying a pistol. Con
valescence dates from the moment when you
present your pistol to your brother at school,
and go out to dine at Voisin s. Complete
recovery is to hear with equanimity that she
for whom you would have died a thousand
deaths has married the leader of the orches
tra. Possibly, if you had stayed in Russia,
you would have been well by this time ; but
change of air fosters these complaints. A
month, even two months, may be necessary
now. And pity is a factor. Send the girl
back to her relations since you know that
she has brought no luggage with her and
enjoy London for a month. I can recommend
nothing better."

Paul took up his cigar and lit it. His
hand trembled undisguisedly. The lover
creed chanted by the man of the world was
a thing he had ever despised. He knew well
the impossibility of convincing this dandy of
a dozen cities of the reality of his love or of
the nature of it. He would not try, he
thought ; he feared that the quivering mock
ery might cast a false light on the name so
dear to him.

"Do not let us speak of Miss Best," he
said, after a moment of silence. "You do
not understand me, and I do not understand
you. No man has the right to say to an
other, You shall love here or there. If you
are my friend, you will help me at home.
You must tell me what they are saying there.
God knows, I dare not ask myself that
question ! Have I any longer a name in

444

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Russia ? Is there any friend of mine to
speak a word for me ? These are the ques
tions I ask myself while I lie awake at night
and remember Kronstadt. God knows the
night is punishment enough ! "

Feodor, who disliked emotion of any kind,
looked foolishly at the fire of his cigar.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, in the
tone of the candid friend, " it is quite useless
to excite yourself. And it would be absurd
of me to tell you any lies. How can I know
what they are saying at Petersburg ? Am I
likely to find expressions of sympathy in
official documents ? When a man runs away
from his regiment without leave, and takes
with him a young lady who has been occu
pied for a month or more in stealing the plans
of his fortress, he must expect his friends to
open their eyes. How could it be otherwise ?
We judge men by their deeds. As the thing
stands, you, in the eyes of the authorities,
share the woman s guilt. We who are your
well wishers cannot stoop to help you with
the expression of false hopes. That you will
ever return to Kronstadt, I do not believe.
The thing is out of the question. Discipline
would suffer, and you would suffer.
But I will not say that influence at
Petersburg might not, at some distant
da}-, restore you to the emperor s service.
It depends upon yourself and upon the course
you take here in London. You will not ex
pect us to join with any enthusiasm in a
scheme for your benefit so long as you talk
this ridiculous nonsense about marrying the
Englishwoman, and constituting yourself her
protector. Oh, my dear Paul, do you not see
that she is the soubrette of your opera, and
that her tears are shed only while the curtain is
up ? By and by, she.will be supping with the
leading tenor, while you are back in your
own country and are ready to thank Heaven
that you have done with her !

Paul bit his lip. He was within an ace of
losing his temper and of quitting the house.

" It is a lie," he said doggedly ; " there is
no better woman breathing. If you knew
her, Feodor, if you were my friend, you
would not say these things. I came here
thinking that you would help me. I am
sorry now that I came."

The count sank deeper into the cushions
of his chair.

" Du calme, du caline &gt; " he cried, with
the air of one who is much amused. We
are at the third stage now, and these are the
symptoms. While I knew L/a Superbe I had
not a friend in Paris. There was not a man
whose throat I did not wish to cut. See,
man ami, how these diseases resemble each
other. As I live, you will fight me before
dinner time."

"No, indeed," replied Paul very quietly;
"I cannot quarrel with you, count. If your
creed of life is not mine, I do not complain of
that. We will talk of it no more, for I am
going home. It was a promise to her. She
will be waiting. I said that I would be away
an hour, and three have passed."

A shadow of anxiety crossed the count s
face.

" Oh, you must not talk of going ! " he
exclaimed earnestly; "and you must not
think me unfriendly. What has passed is
nothing. We will talk of serious things
presently, and you shall meet one better able
to advise you than the mere diplomatist,
who sees everything through the glass of
office. If you think that mademoiselle will
be anxious, write a little letter and the man
will take it. You will find pens and ink in
the library on the next floor. I am going to
smoke here until you return. It would be
folly to go away now at the beginning
of it."

Paul stood irresolute, but the count touched
a gong at his side and the Russian servant
appeared once more.

" Demetrius, show the way to the library.
His excellency will give you a letter. See
that it is delivered at once."

The library was a small room furnished
prettily with many books, chiefly in French.
Paul wrote his letter quickly a letter of love
and hope. He had met Feodor, the count
was his friend still ; he was waiting for
another to help him to some position of
honor and emolument all this he honestly
believed as he wrote it. Never for a moment
did it dawn upon him that he was the victim
of duplicity. He was convinced that the
note would be delivered at once. He did not
know Demetrius would carry it so far as the
kitchen of the house and there burn it in the
stove. When he returned to the conserva
tory, a smile of content was upon his face.
It was good to have found a friend again.
He determined to show a greater gratitude
to the count but the words he wished for
would not come to his lips, for when he
descended the stairs whom should he see
with Feodor but old Bonzo himself the
Bonzo of Kronstadt, the Bonzo whose name
had struck terror into his heart so often, the
Man of Iron whom all feared.

The colonel sat upon a basket sofa. He
wore a black frock coat with flowing skirts ;
his trousers were gray ; his tie was a tremen
dous bow in the French fashion, negligee
and ample. He smoked a black cigar and
sipped a glass of absinth. When he saw
Paul, confused and hesitating, upon the
threshold of the conservatory, his little eyes
twinkled merrily and he held out a great

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

445

paw as though to give the younger man con
fidence.

" Le void," he exclaimed boisterously, " le
void, the renegade, the traitor, who has
brought me all the way from Petersburg ! "

Paul shook the outstretched hand timidly.
The room seemed to dance before his eyes.

"You here, my colonel you?" he re
peated, with broken words. " You have come
to London to see me ? "

" If I have come to London to see you !
Do I make the Cook s tour, then? Am I
here to visit the Westminster Abbey ?
Have I the tourist s suit ? Look at me
Bonzo and ask why I come ? "

He put the question in a voice of thunder
the voice Paul had heard so often on the
ramparts at Kronstadt. But there was the
note of jest struck with the deeper chord,
and the two who listened to him laughed
when he laughed.

" I should not call it a tourist s suit," said
the count, surveying the tremendous propor
tions of the Bonzo s coat ; " there is too much
cloth in it. They don t make a fortune out
of you, colonel those tailors."

Bonzo nodded his head approvingly. He
was a stranger to civilian dress, and his new
appearance amused him.

" Eccoli" he said, " it is a coat for my son
and for my son s son. I have worn it twice
in fourteen years. It is only a barbarovts
people that would wear a coat like this. Sit
down, my friend Paul, and see how I degrade
myself for you."

He thrust a low chair forward, and Paul sat
down hoping he knew not what, afraid to
remember that the Man of Iron had followed
him to the land of exile.

"You are well, my colonel ? You had a
good passage ?

" I am very well, my son."

" You stay in London long?"

Until I hear that a foolish young man
has come to his senses again."

Paul flushed. There came upon him
irresistibly the idea to appeal to this strong
man s pit} .

"Oh!" he said, "you do not think me
guilty, colonel you do not believe that I am
a traitor to my country ? "

" Du tout, du tout, my son you are no
traitor ; you have not the brains."

Paul stopped as though one had shot him.
The eloquence of pity, which had inspired
him in thought, deserted him at the first
word of the ironical response. As well ask
mercy of the tomb as of the Man of Iron.

"It was not a question of brains," he
blurted out presently. " I am not clever, iny
colonel, I know that ; but I am no traitor to
Russia."

" Pah !" said old Bonzo, a little severely,
" traitors do not run off with chorus girls and
then say they could not help it. You are a
fool, my son ; you have not the wisdom of the
boy. What when you had the woman in
Alexander, when she was alone with you,
when you could have made love to her all
day, you bring her back here to her friends,
you cut yourself off from those who love you,
and then say that you did it for us oh, it is
a story for a fairy book ! "

Bonzo spoke with a strong man s contempt
for the folly of the child. Paul shuddered at
his words. The horrible suggestion for he
knew well what the other meant fired his
blood. He could have struck the speaker on
the mouth.

"Colonel," he said in a low voice, "you
knew mademoiselle at Kronstadt and yet
you are ready to say these things of her ? "

" Certainly I am ready. Would you have
me cry that she is of noble blood ? Shall I
raise my hat when I mention the name of
Stefanovic s governess? the daughter of an
English batushka, a village priest at fifteen
hundred rubles a year. What a woman who
played with you as I play with this leaf ; who
brings you to England to draw for her the
maps which she had not time to draw when
she was with us ; who will laugh in your
face presently and tell you to go to the devil
is this the one that Tolma s heir would
marry ? Pah ! I have not the patience to
speak of it."

Paul picked up a cigarette and began to
roll it in his fingers. He was unable to an
swer such an argument. Bonzo, he made
sure, would never understand him ; the hope
he had placed in his friends was shattered at
last. They did not know Marian ; they never
would know her. He was still searching for
his reply to the accusation when the colonel
spoke again, but with less heat.

" A la bonne heitre," he said. "I am not
here to scold you. We will say good by to
this day of folly, for it is done. Tomorrow
you will leave London for Paris, my son. It
will be the beginning of your journey to
Vienna, where you will stay until this mad
ness is forgotten. After that, we shall appeal
to the emperor. His clemency may find for
you some duty in the east. If you have suf
fered, those who love you have suffered, too.
Even I Bonzo could I hear of this and for
get that of all at Kronstadt you alone were a
son to me ? You shall be a son to me once
more when you have left England."

Paul stood up as the speaker continued.
An undefined dread of some calamity about
to overtake him prompted him to action.

"Colonel," he said, " I cannot go to Paris
with you tomorrow. I cannot leave England.

446

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Mademoiselle is waiting for me now. I
thank you with all my heart for your prom
ises, but the day for them is past. I think of
Russia no more. I shall find a home here.
Some day you will understand me

Bonzo waved his arm dramatically.

" Sit, sit," he said. " This is not a theater,
Captain Paul. You are in Russia here. This
house is our house. It is the emperor s
house. Your English friends may come, but
we shall not let them in. Be reasonable, and
make up your mind that mademoiselle must
wait a little longer."

Paul looked from one to the other with
dazed eyes. Count Feodor had risen and
stood with his back towards the window ; the
colonel s face was not to be read.

" I do not understand," he exclaimed ex
citedly. "You would not keep me here
against my wish, colonel? "

Bonzo laughed ironically.

" For a few days," he said, with a gesture
of indifference until you come to your
senses, captain. Meanwhile, if mademoiselle
is waiting, send another little note."

In that moment the truth flashed upon
Paul. He stepped backward as though seek
ing a way of escape ; there w r as the look of a
hunted animal in his eyes when he turned to
the master of the house.

" My God," he cried, " you would not do
this, count ? You have no right to do it. I
must go back to my house. I tell you that
she is waiting for me."

Bonzo answered him by striking a gong at
his side.

" My son," he said sternly, " she will wait
many days yet. It is the duty of your friends
to save you from yourself."

The deep note of the gong echoed through
the silent rooms of the house like an alarum.
The three men, for all had risen, stood facing
one another. They knew that the time for
words was past. As for Bonzo, he had ceased
to smile ; anger and determination were [to
be read in his eyes ; he looked around him
with the air of one who has planned every
thing, and whose plan is to be put into
execution.

" You are mad, Captain Zassulic, and we
shall cure you," he repeated triumphantly.
" Tomorrow we set out, but not for Vienna.
The fortress of St. Peter shall be your
hospital. Fool that you were, to pit your
wits against mine ! "

He raised his hand to point threateningly,
and as at the waving of a magician s wand
the conservatory was filled instantly with
troopers in the uniform of the Russian
service. Silently, grimly, with great strength,
they fell upon the fugitive and threw him to
the ground. So sudden was the attack, so

swift had been the sequence of word and of
event, that Paul was a prisoner in their arms
even while the thought to flee was shaping in
his mind. For a moment he struck at them
with the strength of ten men. Agony and
despair gave him courage ; the whole bitter
ness of life seemed to be his portion.

"Marian!" he cried "oh, my God, let
me go to her ! You kill me I suffocate let
me go to her let me go

A strong arm, the arm of a giant, stifled the
broken cries. The whole landing seemed to
be full of men. Though the captive struck
right and left, clutching at this object and at
that, they carried him swiftly from the place,
up and still up to the prison of the garrets.
He beheld other landings and the interiors of
bedrooms poorly furnished ; the stairs were
stairs of marble no longer ; the light of the
fuller day fell upon his face through a frosted
dome of glass. When they flung him down
at last, with blood upon his hands and torn
clothes, the light was shut swiftly from his
eyes. He lay in utter darkness, and he
thought it the darkness of hell ; for he knew
that the unpitying hand of the Russian had
fallen upon him even in the England for
which she whom he loved had longed so
earnestly.

XXIII.

MARIAN awoke from a troubled sleep when
the clock of St. Martin s Church was striking
a quarter past four of the morning. She had
not meant to sleep at all, but weakness pre
vailed above her misery ; and for an hour
she was carried in her dreams back to Alex
ander and to the unforgettable horror of her
cell below the sea.

When she awoke, she was still sitting in her
low chair before the window ; but the cold of
dawn had stiffened her limbs, and the burden
of the night and its weariness lay heavy upon
her. Nor could she bring her mind at the
first to remember why she was not in her
bed, or how it came to be that she looked
down upon the silent streets at such an hour.
When memory helped her it was swift and
terrible. She rose to her feet and opened the
door of their little sitting room. Had Paul
come back to her? Why did he wait ? What
new ill had overtaken him? God, if he
should be dead !

A tortured, helpless woman, worn with suf
fering and doubt, she crept along the dark
ened passage until she stood at his bedroom
door. It was wide open. She could see the
bed ; but no one had slept in it. Scattered
here and there were the few things he had
purchased since they had been in London a
pair of slippers, a little dressing case, a writ-

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

447

ing desk. A bunch of violets he had worn
when shopping for her two days ago stood
upon his wash stand. She took it up and
kissed the faded flowers ; she knelt at his
bedside and prayed, a woman s prayer, that
this new suffering might not come upon her.

It was strange at this time how her sense
of dependence upon the man was magnified
and made real to her. A year ago, the truth,
that she stood alone in the world, would have
been a matter of indifference to her. But
that day was past. While she had no exag
gerated notions of Paul s cleverness, while
she knew him heart and mind, he was the
one man in all the world who had been able
to strike within her the sympathetic chord
which is the chord of love. She had trembled
when he held her in his arms. Her first
waking thought had been for him ; she had
soothed herself to sleep with his name upon
her lips. The past years of loneliness, of
struggle, of poverty, seemed removed by ages
from her present life. If there had come to
her sometimes the reflection that this whirl
of events was unreal and false, that she was
deceiving herself, that the reckoning must
be paid, she brushed the thought aside. She
was a woman and she had learned to love.

The house was quiet with the stillness of
the hour before the day. Without, the steely
gray light fell iipon shuttered windows and
silent streets. Even great London was nod
ding. The gaudy ornament of gold and
garish painting was now subdued and shabby ;
immense buildings loomed up as though the
dawn had shaped them from the mists. Save
for the passing carts or the rumble of a
wagon on its way to market, or the fleeting
figure of some ragged and homeless creature
awake once more to the hopeless life, one
might have looked down upon a city of the
dead. Those unfortunates who had passed
and repassed while the sun shone whither
had they gone to sleep ? What change of
fortune had they known since yesterday ?
Who among them would rejoice with the
day ? How many would know the day no
more ? The very emptiness of the city awed
her. She was afraid of the stillness. Not
one in all those millions would stand at her
side to help her, would heed her cry for pity.
She remembered the child, and thought of
him sleeping in a house of sunshine and of
flowers ; but the remembrance was bitter, for
her courage was broken. The old way of
life was closed forever. She would go hand
in hand with little Dick, but there would be
tears upon her face.

Seven o clock struck, and the sun shone
upon the city. People flocked to the great
railway station ; cabs began to loiter by the
pavements ; she heard the scream of whistles

and the cry of the newsboys. It was a relief
to her, this surging of the stream of life.
She began to reckon with herself as she had
not reckoned since she left Kronstadt. If
Paul did not return during the morning, she
resolved that she would go to Scotland Yard
and tell his story, in so far as it could be told
without the surrender of her promise. She
scouted the trivial suggestions which desire
to deceive herself had prompted. Taking
new courage of the morning she refused to
believe that her lover was dead or that an
accident had overtaken him. An echo of the
truth dinned in her ears. " It is the hand of
his own countrymen," she thought. "He
has been lured from here by a trick." And
then she remembered that these things were
not to be done in England. A glad pride in
the might of her own country quickened her
heart. " I will save him," she said ; " I will
go to them and learn the whole story."

Her course would have been easier if she
had known Paul s intentions when he left
her. It was in her mind that he had gone to
the Russian embassy. She remembered that
he spoke of South Audley Street, but could
not recall the number of the house.

She said that she would get her breakfast
and go afterwards to the embassy in quest of
news. If none was to be had there, it would
be time to consult with the people at Scot
land Yard. True, she had given Paul her
word that she would not go out alone ; but
the promise was made for a set of circum
stances other than these. His liberty, his
very life, might depend upon her breaking
that promise. A great desire to be up and
away at once took possession of her. It was
hers now to play the strong part. Never
theless, the hope that she might hear his
step on the stair before the hour was struck
again held her to the place.

" He has stayed at the count s house all
night," she argued childishly; "it was
necessary, and he is among friends."

At eight o clock she dressed herself, wear
ing the pretty blouse that he had bought for
her, and coiling up her wealth of brown hair
picturesquely above her white face. She
sighed often when she looked in the shabby
glass, and asked herself how it came to be
that a man had cast off country and friends
for her sake. Very few in the world cared
whether she lived or died. She did not
wonder at that. Her life had been one long
battle with circumstances ; the smile her face
had worn during the years of childhood was
but the shield which cloaked the scars of
mental ill and, oftentimes, of defeat. Yet
here was one to stand among the multitude
and to say, "Thou art the woman!" The
mystery of love baffled her.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It was nine o clock when she had finished
her cup of tea and found herself ready to go
out. She had but a few shillings in her
pocket ; their little store of gold was locked
in Paul s trunk ; yet she would not stop to
reflect upon that new trouble which lack of
money must bring to her presently. Glad to
escape the confinement of the stuffy room,
rejoicing that her errand was for her lover s
sake, she descended the stairs with quick
step ; but at the street door she stood irreso
lute, and when she had looked about her an
instant she returned hastily to her room and
went to the window to watch.

A carriage drawn by a pair of magnificent
gray horses had stopped before her house.
She observed a footman speaking to a white
haired old man, slight and slim, but with the
face of an aristocrat. Instinct told her that
here was one of Paul s friends. When the
footman knocked at the door below she had
the impulse to run down, fearing that the
carriage would be driven away before she
could tell Paul s friend what had happened.
She was still wavering when the slut of the
house entered the room, holding in her dirty
fingers the card of Prince Tolma.

" It ain t for you ; it s for the gentleming, "
she said, wiping a smut from her forehead.
" I told em as he d gawn out to supper and
hadn t come back yet."

Marian brushed her aside and ran down
the stairs with the step of a schoolgirl. Care
for her own dignity was forgotten. She ar
rived in the street breathless and with flushed
cheeks. It was in her mind that this stranger
would save her lover.

" Paul is not here, " she said excitedly. " He
left me yesterday to visit Count Talvi, and
has not returned. I fear that something has
happened. He would not leave me without
a word. I am Marian Best, and I have heard
your name so often. If I might speak to you
for a little while

She stood panting and expectant, while
the old man regarded her with wondering
eyes. Apparently the spectacle pleased him,
for, of a sudden, he grunted like an animal
and called to the footman :

" John, I am going to get out."

With great pomp and ceremony, after the
unwrapping of rugs and laborious change of
posture, the prince wormed himself from his
seat.

"My dear," he said apologetically, "you
must give me your hand. I am an old man
and your English wines do not love me.
Is it far to mount are there many stairs ? "

Marian blushed.

" We are not rich," she said diffidently ;
" we feared to go to a hotel."

" Du tout, (fit tout" said the prince, "we

must find another apartment for you. The
sun lip there will scorch that pretty face. Ma
foi, we go to heaven itself ! "

A friendly banister and the strong arm of
the footman dragged the burden to the
heights. Marian followed with a sense of
relief such as she had scarce known in all
her life. It was as though a strong hand
had been thrust out to her from the shadows
of the great city. The tone, the gesture, the
kindly eyes of this old man, the easy air of
command and authority these won upon
her confidence.

The prince entered the shabby little room
and waddled to an armchair. He sank in it
with a pathetic sigh of gratitude. Drops of
sweat stood upon his bald forehead. He
mopped them up with a tremendous hand
kerchief ; his breathing was stertorous and
rapid.

"It is a vapor bath," he gasped. "You
shall send for a shampooer, my dear. Or if
you will not do that, you shall give me a
little of the red wine I see upon the buffet
there."

A flask of Australian wine stood upon the
sideboard. Marian half filled a tumbler and
diluted the wine with soda water. She had
not noticed the poverty of her surroundings
before. The coming of the aristocrat, his
spotless clothes, his grand air, showed them
in all their nakedness.

" I am sorry," she said, moving about with
girlish activity. " I fear our stairs are awful.
If it had not been that I knew you were
Paul s friend "

" Tut, tut ! " replied the prince, taking the
tumbler in his hand, " it is a recompense to
see you in the room. There is no other
ornament necessary, my dear your eyes and
the sunshine. If I were a young man, I
would come here every day to see you. We
do not count the rungs of the ladder which
leads up to paradise."

He swelled with gallantry, remembering
the days which had carried him hungering
for love to many a garret of old Paris. When
he had emptied his tumbler and put it down,
he began to speak again, leaning forward
heavily upon his gold mounted cane, and
staring so hard at his little hostess that her
cheeks flushed crimson.

" So you are Miss Best," he said, nodding
his head cunningly ; and you have brought
my boy to England, and it is for you that he
has forsaken his friends and turned his back
upon his country. Well, my dear, I should
begin by scolding you. I meant to scold you
when I came here. But I am helpless, you
see so come and sit by me and we will talk
a little while."

He pointed to a little stool and she obeyed

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

449

him, sitting almost at his feet. Never in her
life had she met one whom she would have
trusted so implicitly. Her own father, long
dead, the man of dusty books and monotoned
sermons, had awakened in her but pity. The
fine face of this noble Russian, his soft and
winning voice, his kindly gesture, inspired
her to ask herself what her own life would
have been if such a man had brought her
into the world.

"You are very kind to me," she said
simply ; " it is a long time since I have found
a friend. I think sometimes that I shall
never find another. I cannot call Paul my
friend. He is more than that. But then, he
has left me here "

Her cheeks reddened and she paused.
Tolma patted her arm encouragingly.

Do not be afraid to speak to me, he said ;
"I know your story, but it conies prettily
from these pretty lips. You do not call Paul
your friend ; he is more than that ma foi, I
would disown him if he were not ! "

" I love him, " she answered, taking courage
of herself; "whatever he may do here, I
could not blame him. He has given up
everything for me God knows how much I
regret that if it is not for his good. Yet how
can a woman answer such a question ? How
is she to read the depths of a man s love? If
you and his friends wish him to leave me, if
you think it is to his interest to do so, I have
no right to stand between you. It would be
happiness to know that he is happy ! "

Tolma moved restlessly in his chair. He
had come to carry his heir from the trap into
which he believed he had fallen. He had
come to convince him that the woman was a
charlatan, an impostor, the tool of the Eng
lish government. When he hastened back
from Paris it had seemed to him that his
mission was the easiest in the world. He
flattered himself that no man knew women
as he knew them. He thought that he would
find Paul with some notorious servant of the
spies of Europe a chorus girl, the wife of a
chevalier & Industrie gone bankrupt, the
partner of a baron snapping up unconsidered
trifles. Ten words with her shattered that
hypothesis. " She is an English lady ; she
is honest," he said to himself. " We shall
have trouble."

"You are a pair of children," he ex
claimed, cutting Marian short in her protests ;
" it is al&gt; a play to you the ships and armies
of Russia are your toys. And yet, like your
elders, you can think of the money."

She was silent at the rebuke.

"Yes, "he went on very seriously ; "you
can think of the money, children that you are.
What you have done, mademoiselle, is a
great came toward ni}- country. If I did not

believe the story which Paul has told me, if I
did not say that there were excuses which
must suffice when a woman is the offender,
nothing would keep me in this room even for
an hour. But I am not like those others I
know men, I know women, vous savez. To me
they are the pieces on the board. I have seen
so many put in the box a few years more or
less, and destiny will move me no more. You
are young, and your life is before you. I
shall see that it is a pleasant life. You will
live here in your England. Paul will go with
me to be my companion in Paris. I like
young faces ; I am lonely in age. If it rested
with me alone I might make other promises
for the future. But I must win a way for
Paul to return to his country, and to return
with honor. Do not think me harsh. I
speak as the friend of you both. It cannot
be otherwise ; it is the only way."

Marian sat very still and white and silent.
She thought herself in that instant to he
abandoned of God and man. And yet she
did not turn from her sacrifice.

"It is for Paul," she cried bitterly. "If
there is no other way, let it be so and God
help us both ! "

Tolma abhorred the spectacle of a woman
distressed unless his was the hand to wipe
away the tears. The fair girlish figure at his
side, so slight, so pitiful, created for him a
boyhood to be lived again in an instant of
thought. He drew Marian s head upon his
knee to stroke the curls through which the
hardly checked tears glistened.

"My child," he said gently, "if an old
man could work a miracle, assuredly it
should be worked today. But what would
you ? If we wish Paul s name again to be
known in Russia, shall we not make this
sacrifice gladly? While he is with you, when
he is your husband, they will say, Ah, she
loves him for what he is worth to her. She
has not all the maps yet to sell to her English
government, and he will make them for her.
By and by she will laugh at him and find
another officer of artillery and another Kron-
stadt. "

Marian smiled through her tears.

"Poor Paul !" she said. "If he had to
live by making maps of Kronstadt, we should
starve, prince."

Tolma looked at her searchingly.

" You do not think he is clever? "

" Oh, yes, he is clever, but not in that way.
He would laugh if he could hear you. I do
not believe he sleeps at night for thinking
that I shall tell some one the things I know.
He came here at first to be quite sure that
the memory he says I am cursed with should
not do Kronstadt any harm. He feared I
would draw the maps."

450

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" The maps? but you have not any maps.
They were all burned he told me so."

"He told you the truth, but you cannot
burn the memory. I could draw Kronstadt
now, this instant. I could place every fort
and every gun. If I did not love Paul, my
drawings would make me a rich woman,
prince."

Tolma sat very still. He was turning over
in his brain a hundred possibilities. The
girl had struck every weapon from his hand.
If her tale were true, she had struck also
every weapon from the hands of her enemies
in London.

"It may be so," he said, with the politest
possible suggestion of doubt " it may be so,
my child ; but who will believe a story like
that?"

" I ask no one to believe it. Why should
I ? What have I to gain ? "

She drew back from him and, rising, went
and stood by the window. The sun of morn
ing flashed upon her white face and gave
threads of gold to her tumbling hair. Tolma
saw the child no more ; a woman, self
reliant, proud and beautiful, now answered
him.

" What have I to gain ? "

She repeated the question with just a
soupfon of mockery in her tone. She did
not forget that she was in England. The
strong arm of her own country stood between
her and the Russians.

The man, on his part, was ready to appre
ciate the drama of the moment and to act up
to it.

" Mademoiselle," he said, struggling to his
feet and posing threateningly, " you have a
husband to gain."

" A husband ? oh, monsieur, you jest ! "

The woman of Kronstadt spoke the woman
who had been willing, before love weakened
her hand, to strike a blow at the Russian in
his very holy of holies.

" You jest, prince," she said again, with the
air of a grand dame ; " what is more, you do
not believe me."

Tolma answered her by banging the table
with his cane.

" Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, " I jest so
little that, if you will prove this story, I will
make you Paul s wife."

It was her turn now to open her eyes in
wonderment ; but he continued without
pause :

" Do you not see that they have taken him
from" you because they believe you want his
secrets ? Prove to them that the secrets are
yours, not his, and they will move heaven
and earth to shut your lips. A child would
understand that. A free woman in your own
country who shall prevent your speaking

where you will? But the wife of Paul Zas-
sulic will she betray Russia ? Mafoi, the
boy s eyes are better than ours now ! He
will cheat Bonzo yet, and I shall be there to
enjoy it. And he will be the husband of a
clever woman, mademoiselle. Do not con
tradict me. I, Tolma, say it, and I am never
wrong. You shall be my daughter. You
shall live in Paris with me when you have
proved the story."

Lack of breath alone put a curb upon his
eloquence. Marian listened to him as she
would have listened to one who spoke of
miracles. It had been upon her lips to tell
him of her promise to Paul, that she would
keep the secrets to the day of her death ; but
love working in her heart silenced her. She
could not shatter the cup raised so un
expectedly to her lips.

"I will prove my story when and where
you will, 1 she said, with dignity. " Give
me time to get pen and ink, and I will prove
it now."

Tolma raised his hand.

" Not here," he said, with the gesture of
an actor ; " tonight, at the house of Count
Feodor. My carriage shall fetch you. Fear
nothing you have the word of Tolma."

He waddled down the stairs, calling loudly
for "John." Marian stood as one in a
trance ; but it was a trance of joy.

XXIV.

IT was the evening of the day. Three
men waited in the great drawingroom of
Count Talvi s house in South Audley Street.
The silver clock upon the mantel shelf had
just struck nine. Its ticking was the only
sound to be heard.

Of the three who waited, Tolma alone was
at his ease. He lounged in a great chair and
smoked Russian cigarettes incessantly. A
glass of chartreuse at his elbow was lifted
often to his lips. There was a complacent
smile upon his face, the smile of a man who
has played a great card and waits for his
opponents. He looked ever and anon at
Bonzo, the second of the three, moving in
and out of the shadows which the dim light
of shaded candles cast in dark patches upon
the heavy carpet. But Bonzo was uncon
scious of the prince s gaze. His hands were
linked behind his back. He did not smoke.
He paced the room restlessly. If he had
eyes for anything, it was for a white sheet of
paper spread out upon a writing table in the
alcove of the window. There his glance
rested often, as though some wonder would be
wrought by an unseen hand. He feared that
lines would appear upon the paper.

Count Feodor, the third man, sat upon a

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

sofa near the door. He had a Russian news
paper in his hand, but he did not read it.
His eyes turned often toward the silver clock.
He seefued to be waiting for some one who
would break the silence of the room. When,
at five minutes past nine, a carriage was
heard at the door below, he rose with a little
sigh of relief. At the same moment, Bonzo
stood quite still and uttered an exclamation
of satisfaction.

" Ha ! " he said, " they have come, then."

"You mean that she has come," said
Tolma, with a slight emphasis for the pro
noun."

"I wait and see," replied Bonzo diplo
matically. " I expect nothing, prince, from a
woman."

"And yet you owe everything to one, my
dear colonel."

Bonzo resumed his sentry duty, but at the
door he stopped suddenly. A lackey was
there to announce a guest.

"Mile. Best," cried the fellow in a loud
voice.

Marian entered the room.

She wore a black French hat, becoming and
unobtrusive. The cape which Paul had
bought her sat well upon her young
shoulders. Her gown was new and rich and
in excellent taste. Tolma chuckled when he
saw it, for he had caused it to be sent to her
that very day. He said to himself that,
gowned thus, this English girl might hold
her own in any room in Europe. There was
about her a dignity of presence, a sweet
graciousness, which no mere childish pretti-
ness of face could rival. She seemed born to
command. Nor did she betray the fear
which had dogged her steps when she set out
for the house of Feodor Talvi. She had been
read} to take the word of Tolma, and he
would answer for her safety.

" Bravo, bravo ! " he cried, struggling pain-
full}- to his feet. "I said that you would
come, mademoiselle. I told them that you
would not be afraid .

"Why should I be, prince?" she asked
with a pretty laugh. "Am I not among
friends? "

Again it was the old Marian who spoke, the
Marian of carnival, the light of the governor s
house.

"Certainly, you are among friends," re
peated the prince, while he raised her hand
to his lips with an eastern courtesy ; " you
have the word of Tolma.

" And the knowledge that I am in Eng
land," she said with simple pride.

Bonzo laughed harshly.

Mademoiselle prefers the English police,
he cried, with an iron gaiety " assuredly she
is among friends here."

Marian turned her great eyes upon him
and looked him full in the face.

"Monsieur," she said, with a gaiety to
which she had long been a stranger, "you
have helped me to my preference."

" Arrivons ! " exclaimed Tolma. "We
are not here to write histories. What has
been has been ; let us forget it."

" No woman could forget Colonel Bonzo,"
said Marian jestingly, with a laugh " at
least, if she had shaken hands with him."

Bonzo s great face flushed angrily, but
while he was still seeking a clever answer
Count Feodor slipped out of the shadows.

"Colonel," he said, "we forget the busi
ness upon which Mile. Best has been good
enough to come here tonight. Is it not time
for that?"

" Sans doute," exclaimed Tolma ; " to the
affairs. Why do we wait ? Mademoiselle is
ready, I am sure."

Marian looked from one to the other with
anxious eyes. Then she perceived the table
upon which the white paper was spread.

"I am quite ready," she said, though her
heart began to beat quickly "when you tell
me what you wish me to do."

Bonzo advanced to the table and set it
straight.

" Mademoiselle, " said he, "we have been
so long away from Russia that we forget our
own country. You, they tell us, have a
better memory. If you will make a little
map upon that paper it is possible that you
will have no cause to regret the trouble we
shall put you to. It should be a map of Fort
Constantine, mademoiselle."

He watched her as he spoke. She drew off
her gloves with trembling fingers. The hour
seemed supreme among all the hours of her
life. If she had forgotten ! If her memory
failed her now ! It was for Paul s sake, she
said to herself again and again. It was that
she might be his wife. The lights danced
before her eyes. The figures of the men were
blurred to her sight. She lived in a room of
shadows. The white paper seemed to spread
out until it became a mighty scroll upon
which her own doom or her own joy was to
be written. She prayed to God in her heart
to help her to win her lover back.

"A map of Fort Constantine? Oh, that is
easy, colonel ! "

She sat at the table, guiding herself thereto
with shaking fingers. Minutes passed and
she could not find the pen. Tolma put it into
her hand.

"Courage," he whispered. "It is for his
liberty, his life ; he is a prisoner in this
house."

She took the pen ; her hand ceased to
tremble. Quickly she drew the outline of

452

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the fort. The scarring upon the paper, the
ticking of the silver clock, were the only
sounds in the great drawingroom. Those
who watched her breathed with an effort.
The Man of Iron seen in the shadows was
like a figure of bronze.

Fifteen minutes passed. The woman had
forgotten where she sat. She drew upon the
paper with the skill of a trained draftsman.
She lived again under the shadow of the
mighty fortress. Kronstadt arose above the
sea of white waves. Line by line she con
quered it ; alone she went into the chambers
of the secrets ; the living death came near,
but could not touch her.

"C est fini" she said.

The three were about her chair now. The
paper was in Bonzo s hands. Side by side
with another map he laid it. For ten min
utes no word escaped him. Then he drew
himself up erect and delivered his judgment.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "there are few
in Russia who could draw a better map than
that."

She did not answer him, nor the others, as
they exclaimed upon the excellence of her
handiwork. Rather, she asked herself again
if they had mocked her ; if they had brought
her to the house to charge these things
against her. And while she stood, doubting
and fearful, she knew not of what, the fold
ing doors which divided the great room from
a smaller one behind it were thrown open by
one of the servants, and she saw that the
little room was fitted up as a chapel, and that
an old priest stood before a shrine upon
which many candles were burning.

XXV.

PAUL heard a clock strike eight, and re
membered that he had been nearly thirty
hours a prisoner in Talvi s house. It seemed
to him that a century of hours had sped
since he kissed Marian s pretty lips and told
her that he would return to her without
delay. He was sure that he would never
look upon her face again, would live his life
alone in dishonor and in exile. The lamp
which they had set in his room wounded his
eyes with its garish light. He wished for dark
ness, that he might accustom himself to the
thought of unending captivity. He did not
believe that any power on earth could snatch
him from the relentless hand of his own
countrymen which had in treachery struck
him down. They would send him to the
fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. She whom
he loved to call his little wife would look for
him and look in vain. He dared not ask
himself how she would face the world alone ;
for that thought was to be while life was,

the unanswered question, the surpassing
punishment of his folly.

The room in which they had locked him
was one of the garrets of the house. A dor
mer window opened on to a sloping roof,
high above the surrounding roofs. But the
window was boarded up, and iron bars, newly
fixed, forbade any hope of it. He saw that
Talvi must have foreseen the need of such a
room when he sent the telegram. They had
made up their minds to get the spy out of
England at any cost ; friendship would count
for nothing with a Russian who believed that
he was serving his country. Even if Marian
went to her English friends and told them
her story, he doubted that those friends could
help him. False charges would be made ;
his extradition would be demanded by a
government powerful to enforce its wishes.
They would brand him as a criminal and
carry him back to the unnamable horrors of
the fortress of the Neva. And Marian he
clenched his hands when he remembered
her. She would be standing at the window
waiting for him. He pictured her to him
self the wan face, the great thoughtful eyes,
the quick girlish movements, the gestures he
had loved, the gold brown hair, the winning
voice. He would hear that voice no more.
It must be to him but a memory through
eternity. The way of pilgrimage was before
him still, but the hand which had been locked
in his would never touch his own again.

There was a little furniture in the room, a
basket chair, a shelf of books, a mahogany
table, a camp bedstead. He had been there
but a very short time when the Russian serv
ant brought a lamp to permit him to see these
things. He did not speak to the man, nor
question him, for he knew well how little
profit he would have of such a venture.
When the servant was gone, he resented the
light that had been left. The gable of the
roof was dark and ominous above him. He
moved in ghostly shadows, for they had
robbed him even of the day. So still was
the place that he could hear a clock ticking in
the room below. No sound came up from
the distant street. The roar of the city s
life was as a falling of great waters heard
afar.

It was near to five o clock of the afternoon
then, he remembered. Marian must have
begun to ask herself what mischance had
overtaken him. Rightly he could hope
nothing from the friendship of a helpless
girl and yet there were moments when he
hoped much. She would tell the English
police that he had gone to Talvi s liouse.
The police would begin to ask questions. It
was possible that the whole of his story would
be made known. And then and then ! He

THE WOMAN OF KRONSTADT.

453

dreamed even of liberty won by her. She
would not rest, day or night, in her quest of
the truth. She might save him yet, even
from the hand of the Russian.

The weary night dragged on, but the man
neither slept nor ate. The supper they had
put upon his table reminded him of the short
day of content he had known in London.
What a gift of the joy of life it had been to
sit by her side all day, to hear her morning
words of greeting, her pretty good night, to
hold her in his arms, and to say that therein
was the place of his abiding rest. But for
the thought that in some way, he knew
not how, a miracle would bring her to his
side even in that house of darkness, he would
have lost his reason. The impulse to beat
upon the door of his prison, to cry aloud for
mercy, was scarce to be controlled. The
thought that she would come alone em
powered him to play the man. He listened
for her footstep through the long watches of
the terrible night, and laughed at himself for
the fancy. At dawn he fell asleep, and
dreamed that her arms were about his neck.

It was a quarter past nine o clock on the
evening of the second day before any message
came to him from the outer world. He had
eaten a little dinner, and was asking himself
all the old questions when a sound upon the
stair without brought him quickly to his feet,
and he stood with heart aquiver, wondering
who came. For a spell, brought down to
earth suddenly from the gaudy clouds of
dreamland, the thought lingered that it
might be Marian s step. He was still laugh
ing at himself for so foolish a notion when
the door swung back upon its hinges and
Count Feodor stood before him.

The count s face was flushed, for he had
run up the stairs, and he was boisterous as a
lad who carries good news. He had regret
ted with a friend s f egret the indignity put
upon Paul by those whom he served. He
welcomed with a friend s joy that those in
dignities were so soon to be forgotten.

" Paul, mon vieux, c est fini ! " he gasped,
while he held out both his hands to the
prisoner. "You are to remain here no
longer. They have discovered their mistake
they know all they have sent for her she
is here."

Paul staggered like a drunken man.

"She is here oh, my God !-"

" It is Tolma s work," continued the count,
with a child s pride of his words ; " he dis
covered that she could make the maps. He
is down stairs with her now. You are to go
there. They want you at once."

"They want me at once?" repeated the
dazed man. " But look at me my face, my
hands, my beard

" Ivan shall see to that. He will not be
ten minutes. There is no time."

Paul stood quite still. He seemed to read
in that instant the moment of Talvi s words.

"For what should there be time?" he
asked very quietly.

For the priest to marry you to the little
lady who knows so much about Kronstadt."

Paul reeled out into the light.

He \vas sobbing like a child.

XXVI.

A CANDELABRUM set before the altar in
the chapel of Count Talvi s house cast a soft
light upon the face of the old priest and upon
the little group around him. Huge and un
wieldy, like some broken pillar, was the
figure of Bonzo back in the shadows. But the
Man of Iron thought and planned no longer.
The difficult emprise which had carried him
to England was accomplished. For the
aftermath he cared nothing. Kronstadt had
lost a good soldier, but her secrets were safe.
The clever little woman who knelt before the
altar with the light of love awakened in her
eyes would betray the citadel no more. All
else was indifferent to the servant of the
Gate. Love was the recreation of children.
He had never loved.

Near to the Man of Iron sat old Tolma.
There was upon his face a look of sly
triumph and of elation. He had crossed wits
with Bonzo of Kronstadt and had defeated
him. The pretty English girl would bring
sunshine into his house in Paris. Paul
should become a son to him in deed and act.
This strange marriage, at night, in a house
of West London, appealed to an insatiable
appetite for romance. He recalled the faces
of all the women to whom he would willingly
have given himself under like circumstances.
What a roll call it vas ! The subjects of his
amours would have numbered a battalion.

The remaining witness to this strangest of
strange marriages was the master of the
house. Count Talvi showed how much his
old friend s happiness meant to him. He
came often to Paul s side, he whispered
words of congratulation. Hither and thither
he moved with silent step, now to help the
priest, now to give orders to the lackeys. He
was a servant of Russia still, but this was his
holiday.

The priest raised his hands to bless those
whom God had joined together in the holy
mystery of marriage. For one long moment
Paul held his little wife s burning face in a
kiss of love. Then all rose and passed to the
great diningroom below.

Here lights from many electric lamps shone
upon Talvi s guests. Lackeys were, busy at

454 MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the tables laid for supper. It was the moment " The train ? " she asked wonderingly.

for congratulations. " Yes, the train to your Devonshire. It is

" You forgive me ? " cried old Bonzo, hold- there you will go, until the house in Paris is

ing out both his hands to the trembling girl. prepared for you."

" You forgive an old soldier for making you a " To little Dick ! " she said and the words

Russian? " were his reward.

Marian turned her laughing eyes to his. * * * *

" I don t know what I am or where I am," The mail rushed oil toward the west. By

she said bewilderedly. "I cannot believe sleeping villages, through silent towns, above

that any of you are real." dark swirling rivers, away to the gardens of

Bonzo laughed his great laugh, which filled England it carried the man and the woman

the house with a tumultuous sound. who had suffered. But the day of suffering

" Fichtre ! " he roared. "I, Bonzo, I am was forgotten.

not real oh, c est bien drdle ! Will you not In the corner of their carriage Paul held

kiss me, my child, and see if I am not real ? " Marian close in his strong arms. A rug was

Tolma, waddling laborious!} , pvit his arms wrapped about them. The wan light of the

round the girl s neck and kissed her on both feeble lamp fell dimly upon their happy

cheeks. faces.

"You must eat and drink, little girl," he " It is good to rest," she said, as his arm

said ; " you must remember that you are the closed about her, and she laid her pretty head

daughter of Tolma. It is ten o clock and the upon his shoulder,

train is at midnight." " The rest shall be forever," he answered.

THE END.

TO DIE AND LEAVE IT ALL.

ANOTHER day was hastening to its ending,

Through painted panes the level sunbeams wrought
Rich colors with the room s rich colors blending,
The while the rich man saddened at his thought :
" This mansion filled with costly treasure,

This wealth that comes at call,

This endless chain of days of pleasure

To die and leave it all ! "

Another midnight now the bell was tolling,

And all unwelcome was the news it brought,
The last lap of the day s full web unrolling,

The while the student saddened at his thought :
" These books that hold such wealth of pleasure,

That line the fourfold wall ;
And all man s mighty unread treasure
To die and leave it all ! "

The breath of spring, that bright immortal maiden ;

The glance of summer, full of life and light ;
The speech of autumn, with sweet memories laden;
The sight of winter in his robe of white :
The living pageant daily passing ;

Life s pleasures great and small ;
True friendship dear and love surpassing
To die and leave it all !

For when comes death to pay that visit certain,

Whoe er we be on whom death wills to call,
On life s unfinished play death drops the curtain,

And much or little, must we leave it all.

Hunter MacCulloch.

MRS. BLIMBER S LITERARY EVENING.

BY JAMES L. FORD.

How the literary set of Fairtown stole a march on their prospective hostess
A story demonstrating the truth in the poet s words anent the "best laid
schemes o mice an men."

WHEN Mrs. .Blimber determined to in
vite the members of the literary class
to which she belongs to come to her house
for a whole evening of literary thought and
discussion, topped off with salad and other
refreshments for she knows the male of her
species she realized that she was approach
ing an important crisis in the career of cul
ture upon which she had embarked two
years before, by leaping at one bound from
Bertha M. Clay to Browning and Ibsen.

Several other members of the class had
given literary evenings at their homes, with
more or less success, but Mrs. Blimber, who
does nothing by halves, determined that
nothing should prevent her evening from
being the most brilliant one of the season,
and therefore she invited not only her fel
low members of the literary class, but a
dozen or more of the most eligible and
agreeable men that the thriving city of Fair-
town could boast of. Moreover, she intro
duced a novel element of mystery by an
nouncing that a certain well known writer
would be present and deliver an address on
" The Ethics of Culture," a title which she
rightly judged was meaningless enough to
possess a strong attraction for the very
brightest and most inquiring minds in the
class. She refused to mention the name of
the distinguished author, in order that they
might be all the more surprised. Her dear
est friend, Mrs. Brownell, however, declared
that she was afraid the rest of them would
have a chance to read up about the author,
too, and prophesied that on the night of the
reception Mrs. Blimber would show an
amazing familiarity with the entire career
and all the works of her invited guest.

The guests were invited for Friday eve
ning, and on Tuesday Mrs. Blimber began to
receive letters from the men whom she had
invited that indicated extraordinary social
and commercial activity in the town on that
particular night. Charley Dayton, for ex
ample, the young man on whom all the girls
fairly doted, had just taken an important
case which would keep him at his office in
consultation with Judge Sassafras until
nearly ten o clock. He would endeavor,

however, to "stop in" on his way home, if
only to thank Mrs. Blimber for her kind in
vitation, and pay his compliments to her
guests. John Forrest, too, would be busy
that evening taking his aunt to the half past
nine train and seeing that she was comfort
ably ensconced in the sleeping car for her
long journey to New York. He would
"only be too glad," though, to call on his
way from the station and tell Mrs. Blimber
how deeply he regretted the necessity that
compelled him to decline her invitation.
Three more notes of similar import came
crowding in, one after another, and then the
prospective hostess realized that it was the
intention of the gentlemen whom she had
invited to avoid the literary part of the even
ing and come just in time for the supper. Evi
dently they cared nothing for the identity of
the well known author who was to be pres
ent. In fact, as she remarked to her hus
band with some bitterness, oysters and beer
cut a great deal more ice with them than
literature and their immortal souls.

However, she consoled herself with the
thought that she had secured an author with
whom not one member of the class except
herself was really familiar, and she was sure
of this because she had not heard of him her
self until a fortnight before, and her recently
acquired knowledge of his works was the
one thing that raised her above the level in
tellectual plane on which they all had their
literary being. She had first heard of him
through the lecture bureau to which she ap
plied for a high class entertainer, and, be
sides, a friend in New York had assured her
that Herbert Stringem Somerville, author of
"Where the Brook Babbles," was really the
"coming man" in literature. Thereupon
Mrs. Blimber hastily secured his services,
with the understanding that the matter
should be kept a secret, and immediately sat
down to read his delightful book from be
ginning to end, and to commit certain pas
sages in it to memory in order that she
might have them ready for conversational
purposes. Mrs. Brownell, coming upon
her unawares in the reading room of the
town library, found her thus engaged, and

456

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

suspected from the nervous rapidity with
which her usually tranquil friend slipped the
book under her cloak that something was
up.

It is easier to stem the current of the
Mississippi than the encroaching flood of
Mrs. Brownell s curiosity when that devour
ing tide has once been aroused, and it was
an easy enough matter for her to find out
from the assistant librarian the name of the
book that Mrs. Blimber had just taken out.
The rest can be best described by quoting
the words she addressed to the half dozen of
her intimates whom she summoned to her
house that afternoon:

" Twon t do for Maria to try and fool me,
for I know her only too durned well. Why,
the very way she hustled that book out of
sight the minute I came along was enough
to raise my suspicions, and when I saw the
name of that author what s his name, Som-
erville? I knew it was the one she had en
gaged to lecture to us, and was reading up
about on the sly. Now, I tell you what
we ll do. I ve made inquiries at the book
store, and I find he s got out three books
beside the one in the library, and Maria s
drawn that out and won t send it back, you
can bet, until after the lecture. Now, we ll
just put up half a dollar apiece and send
down to New York for those books, so that
when Maria springs that surprise of hers on
us she ll find there ain t anybody in the class
but what is better posted on him than she is.
Meantime, don t let a soul outside the class
into the secret, and don t go asking for the
book at the library or in the book store, or
anywhere that ll give us away. If we see
Maria, we ll tell her we understand it s How-
ells, or Charles Dudley Warner, or Mrs.
Burnett, that s going to give the lecture."

It was with a wide and generous smile
of ill concealed triumph on her face that
Mrs. Blimber welcomed her guests to
her drawingroom on that eventful Friday
evening ; a smile that became intense and
rosy at the moment when she led to the im
provised platform the distinguished author,
who had been spirited into the town late
in the afternoon and had been kept by her
husband in the diningroom during the ar-
"rival of the company. Mr. Somerville was
introduced in a few words of eulogy, and
immediately began his interesting discourse
on the " Ethics of Culture." He was heart
ily applauded at its close, and then his host
ess stationed herself beside him while the
guests came surging up, with Mrs. Brownell
on the crest of the wave, to be presented to
him.

" Do I understand you to say," she ex
claimed in honeyed tones, "that this is really
the author of Heart Throbs ?"

" No, no," whispered Mrs. Blimber hast
ily; "he wrote Where the Brook Babbles. "

" Well, my dear, surely we re not so be
nighted in Fairtown that we haven t read
that. But Heart Throbs, my dear Mr.
Somerville, is the book that we adore, and
I would advise you, Maria, if you have
never heard of it, to go out and get it to
morrow morning early."

" Isn t he the man that wrote Sweet
Thoughts at Eventide ?" whispered Mrs.
Jack Craven to her hostess.

" No, he wrote Where the Brook Bab
bles, " replied the other nervously.

" I appeal to you, Mr. Somerville," cried
Mrs. Craven gaily; " Mrs. Blimber says that
you didn t write Sweet Thoughts at Even
tide, but if you didn t I don t want to be in
troduced to you. So there!"

" I must acknowledge that I did," replied
the guest of the evening, with an affable
grin, for Mrs. Craven is decidedly good
looking and coquettish, and there is no liv
ing author who has any rooted objection to
the sort of flattery that proceeds from the
lips of her kind.

" There, I told you so, Maria!" cried Mrs.
Jack triumphantly; " but I do believe you re
the only woman in the whole room who
hasn t read that lovely book from beginning
to end. We re not very literary here in
Fairtown, Mr. Somerville, but I assure you
we re not so far behind the times but what
we ve read nearly everything that you ve
written. If you can stop in at my house to
morrow morning before you go away, I ll
promise to have three lovely girls to meet
you, and every one of them just dying to
tell you how much they think of you."

Then Mrs. Brownell and Mrs. Craven
were swept aside by the throng that had
been waiting to tell Mr. Somerville how
much they liked " Pearly Tears," and to ask
poor, mortified Mrs. Blimber how she could
possibly have read " Where the Brook Bab
bles " without going out and getting every
thing else that had been written by the same
author.

The climax was reached just as the guests
were departing, when Sam, the bright young
colored boy who drives and runs errands for
Mrs. Brownell, and had been smuggled into
the hall by his mistress under the pretense
that he had come to bring her an umbrella,
fixed his round, rolling eyes on Mr. Somer
ville and then inquired innocently of his
mistress, of course in the hearing of Mrs.
Blimber, if that was "really the gemman dat
wro+ " dat Pearly Tear book dat was so
great."

It was immediately after this that the
guests melted away, and Mrs. Blimber was
left alon? with her great grief.

THE STAGE

THU SATELLITES TRIUMPH.
We present portraits this month of two
leading women who, during the past season,
have appeared in plays that have enabled
them to eclipse the stars themselves in win
ning popular favor. Isabel Irving s deli
cately toned rendering of the Comtesse in
"A Marriage of Convenience," was conceded
to be the conspicuously successful characteri
zation in that John Drew production.

That she looked the part made it not one
whit the easier to play ; the rather it called
for a still deeper sinking of the artist s own
identity to satisfy the greater things an au
dience would expect. And these Miss Irving
gave in lavish abundance, establishing be
yond doubt her right to the post vacated by
Maude Adams.

Isabel Irving is a native of Bridgeport,
Connecticut, and comes of a family who,

VIRGINIA HARXKI) IN "THH ADVENTUKKS OF LADY URSULA."
Front a photograph by dickering, Boston.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

until she herself entered the profession, were
quite unconnected with the theater. Begin
ning her career with Rosina Yokes, she soon
passed to Daly s, where she remained until
she joined the Lyceum stock as leading

Sothern. It is taken in the disguise assumed
for the name part of " The Adventures of
Lady Ursula," the new coined}- written by
Anthony Hope, and which was produced with
great success in Philadelphia last December.

1 IUKBli DAVIS, OF THE "WAV DOWN KAST " COMPANY.
From a pliotsgrapli [&gt;y Hall, Ne M \ "ork.

woman, succeeding Georgia Cay van. She is
a woman whose purposes are. all intensely
earnest, and, off the stage, is less like an
actress than almost any other member of the
profession. Her taste runs to books, of which
she has a notable collection in her summer
home, close to Railway, New Jersey.

The other portrait is that of Virginia
Harned, wife and leading woman of E. H.

Miss Harned carries the weight of the piece,
which is being reserved for the opening of
Mr. Sothern s next New York engagement at
the Lyceum, in the autumn.

Like Miss Irving, Yirginia Harned was
leading woman at this house (during the
Sothern seasons) for two years or more, and,
another case of similarity, first came under
notice through association with Rosina

ISABEL IRVING.

Frojn a plwtograph by Sarany, New York.

460

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Yokes, but in the latter case merely by im
itating her style. Her initial hit in original
work was in "The Dancing Girl," and of
course her creation of Trilby is not yet for
gotten. Miss Harned was born in Boston, but

her husband, Joseph R. Grismer, who, though
he has no part in "Way Down East," is a
guiding spirit in its presentation.

It is more than a decade now since she made
her debut at the California Theater. Pass-

RUS1C COGHLAN AS "LADY JANET " IX " THK WHITE HEATHER."
From a pliotograph by Sarony, AVrc ] ork.

iii her early youth lived for several years in
Virginia.

CALIFORNIA TO THE, FRONT AGAIN.
Ill Phoebe Davies, leading woman of " Way
Down East," we have another of the vast
throng of California girls who have risen to
prominence on the stage. She belongs to
one of the oldest families in San Francisco,
and counts herself as especially fortunate in
having always played in the company with

ing from that house to the Baldwin, Miss
Davies laid the foundation for an all around
equipment by impersonating a different char
acter every week, sometimes two or three
within that period, and now and then, in an ex
cess of enthusiasm, "doubling" in the same
evening. In this way she has shifted from
Rosalind to Jlf /iss, from Camille to Hazel
Kirke, and through it all has rejoiced in al
most invariably playing opposite to her hus
band.

THE STAGK.

461

Mr. and Mrs. Grismer are favorites in so
ciety. Their previous long stay in the metrop
olis was some four years ago, when " The
New South " had its extended run at the
Broadway. In " Way Down East " she is the

throughout the all season run of the piece in
New York. Her brother Charles new play,
" The Royal Box," is acknowledged by all to
be entitled to place among the half dozen
distinct hits of the year, and in his company

GF.RTKUDIC COGHLAX, OF "THE ROYAL BOX" COMPANY.
From a photograph by Hall, AVrr ] \n-k.

" woman with a past " whom Burr Mclntosh,
as the stern farmer, turns from his home.

THE COGHLANS.

This name is once more prominent as it
has beenso many times hitherto in American
dramatic offerings. Rose Coghlan, taking the
leading part in " The White Heather " for the
first few weeks, made such a hit as Lady Janet
Maclintock, that she was induced to remain

is his daughter Gertrude, appearing briefly
as Juliet in the play scene of the fourth act.
The Coghlans do not come of theatrical
people, but their father was of that profession
located just next door journalism. He was
Francis Coghlan ; he started the Continental
guides bearing his name, and was a friend of
Dickens, Buhver Lytton, and Charles Reade.
Charles became a lawyer, but marrying an
actress, took up the stage, an example soon

462

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

after imitated by his sister, who made her first
appearance at Greenwich, Scotland, as one of
the witches in "Macbeth." She did not
burn the broth, nor did she set the river on

Her first success here was at Wallack s
destined to win for her so many laurels there
after where she played in the one act
comedy now prominent in the Kendals re-

EDWIN AKDEN AS "SIR JUHN OXOX " IX "A LADY OF QUALITY."
From a photograph by Fredericks, New J ork.

fire with her genius in this uncanny role, her
first hit being reserved for L/ondon in 1870,
when she was seventeen, where, at the Court
Theater, she appeared as Tilly Price in
" Nicholas Nickleby." Then she supported
Toole and Adelaide Neilson, and after that
"Dundreary" Sothern induced her to come
to America.

pertory, "A Happy Pair." Returning to
England two years later, she was associated
with two notably long runs as Viola in
"Twelfth Night," for two hundred nights,
at the Princess" Theater, Manchester, and as
Lady J\Ianclcn in "All for Her," for four
hundred nights, at the St. James , London.
Meantime Charles had come to America, in

THP: STAGE.

463

MARIE BURROUGHS, OF " 15KSIDK THK UoNMK UKIKK HUSH" COMPANY.
From a pliotograph by A line Dupont, New 1 ~ork.

response to an offer from Auguslin Daly,
and Wallack soon had the sister back again.

Then came her electrifying hit as Stephanie
in " Forget Me Not," played opposite to Os
mond Tearle s Horace Welby. From that
time on Rose Coghlan remained leading lady
at Wallack s, which meant reigning favorite
with metropolitan theater goers, until the dis-
bandtnent of the stock company. In the
great all star production of " Hamlet," at the
Metropolitan Opera House, May 21, 1888,
given as a testimonial to Lester Wallack, on
the occasion of his retirement from the stage,
Miss Coghlan was the Plaver Queen.

The parts in which she has gained the
greatest favor with the public are undoubtedly

Stephanie \\\ " Forget Me Not," and Zicka in
" Diplomacy." Her own favorite, we believe,
is Suzanne in "A Scrap of Paper." Her
ideal of personal enjoyment is a cross country
gallop on a horse which few could manage,
and she regards the stage as the only calling
that pays women well for their services.

Miss Coghlan has been married for some
years to John T. Sullivan, who, when "The
White Heather " goes on the road, is to have
the leading part created here by Frank
Carlvle.

ANGLOMANIA IX STAGELAND.
Nobody will deny that Charles Frohman
is the most enterprising of our American

KI&gt; BARRYMORE, OF HENRY IRVING S COMPANY,
From a photograph fry Ellis, London.

THE STAGE.

465

managers. And he deserves the high posi
tion he has- attained, by winning it through
sheer pluck and perseverance. But we all
have our weaknesses, and no doubt those
that afflict men on whom the sun of pub
licity shines with rare effulgence seem more
pitiable because of their conspicuousness.
And Frohman s is his Anglomania.

He was seized by it last summer when
" Secret Service " made its great London hit.
After raging with mo re or less virulence all
winter, in the shape of flaring announce
ments on his theater side walls and programs
to the effect that he was also of " the Duke
of York s, London " which inaugurated his
management, by the way, with a flat failure
the attack culminated in the mingling of the
British and American colors in the Empire
auditorium in the early spring just before his
departure for London, where he was hoping
to make fresh conquests.

Far be it from MUNSEY S to deplore the
unity of nations already so closely knit in
language and mutual good will as England
and America, but excess of feeling in this
respect is apt to awaken suspicions when
there is business at the bottom of it.

The sensation of the winter season in
London theatricals was Beerbohm Tree s
" Julius Caesar," the first success his new
house, Her Majesty s, has had. The pro
duction of "Much Ado About Nothing," at
the St. James, was another Shakspere offer
ing that drew money to the box office.

Henry Irving s chagrin over the failure of
" Peter the Great " was acute, for it was only
natural that he should have desired much
from such an ambitious work of his own son.
We give another portrait of Ethel Barry-
more, who is not to marry young Irving after
all. She played Euphrosine in the ill fated
drama, but it is not to be assumed that the
speedy withdrawal of the piece was the cause
of the severed engagement.

PLAYERS IN THE "BRIER BUSH."
Chicago has set the seal of its approval
upon two important plays which are to be
submitted to New York s verdict in the
autumn "Nathan Hale" and "Beside the
Bonnie Brier Bush." The last named was to
have been produced in the metropolis in
February, but owing td the difficulty of
obtaining a suitable theater, other arrange
ments were made, and this latest offering in
the way of a dramatization of a popular novel
(or rather of two or three of them) became
the Easter attraction at McVicker s. The
piece has a superb cast, headed by J. H.
Stoddart, who in Lachlan Campbell has
added a magnificent portrayal to his gallery
of creations.
13

Kate Carnegie is enacted by Marie Bur
roughs, who is to be congratulated on choos
ing so worthy a vehicle in which to return to
a vocation from which she has for so long a
time been absent. It will be remembered
that she shared with Willard the triumphs
achieved by the original presentation of
Barrie s " Professor s Love Story." Miss Bur
roughs is still another of the California girls
who have won distinction in the theater.
Her mother, Mrs. Farrington, is said to have
been one of the belles of the Golden Gate
city.

Mr. Mansfield has at last brought forward
"The First Violin. "_ The New York critics
scored him roundly for it, but as the public
crowded the theater and never failed to
enjoy his German interpolations which
caused these same critics their most unhappy
moments it is quite probable that this most
autocratic of players will be more rigid than
ever in keeping to the even tenor of his way.
Nothing so convinces a man of his own infal
libility as success.

* * * *

Try to whistle "Unchain the Dogs of
War" just after you have whistled the " El
Capitan March and you will be confronted
with a very pretty feat in musical memory.
It is apparent that Sousa has modeled " The
Bride Elect very closely after his first great
operatic success, and indeed he could not
have a better model. Although he has made
no mistake in going back to Mr. Klein as
the librettist for "The Charlatan," his forth
coming venture, there is much that is enjoy
able in "The Bride Elect." The "Cake
Walk," in act second, possesses a, threefold
charm novelty and sightliness set to a tune
ful air.

* * * *

Edwin Arden,- the Sir John Oxon of "A
Lady of Quality," is a Virginian by birth.
His first appearance was made in Chicago, in
1882, as 7yrrelin "Richard III." Then he
came to New York to replace Henry Miller as
Herbert in "Young Mrs. Winthrop," in the
Mallory days of the Madison Square Theater,
but he is most widely known as a star, hav
ing traveled for six years with his own com
pany in " Eagle s Nest," following which he
was for two seasons with Crane. At this
writing he is leading man with the new stock
company at the Harlem Columbus Theater.

It is announced, by the way, that, begin
ning with next autumn, Julia Arthur will con
fine herself to Shaksperian roles.

* * * *
London appears to be the only city that

cares for "La Poupe"e. " Its original run in

466

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Paris was not a lengthy one, and even with
all Mr. Daly could do for the opera on its
revival at his theater this spring, it speedily
gave way to the ever popular " Circus Girl."
Perhaps if the public could be induced to
attend more than one performance of " La
Poupe, " it would grow to enjoy it, for
some of the music is very taking, and the
story, when anal yzed, has really an engaging
turn to it. But, taken as a whole, the piece
lacks the go and swing of "The Geisha"
and "The Circus Girl."

Virginia Earl never looked prettier than
as the doll, and she succeeded admirably in
making a staccato impersonation realistic
without suffering it to become monotonous.
But then Miss Earl is all the while accom
plishing the seemingly impossible by making
each new creation more fetching than the

last.

* * * *

Were the leading rule enacted by any one
but Mrs. Fiske, the critics who have raved
over "A Bit of Old Chelsea" would recog
nize that curtain raiser for what it is a
strained combination of hackneyed situations
true to no life but that which exists between
book covers. A more unfortunate selection
for a companion piece to "Love Will Find
the Way" could not well have been chosen.
When two plays make up an evening s bill we
have come to expect dramas in strong con
trast with each other. To be sure, in the two
under consideration the central figure is
essentially different in each, but there are
small similarities of background that force
themselves unpleasantly upon the spectator s
notice.

General complaint is made as to the in
ability of the public to hear what Mrs. Fiske
says in certain portions of her scenes. No
matter how deeply absorbed an artist may be
in her characterization, if she persistently
turns her back on the footlights and simply
allows realism to have full swing, forgetting
that she is not performing merely for her
own pleasure, she makes a serious mistake.
People do not go to the theater to assist at a
performance which they do not catch.

* * * *

With any other man than Crane in the
name part, "His Honor the Mayor " would
not rise above the level of an ordinary farce
comedy, such as might be used as a stop gap
after a failure while a new piece was in re
hearsal. The first act is a long time in set
tling down to business. The authors appear
to have been undecided as to just which
thread of the plot to follow. But once well
under way, and with Mr. Crane s admirable
company to infuse the dash and "go" this
style of drama calls for, this " mere trifle,"

put forward in the supplementary season, at
once stamped itself a success.

Of course, Crane will not add to his artistic
reputation thereby, but in returning to the
lighter work with which he was at first wholly
identified he gives great pleasure to a host of
admirers, and when he can have such plays
as "A Virginia Courtship" as a pitce de
resistance he may well afford, now and then,
to frolic for an evening. The last act is by
far the best, and is well worth waiting for.
Annie Irish does splendid work in it, and her
final exit after hurling a wordy thunderbolt
at each of her associates is strikingly novel.
Percy Haswell looks particularly pretty, and
is in every way worthy of the prize she cap
tures at the end of the performance.
* * * *

Unanimous opinion votes the first act of
The Moth and the Flame the best of the
three, but this by no means implies that the
interest of the play falls off as the story is un
folded. Indeed, there is an episode in the
last act the comments made about the wed
ding presents which is as good as anything
in the piece. Mr. Fitch, however, has made
the mistake of trying to save too much of his
original one act play " Harvest," from which
"The Moth and the Flame" has been ex
panded. The scene at the interrupted mar
riage service should be much quickened, re
gardless of whether it would cut the act be
low the ordinary limits or not. An audience
Is far less likely to find fault with an act that
is too short than with a scene that is too long.
Another weakness in the play is the awk
wardness in getting rid of Mr. Kelcey, the
villain, at the close. The best that can be
said for it is that it is bungling.

For the rest, it is no wonder " The Moth
and the Flame " has caught on at the Lyceum.
It is just such a reflex of the society life best
known to the patrons of this fashionable
theater as ought to result in a succession
of crowded houses until warm weather
intervenes.

A delightful feature of this Kelcey-Shan-
non organization is the acting of Sarah
Cowell Le Moyne, who plays opposite her
husband, the old time favorite, W. J. Le
Moyne. Mrs. Le Moyne has long delighted
audiences by her readings, but she has simply
taken the town by storm with her splendid
work in the role of the divorcee in Mr.
Fitch s play. It is her first part since she
left Mr. Palmer s company some years ago,
when, soon after she began her career, he
asked her to play an old woman. Rather
than do this she accepted the alternative of
quitting the boards, and the furore she has
created as Mrs. Lorrhner has shown the pub
lic what they have been missing all this time.

STORIETTES

SIDE TRACKED AT BANFF.

AN old fashioned idea still in vogue with
certain people is that Satan finds employ
ment for all idle hands; on close investiga
tion, however, Cupid would be found to be
an even more ubiquitous taskmaster than
his satanic majesty. Occasionally the two
form a close partnership, and then the re
sult is tragic, but as a rule the little god of
love works on ordinary, commonplace lines.
His tasks are easy, too, as, for instance, in
this case, when his employees simply had to
press the button and he did the rest.

The west bound express on the Canadian
Pacific was side tracked at Banff waiting for
the east bound trc.in. Lattimer Tracy, a
kodak enthusiast in the first stages of the
disease, had photographed every attractive
bit from Montreal to Banff. His rolls of
film would have made a fairly complete
panorama of this most picturesque of all
transcontinental lines, with occasional lapses,
of course, when night had interfered with
his labors. From the back platform, from
the steps of his own car, and from the obser
vation smoker, he had " shot " the flying
landscape. From early dawn until the last
faint light of the lingering northern twilight
had faded away he had labored.

At Banff he was standing on the last plat
form of the train, and had jotted down his
photographic memoranda of snow crowned
Inglismaldie, of Peechee s dominating cone,
with a distant glimpse of the beautiful hotel
nestling on the mountainside. He was feel
ing well pleased with his work, for these last
views were superb, and if they could be suc
cessfully developed would doubtless prove
a source of pride to him.

A shrill whistle, an oncoming roar, and
the express thundered past on the main
track. As it slowed up at the station Tracy s
train moved on, but not before he had indel
ibly fixed on the film of his kodak a glimpse
of the back platform of the passing train.
He raised his head and saw, vaguely, a girl
bending over a kodak focused, apparently,
on him, but before she looked up his car hr.d
rounded a curve and she was lost to view.

Tracy returned to New York after several
weeks, and one of his first acts was to de
velop his " views." With the luck of the
ordinary amateur, a few of them were good,
but most of them were bad. Hoary old Sir
Donald had diminished his crest into the
eye of the kodak to such an extent that he

was hardly distinguishable from the low ly
ing hills that border Lake Superior, while
glaciers, lakes and rivers, redwoods and
farm lands, were hopelessly confused. Only
one view was sharp and clear. Framed by
the doorway of a sleeper, a young girl looked
straight from the plate into Tracy s eyes.

" By Jove!" he exclaimed," what a beauty!
She must be the Banff girl."

The Banff girl she was and the Banff girl
she remained for days, weeks, and even
months. Tracy printed her off and she was
charming; in a blue print she was beautiful,
and blue prints are crucial tests of beauty;
on carbon paper she was exquisite, and with
each experimental printing her image pene
trated deeper and deeper into Tracy s heart.
At last he enlarged her; or, not quite at last,
for the crowning point of his folly was to
frame her in silver and install her on his
dressing table as mistress of his heart and
possessions. There she stood for several
weeks, returning his glances not in Kind,
perhaps, but in number and known to him
only by the prosaic name of the " Banff
girl." Then, one evening, she was chris
tened, and it was in this wise:

Jack Seymour ran up to Tracy s rooms
to communicate some bit of personal in
formation; wandering idly about the room,
he saw the photograph, picked it up, glanced
at it carelessly, then put it down. " Good
photograph," he said; " amateur, of course.
I didn t knowyou knew Edith so well. She s
a jolly girl, isn t she?"

" N-no y-yes," stammered Tracy. Edith!
and here was a man who knew her! But
what a fool he would look to ask the name
of a girl whose photograph was enshrined
in the privacy of his dressing table! In a
moment more Seymour was gone. Tracy
felt a mad impulse to rush after him and ask
who, what, and where Edith " was, but
pride held him back, and the next day Sey
mour sailed for Egypt.

By this time Edith s photographic pre
sentment filled Lattimer Tracy s life, and the
entire world was merely a dense veil hiding
her from him. He went to every dance and
dinner, he even haunted teas, hoping that
he might find her. Once he was invited to
a dinner to meet " My cousin, Miss Edith
Bainbridge of Victoria." His heart beat
with an overwhelming joy as he read the
words. At last she would be his! He en
tirely ignored all intermediate steps of ac
quaintance, intimacy, proposal, and accept-

468

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ance. He gazed at his photograph with rapt
adoration. " Mine, mine, mine!" he cried,
and the sweet eyes smiled back at him from
under the wind swept hair.

When he stood before his hostess that
night his face was white and his voice hoarse
with emotion.

" Edith, Miss Bainbridge, Mr. Tracy."
The words were spoken and Tracy turned to
meet her. Alas! this Edith was not his
Edith, but only an elderly Scotch spinster.
Tracy never knew how he lived through that
evening, but when he returned to his room
and his Edith, he was more hopelessly her
slave than ever. " I will find you some
time," he cried passionately, " in spite of the
world and fate! " The world and fate, be it
understood, were represented by his hostess
and her innocent cousin.

The winter drew to a close, and Tracy was
growing hopeless. Should he start out in
quest of her, he asked himself? But what a
hopeless quest! Should he follow Seymour
and ask, as incidentally as possible, his
Edith s name? But to brand himself an
idiot in Seymour s eyes was distasteful in
the extreme.

It was Saturday, and Tracy was on his way
to an afternoon reception. No hope of
finding Edith led him thither, but one of his
friends had asked him to help her to enter
tain her guests. He waited for a moment
in the antechamber, realizing from the voices
that only girls were in the adjoining room.
Then he heard a name that made his heart
stand still.

" Don t tell me, Edith Seymour, that you
have worn his picture ever since."

" Yes, I have. You can call it silly if you
like, but of all the kodaks that I took, from
Yokohama to Montreal, his was the only
one that came out. Of course there was a
fate in that. Could any one doubt it? It s
in this very locket now, and I ll wear it until
I meet him. I know I will some time, I m
absolutely positive of that."

" How romantic!"

" But show it to us."

" I wonder if you ever will see him."

" I ll wager you don t."

" What will you say to him?"

" No, I won t. Of course, I will," Miss
Seymour answered to all these exclamations.
" And I ll say "

" Oh, how do you do, Mr. Tracy? I didn t
hear you come in," exclaimed the hostess.
" It s awfully good of you to come so early.
You know every one here, don t you? Oh,
no Miss Seymour, I want you to know Mr.
Tracy. She s Jack Seymour s cousin from
Montreal, you know. You ve heard him
speak of his cousin Edith a thousand times,
haven t you?"

The words flowed on in a melodious mur
mur. Tracy heard none of them. Her
hand was in his and well, of course Cupid
was on hand to complete the task he Had
commenced on the side track at Banff.

Kathryn Jarboe.

SURSUM CORDA!

THE ceremonies were over, the flowers
were fading, and Decoration Day was draw
ing to a close. The crowds who had
thronged the paths of the National Ceme
tery were fast disappearing, and the train
just leaving the little station was filled to its
utmost capacity.

In one of the cars an elderly man of im
posing presence, wearing the uniform and
badge of the Grand Army, and a young army
officer, whose face was a youthful counter
part of the other s, sat side by side.

Just before the train pulled out a woman
passed down the aisle. The worn face gave
pathetic evidence of past beauty, and the
rusty garments of bygone elegance, while
the tiny empty basket she carried .pro
claimed her accomplished errand. She
glanced wistfully from side to side, but
every seat was occupied. The young officer
rose, and with a bow proffered his own.

She gave him a grateful glance and a gen
tle " Thank you," as she slipped into the de
sired haven.

The elder man glanced at her casually,
then more intently, and finally, leaning to
ward her, said in a low tone, " Laura! "

The woman started, and half rose from her
seat. "John, is it really you?" she gasped.
They gazed at each other in silence, shocked
at the changes time had wrought.

" I thought you were dead at Wilson s
Creek. They told me

" I left part there," replied the man, glanc
ing down at his empty sleeve. She shrank
back a little, noticing it for the first time,
and her eyes grew wide and dark.

" It seems but yesterday," she said; " the
longing and suspense and pain "

" And yet you could send me away."

"Ah, I was angry! You were on the
wrong side "

" The other side," he corrected her, with
a faint smile. She acknowledged the cor
rection with a smile still fainter.

" The winning side and my heart was
sore; but I thought it would break, after
wards."

"Yes. yes; I know! " he sighed.

" I have scattered my roses every year,
thinking that some might fall on your rest
ing place. In those old days when life was
hard to bear it eased the pain to think so."

" And now? "

STORIETTES.

469

" And now," she continued, with a trem
ulous smile on the faded face that uncon
sciously belied her words " now the pain
and anger are gone, with the love that gave
them birth. There remain only ashes."

Suddenly she leaned forward with tense
features and parted lips. The young officer
was coming down the aisle. Something in
the swinging step, the carriage of the shoul
ders, and the handsome boyish face, stirred
her heart.

" Almost home, father," he called cheer
fully.

There was a trace of awkwardness and em
barrassment in the elder man s manner as
he turned to his companion. " Allow me to
introduce my my son, Lieutenant Keith."
He drew himself up and squared his shoul
ders, all embarrassment lost in fatherly
pride. " Jack, Miss Hollywood is a very
old friend."

She looked up into the smiling face bend
ing over her, and her words came slowly:
" I used to know your father when he was
about your age. You are very like him
very like."

The lights of the city were all around
them, the train was slowing up, and people
were gathering up their wraps and bundles.
Turning to the elder man with sudden reso
lution, " I am going back to my old home
tomorrow," she said, lingering on the words
with tender longing. " It is not likely that
we shall meet again. Let me wish you good
by now, and God bless you and yours."

For a moment their hands were clasped;
then she flitted through the crowd and was
lost to sight.

" Who is the old party, father? " inquired
the young officer carelessly.

" Old! " He roused himself with a deep
sigh. " Well, I suppose she is old; but
when I knew and in Kentucky she was the
toast of two counties! "

Through the crowded station a woman
made her way. " It is wrong, wicked," she
murmured and her eyes grew dim; "but I
wish yes, I almost wish that he had died
instead! "

N. L. Pritchard.

THREE S A CROWD.

MARJORY, Brown, and I were sitting in the
garden. Marjory s garden is a very pretty
place flowers, trees, birds, and all that sort
of thing, you know. I rather thought that
Brown was a blot on the landscape, although
some people think him good looking.
What I wanted was to be alone with Mar
jory. I had something to say to her. I had
an idea that that was what Brown wanted,
too. Telepathy? No, apprehension.

I felt rather ill at ease. So did Brown.
Marjory looked perfectly lovely. She al
ways does. Marjory has the prettiest brown
hair and eyes you ever saw. When she
looks at a fellow he feels as if there s just
one fellow on earth himself; and just one
girl Marjory. I have been in love with
her since the tender age of ten. It was a
case of love at first sight on my part. I
had on knickerbockers and she short
dresses. She wanted the apple I had; and
she got it. It has been the same way ever
since.

But, to go back to the garden, there we
were under the apple tree. I, fidgeting,
wishing Brown would go; Brown, fidgeting,
wishing I would go; Marjory, serene as the
morning itself. Brown was saying some
thing about spring. He went in for litera
ture and all that sort of thing at college.
I wish I had now. Still, I made the team.
Well, Brown said something about spring.

" Spring king ring sing sling," I
murmured.

Marjory looked at me reprovingly.

" Let the prosaic say what they will," went
on Brown, " spring, with her flowers, her
birds, her blue skies, and her green trees, is
ever delightful."

" Ya as," said I; "ever delightful with
her slush and overshoes, her influenza and
porous plasters, her house cleaning and
spring chickens."

" I have no doubt that Mr. Marmaduke
thinks more of spring chickens than he does
of spring beauties," retorted Brown with-
eringly.

" Well, I don t know," I returned airily.
" The chickens are good to eat, you know.
Spring poets, for instance well, they re only
good to kill."

Brown glared. His poem in one of our
leading magazines was raved over by the
feminine portion of our neighborhood.

" I am afraid you have a sordid soul, Mr.
Marmaduke," said Marjory sweetly.

Brown looked more cheerful.

" It is delightful to find a congenial soul
a kindred spirit, might I say?" he murmured
to Marjory.

I snorted derisively.

" Isn t that a jolly looking robin in the
apple tree," said Marjory demurely. " He
looks so perfectly contented."

" If you d only make me as contented,
Marjory," I murmured; but she didn t hear
me.

" Isn t the red of his breast striking,
against the leaves? " chimed in Brown.

" He d look better in a pie," I said bru
tally. Didn t mean it at all, you know. I
was just out of sorts on account of that ass,
Brown.

470

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" Oh, Mr. Marmaduke, you can t mean it!
It it s cruel! " said Marjory indignantly.

I felt small, and I started to explain.

" Well I "

" Just what one could expect from a gross
materialist like Marmaduke. The spring
chicken and the spring robin, one and in
separable, now and forever," jeered Brown.

I could have killed him cheerfully. I
reached for my hat.

" I ll see " I began.

" What do you think of the new woman
agitation, Mr. Marmaduke? " said Marjory
sweetly. " I have been studying it a good
deal lately. It s quite interesting. I am
reading a book by Susan B. Doakes, of
Kansas. Such a strong book! "

" Why er I think it is a good thing,"
I said hastily. " It ll teach women to be
er broader minded and all that sort of
thing." Confound it! Who wants to talk
about the new woman agitation?

Then she asked Brown. He is a better
talker than I, and he spoke up right away.

" Of course, it s rather a complicated
question, Miss Marjory " he had the nerve
to call her " Miss Marjory " " butdon tyou
think that the so called new woman move
ment will have a bad effect? Won t it rob
us of the womanly woman like our mothers?
\Vhat man wants is not strong minded
woman, not progressive woman, but loving
woman, tender woman." He looked hard
at Marjory. " Don t you think that under
the new regime woman will acquire mascu
linity to a great extent? "

I dare say his answer was more intelligent
and coherent than mine.

" I don t know," said Marjory doubtfully.
" There s a paragraph in the book about
that very point. I ll get it. It s on the "

" Mayn t I get it? " asked Brown eagerly.

" Well, I would like to convert you, Mr.
Brown." There was sweet emphasis on the
" you." " It s on the library table."

He started up the walk. Marjory looked
at me. I looked at Marjory. Then Mar
jory looked at the toe of her shoe.

" Acquire masculinity, indeed! " she said.

She looked at me again. I guess I quite
lost my head. Any way, I took her hand.

" Oh, Marjory, dear Marjory," I said, " do
acquire masculinity! Acquire it to a great
extent. I am six feet. two. I ah want to
be acquired. I oh er oh, darling! "

The robin in the apple tree was singing
sweetly when Brown came down the garden
walk with the book in his hand. He saw
what was up immediately. He took out his
watch.

" I ah have an engagement this morn
ing er about a horse. I m late now.
Good morning! "

Poor devil, he looked terribly cut up !

* * * *

Marjory has just told me that she sent
him after the book on purpose.

Brown s not a half bad fellow, after all.
Guess I ll ask him to be my best man.

Hoivard Shedd.

OLD GLORY.

" MY country, tis of thee, " Ralph
hummed in the pause that followed his an
nouncement.

" My country, tisn t," interrupted Edith
hotly. " Oh, Ralph, what have you to do
with this silly old war! I can t let you go."

" But, my dear girl, it s "

" It isn t a crusade. It s hysteria. It s
jingoism. It s a play to the gallery."

" Those are phrases. When a man s
country calls for him, and there is no rea
son he shouldn t go "

" There is a reason, when he is engaged
to be married to such a nice girl." Her tone
had grown pathetic. " I suppose I m hor
rid, but I don t love my country one thou
sandth part as much as I love you. In the
Civil War, the women always said, Go, my
boy; I d be the last to keep you, with a
smile on their lips, and were dreadfully no
ble about it. Maybe we ve degenerated,
or maybe it s just me. I don t love honor
more, or anything else. I love you."

" But, Edy dear, there s such a thing as
duty. When your country has been pretty
good to you "

" Well, I ve been good to you, too, and
one s country is such a far off, abstract
thing. Oh, I know I m not appearing well!
The way to be truly admirable is to wish
you had three sweethearts, so that you
could give them all for your country. I m
small and selfish, and I don t blame you if
you are disgusted with me. I deserve it.
You can break with me altogether, and I
won t make a move to keep you." And in
proof of this, she clasped both arms tightly
around his neck. Ralph looked troubled,
but his affection evidently survived the con
fession.

" I ll tell you," he said presently. " Walk
down to the recruiting office with me, any
way. Then, if you still feel this way, I will
put off enlisting until the next call for vol
unteers. Will that do?"

Edith reflected that the government
might not need a second supply, and
agreed.

" I know how I ought to feel about it."
she said later, a little wistfully. " I can ap
preciate patriotism, I know how beautiful
and splendid it is. Only I just can t feel it.
and I ve got to be honest."

STORIETTES.

The street in front of the recruiting office
was solid with men, while women and chil
dren fringed the edges of the crowd. Ev
ery one who went in the door and every one
who came out was cheered, and commented
on with the jovial irony in which the Amer
ican clothes his enthusiasm.

" Wear your colors, lady only ten cents,
all silk! " shrieked a small vender, crowding
his tray of badges under Edith s eyes.

" No, no," she exclaimed impatiently.

" Sorry I ain t got no Spanish colors to
sell ye, if ye don t like these," he said, with
cheerful impertinence.

Edith pretended not to hear, but she
winced more than she would have con
fessed at the thrust. You may deny your
patriotism yourself, but you don t care to
have street boys deny it for you.

A double cheer went up for a young six
footer who passed, blushing, through the
door that led to glory, and a woman turned
to Edith with a beaming smile.

"Ain t it just beautiful? " she said. " Un
cle Sam don t have to speak more n once
when he wants his boys. They just fall
over theirselves to help him out."

" But war is so dreadful," returned Edith,
with a sudden longing to have some one
else on her side. Ralph was talking with
a knot of men.

" Well, I d as soon end by a bullet as a
bacteria," said the woman stoutly. " Dy
ing this way, you ve done something, any
how. It s marching down the front steps
a little early, instead of sneaking out by the
back stoop later."

" Oh, but if you had people belonging to
you going, you wouldn t feel that way!"
Edith spoke half imploringly. Every one
seemed to be against her.

" Lord love you! two sons and a
brother," was the brisk answer.

The girl turned away, metaphorically
pressing her fingers in her ears.

" She can t care as I do," she said to her
self. " Any way, I might let my sons go.
But Ralph! " Her eyes filled with sudden
tears, and she caught her breath sharply as
a roar of " Good boy, Billy!" saluted a fresh
recruit. The young fellow, flushed and
triumphant, made his way through the
crowd to an older man, who was watching
him sourly.

" They took you, did they? " was his
greeting. The younger nodded. " Well,
you know what I think of you going off
to fight for a lot of measly niggers. What
do you get for it thirteen dollars a month
and yellow fever? " The boy s face dark
ened, but he made no answer as they
walked away.

Edith laid her fingers on Ralph s arm.

"Wouldn t you like to hit him?" she
said. " How could he wet blanket the

poor fellow so. No one has a right "

She checked herself guiltily, with a quick
glance at Ralph s face. If he saw any in
consistency in her words, he was too wise
to betray it.

"Well, well, Edith! Down here to en
list? " said a voice behind her.

" Oh, captain, don t! " she exclaimed,
turning to an elderly man of military out
lines. " I m all against it. I think it s
wicked! Everybody is patriotic but me,
yet surely some of them must feel as I do.
I m all at sea. I can t let Ralph go."

" You can t help it, my child. A man s
country is a rival that will cut out his sweet
heart every time, if he s worth his salt.
You ll catch the fire, and then you ll be
glad of it. Didn t I go through it all in
61?"

" But I don t want the fire. I don t be
lieve in the war," said Edith desperately.

" Neither do I, but I m going if they ll
take me. I ve just about one fight left in
me, and I want to have it out." The words,
spoken with a laugh, thrilled Edith in spite
of herself. She took her fingers out of her
ears, for the first time since Ralph had
made his announcement.

" I don t see how you can fight for a
cause unless your heart is in it," she said,
but there was no conviction in her voice.

" If your country wants you, never mind
why. Don t sit at home and tell her she
ought not to have run herself into that fix.
Pitch in and pull her out and then scold
her, if you like. You ve a right to your
opinion, but she has a right to your fist! "
The elderly soldier glowed with enthusiasm,
and the men around clapped their approval.
Edith lifted her head and drew a deep
breath. Her heart was beating excitedly.

A movement in the crowd made her look
up. A window high above them had been
opened, and from it was thrust a flag not
the brand new, glaring stars and stripes,
such as decorated the office below, but a
soiled and faded emblem, ragged on the
edges, darkly stained and slit with black
edged wounds. As it shook itself out above
their heads, the harsh reality of war against
the brilliant ideal of its untried fellow be
low, a momentary hush fell on the crowd.
Then the hats came off, and the feeling that
had welled up broke out in the shout that
thrills as no other human sound can, the
shout that means "our country!" The
significant odor of ^owder and the call of
fifes seemed to vibrate from the torn folds
as Old Glory swung itself free and streamed
above their heads in its tattered magnifi
cence. Edith caught Ralph by the arm,

472

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

her face uplifted, and knew that something
had been born within her which nothing
could conquer or kill.

Up went the voices as the hats had gone
" Glory, glory, hallelujah! " echoing down
the city street, Ralph and Edith shouting
with the rest. The song left them looking
straight into each other s eyes.

A flippant voice jarred against their ears:

" What a lot of fuss over an old rag!" It
was foolish, girl bravado, but Edith
wheeled upon the speaker like an insulted
goddess of liberty.

" You don t deserve to have a country,"
she said, with blazing eyes. " That rag
is worth a million human beings; it s
greater than any city, or all of them put to
gether. It means the nation! " Then she
turned to the man beside her. " Go and
enlist, Ralph. I want you to be among the
first," she said.

Juliet ]Vilbor Tompkins.

PEMBERTON S WIFE.

PEMBERTON was wandering through the
South as a book agent when he met Nannie
Richards. She was standing in a peach
orchard. Perhaps it was the peach blos
soms, perhaps it was the pretty face, or it
may have been the dimity gown, which
caused Pemberton to fall in love with the
girl. He talked to her about the merits of
his book. The girl had never seen any one
so handsome before, and she had never
listened to any one who discoursed in such
mellifluent tones. Pemberton remained for
a few days in the neighborhood and wrote
a sonnet about peach blossoms and some
body in dimity who stood beneath them.
The girl capitulated, and they were married.

Pemberton had no definite idea of what
he intended to do in life. He thought that he
would be willing to settle down in a clerk
ship. He found at the end of three years
that the thirst for learning was strong within
him. His head was full of unrealized ideals.

" I know how you feel," said Nannie one
day. You think that if you had not mar
ried me that you might have gone to col
lege. Me and the baby drag you down.
Now, there is no use in your saying no,
Jim. I know I ain t worthy of you,
but "

Am not," said Pemberton. " Don t say
ain t. "

The Pembertons had little money when
they came to Horicon University. Pem
berton tutored two or three youngsters in
the preparatory department. He also wrote
a sonnet which he sold to one of the mag
azines. Upon the strength of this he con
sidered himself a literary genius.

" I am so proud of you," said Nannie
when he showed the verses to her. " You
will be a great poet some day, Jim. Then,
when our ship comes in, I think we can
afford to have a a upright piano."

"Your biscuits were a little sad this morn
ing," responded Pemberton.

The year went by and the summer vaca
tion came. The Pembertons decided to re
main in Horicon. Moving away would
have been an expensive experiment. An
ambitious young educator, with the assist
ance of several students, organized the
Horicon University Summer School.

Then it was that Pemberton s wife, who
for weeks had been evolving a plan of ac
tion, took a decisive step. She appeared,
with books under her arm, as a student in
the summer school. She knew no more
than the veriest " Prep," yet such earnest
ness of purpose, and such determination to
learn, the instructors at Horicon have never
known.

For three weeks Nannie Pemberton
walked every day to the institution on the
hill. Then she was seen no more in the
recitation rooms of the old college.

" I m sorry," she said, " but I find that
the baby takes all my time."

The next day Pemberton appeared upon
the scene. He attended the summer school
for the rest of the term as a special student.
It could not be expected that a genius
should devote himself to the care of a baby,
that his wife might get an education.

The new college year opened. A look of
discontent seemed to have settled upon
Pemberton s face. He grew daily more ab
stracted in his manner.

" Jim," said his wife one afternoon, as she
came into his study with her little, parboiled
hands behind her, " you don t seem to be
happy. You ve got your mind sot on some
thing."

" Sit down," answered Pemberton, and
there was such condescension in his tone
that the woman blushed for joy. " The
fact is, Anna, I feel that Horicon is too
small a place for me. I am determined to
bring before the world a new American
School of Literature. I can do it best from
the classic shades where Longfellow walked
and the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
held gentle sway. I wish to go to Harvard."

"And you will, Jim," said his wife, as she
went reverently away.

The poet nodded and did not even tell her
that her grammar was faulty. That after
noon, as far as the baby and soapsuds would
permit, Pemberton s wife spent in thought.
The more she meditated, the more con
vinced was she that she had not done her
full duty bv her husband. She was sure

STORIETTES.

473

that she might easily work several more
hours out of the twenty four than she had
been doing. She blamed herself for not
noticing before that Horicon was too small
a place for his genius.

She went to a tailor shop that very after
noon and brought home a large, square
looking package. All through the winter
term Pemberton s wife toiled every night
until after midnight sewing upon coats and
trousers.

" Making clothes for Arthur," she always
answered when Pemberton took his mind
off his new American School of Literature
long enough to ask her what she was
doing.

While Pemberton lived in cloudland, a
bank account in his wife s name was stead
ily growing. The man did not notice, as
others did, that the bloom had left his wife s
cheeks and that her form was bent and
shrunken. All the time he could take from
his study and from his tutoring was given
to perfecting his great poem.

" I am not so sure," he said, " that it will
be recognized in my lifetime. It is, I fear,
too far in advance of the time for that. But
of one thing I am certain, and that is, it will
bring me posthumous fame."

" I ll help you get it, Jim," said his wife.

A widow of one of the missionaries, who
made Horicon her home and had nothing to
do especially, buttonholed Pemberton one
morning, and told him he was not doing his
duty by his wife.

" You ought to get her out in society
more," she said.

That is the reason that the little woman,
much against her will, found herself at the
next reception of Pemberton s class. She
realized that her hands had become coarse
and red, and that her dress did not fit. She
was glad to shrink back into a corner. She
was thinking of the time when Jim would
have the kind of fame with the long adjec
tive, and she should be so happy, when she
heard some one mention her husband s
name.

She was so far back in the corner that
the two young women who were talking did
not see her.

" When his turn came to give a quota
tion in the German class this morning," the
girl with the spectacles was saying. " he pro
ceeded to air his domestic affairs. He rolled
up his eyes and quoted from Schiller s
Song of the Bell :

The passion is short and the regret is
long. "

" Being, as I take it," commented the girl
with the yellow hair, " a public announce
ment of the fact that he is tired of his wife."

The widows of the missionaries and the
relicts of the ministers, who dwell about that
seat of Christian learning known as Hori
con, heard a day or so later that ^Pember-
ton s child was ill from scarlet fever. The
house was quarantined and Pemberton was
penned up with his books and his epic
poem. The little woman no longer bent
over the washtub, and the packages ceased
to go to and from the house to the tailor
shop.

The carriage of a physician was seen be
fore the door of the little cottage many times
a day. The medical man had been sent by
the missionary widows. The news spread
through the college community that in spite
of all that had been done, Pemberton s wife
was " very low."

She had taken the disease from her boy.
The forces of her life seemed spent.

" Her constitution has been undermined
by overwork and lack of sleep," said the
physician.

" She has a broken heart," he might have
said, had he only known.

Even the great epic poem, which was the
corner stone of the new American School of
Literature, was deserted. Pemberton, face
to face with the reality of life, knelt by his
wife s bedside and between sobs, prayed
that she might be spared to him.

There came a day when Pemberton s wife
felt that the end of all had come.

" Jim," she said, " I hain t forgotten
about Harvard and that fame with the long
name that you wanted so bad. Unbe
knownst to you, I ve been saving money.
There ought to be enough to get through a
year at Harvard, allowing that it costs twice
as much as it does here. Never mind about
the baby. My folks has agreed to take care
of him. Good by, Jim, and God bless
you."

"Don t Nan!" moaned the man as he
clutched his wife s thin white hand. " Can t
you see that you are killing me? Come

back! For God s sake, come back! "
* # # *

Pemberton was busy in his grocery store
out in Iowa the other day, when he saw
his own hand writing on a sheet of paper
which he was wrapping about a box of
axlegrease.

" Hello, Nan! " he said to a bright faced
woman who had just come in. " Did you
see that farmer who just went out? He s
the custodian of the last remnant of the
School of American Literature."

" You hadn t oughter give up your ideals,
Jim, really you oughtn t," said Pemberton s
wife, as she looked with tender reproach
into her husband s eyes.

John Walker Harrington.

LITERARY CHAT

" MARCHING WITH GOMEZ."

Modesty is, perhaps, a characteristic of
all war correspondents, at least of those who
have actually been to the front in Cuba, in
stead of at Key West, for instance. Cer
tainly it is one of the very evident qualities
of Mr. Grover Flint. Possibly it was due
to Mr. Flint s modesty, possibly to that hazy
and unperceptive atmosphere which so often
envelopes the occupant of an editorial chair
at any rate, whatever the cause may have
been, this gentleman s reputation among his
associates on the metropolitan daily with
which he was for some time connected, was
not that of a writer. A common remark
among his fellow craftsmen at that time,
when discussing the qualities of the lately
returned war correspondent, was, " What a
pity that Flint can t write!"

So much for the opinion of associate ex
perts, for Mr. Flint s " Marching with
Gomez " is one of the very best and most
interesting of the recent contributions to
literature about Cuba. The book made up
from field notes, taken during some four
months of the spring and summer of 1896 as
war correspondent with the insurgent forces
is very fascinating reading. Mr. Flint s
style is so clear, so simple, and so pictur
esque, his appreciation of dramatic values so
keen, and his artistic feeling so evident, that
one follows the narrative of his experiences
with unabated interest to the end. His
felicity of expression is really admirable, and
he gets " atmospheres," no matter whether
it be of the interior of a mountain workshop,
a desolated province, a guerrilla hanging, or
a moving column of ragged soldiers, the in
fantry of " Free Cuba."

Banks of clouds obscured the moon, and cool
showers blew in from the sea, as we zigzagged
"byguarda ray as (aisles for marking sections and
carrying off cut cane) in the canefields, and
through the tall moist grass of the pastures, up
a hilly trail into the forest. Sometimes as we
passed a clearing and the shadowy outline of a
peasant s hut, dogs awoke and bayed until we
were out of hearing. Once, as we splashed
through a deep pool, a great white bird arose and
floated, spirit-like, into the night ahead of us.
We rode silently for perhaps an hour, slipping
about in the mud on up grades, and trotting
when our path offered a level, until a sharp
challenge, "Alto! Quien va ? " ("Halt ! Who
goes ? ") brought us to a stop. " Cuba," shouted
the captain.

" Avanza, uno ! " ("Advance one!") came
from the mysterious sentry in the busii. Then

our captain jogged forward a dozen paces with
the password, and called for us to follow.

That is Mr. Flint s account of his intro
duction into a " permanent " Cuban camp,
and is but a bit, taken at random, out of the
many picturesque descriptions with which
the volume abounds.

Mr. Flint did not find the insurgents do
ing very much of anything, except to harass
the Spanish forces wherever found a skir
mish, with as much damage to the Spaniards
as possible, and then a retreat with the
least possible loss to the Cubans. The bat
tle of Saratoga, which the author describes,
was really more of a pitched retreat than a
pitched battle the Spaniards doing the re
treating; and this is the only engagement in
his experiences which the author dignifies
-by the name of battle. It is this lack of
aggressive warfare on the part of the in
surgents to which Mr. T. R. Dawley, another
war correspondent, so strongly objected.
Mr. Flint makes no comments, but his nar
rative seems to show that the harassing
policy was carried on in a judicious style,
and later events have seemed to prove its
effectiveness.

One inference is evident from this war
correspondent s personal observations of
the Spaniards under engagement, and that
is that our own troops would have little
difficulty in " licking them out of sight."
On the other hand, their behavior under fire
is very probably due more to the ineffi
ciency, and perhaps cowardice, of their com
manders, than to any lack of fighting spirit
in the Spanish soldier.

" Atrocities," says Mr. Flint, " committed
by the Spanish guerrillas about Cienfuegos
have been of such medieval ghastliness that
no one ever believed them, and reports of
them are handled gingerly by news editors."
And he devotes a chapter to " Typical
Atrocities," describing what he himself saw
of the victims of the Olayita massacre, which
took place at the plantation of M. Duarte, a
French citizen. The reconcentrado feature
of the Spanish policy is not touched upon in
this book. It had not been adopted at the
time of Mr. Flint s visit.

As to annexation, a question which may
come up in Cuba s future history, Mr. Flint
says:

Gomez, as a practical soldier, did not venture
to speculate on Cuba s future in detail. It was
looking forward enough for him to see Cuba

LITERARY CHAT.

475

under her own flag and government. Neither
of these men (Gomez and Hernandez) approved
of any scheme of annexation to the United
States, or saw any conclusion of the war short
of absolute independence. * * I have
stated that no fighting Cuban I ever met favored
annexation, nor have I seen a fighting Cuban
who distrusted Cuba s ability to govern herself
peacefully.

Scarcely until almost the closing para
graph is there a hint of the real danger to a
war correspondent, should he be found
among the insurgent forces. Escaping from
Cuba, when his work was over, in an open
whale boat, on a gusty night, almost from
under the guns of Nuevitas harbor, " we
all of us," says Mr. Flint, " had seen enough
of Spanish methods to know what it meant
to be captured, and that the authorities
would not be anxious for a repetition of the
lingering Competitor trial. If a cruiser or
gunboat were to overhaul us, we knew we
should be either run down or quietly shot."

Mr. Flint s literary style impresses the
reader almost as forcibly as do the more or
less stirring incidents of which he writes;
and the book is illustrated, and very well
illustrated, by the author s own hand. Yet
not long ago, when newspaper editors were
scurrying about in search of literary celebri
ties and noted artists as war correspondents,
the author of "Marching with Gomez," after
all his experiences in the field, was quietly
holding down an editorial chair on one of
the very dailies most rabid in the search.

appearances with the shrewdness of a money
lender. She had in her a fire which she did
not understand, but which she was intelli
gent enough to use as the valuable gift it
was. It was like something apart from her
self.

THE STORY Of RACHEL.

One of the most interesting books of this
day has just been published in Paris. It is
the story of the great Rachel, by the widow
of the man who took the little gamin, the
child of the Jew Felix, and polished her
into the greatest artist in France.

The book is a contradiction to the wail we
hear from some quarters that talent is not
appreciated. Samson heard of this Jewish
child of twelve, sought her out, and begged
her to come to him. He even offered to give
her father a pension on condition that he
would keep his daughter out of the common
theaters. He followed her even when she
went there; he procured her engagements
to appear in drawingrooms, and finally got
her a place at the Comedie Frangaise. She
had the characteristics of her race in a tre
mendous degree. The great spirit of trag
edy, which seems to be marked in some lines
on the face of every Jew, was incarnate in
her. She had all the poetic and artistic heri
tage of her race, and with it she had an in
ordinate love of money. She would learn
every great role. In fifteen years she created
twenty six. She would bargain for her

HARVARD VIVISECTED.

When one picks up a volume of college
stories, one has in mind a definite picture of
what is coming. One foresees an assem
blage of splendid, light hearted young fel
lows who call one another " old man " and
talk an intricate, humorous patois; an at
mosphere of sturdy good fellowship, of
youth and loyalty and glorified intimacy;
stunning seniors, irresponsible freshmen,
and a few grinds staked out in the corners
by way of contrast. The college publica
tion and orations join the post graduate fic
tion in encouraging this popular ideal of a
heart to heart relationship that binds all stu
dents into a happy band dancing around a
benign Alma Mater.

Before one has read three pages of C. M.
Flandrau s " Harvard Episodes," one real
izes that this childish illusion is about to be
wiped out. We are to see Harvard, not as
an apotheosis of duck trousers and boyish
charm, but as it really is, a community as
graded and intricate as the world it is drawn
from. A man in every way a gentleman
may go there and at the end of two years
find himself still as far aloof from the col
lege world as he was the first day. In the
world outside, a lawyer does not necessarily
extend warm and immediate friendship to all
other men in the same profession. In like
manner, the fact of studentship at the same
institution does not warrant precipitate in
timacy. As one of Mr. Flandrau s charac
ters puts it:

"It s about as sensible to suppose that your
fellow students are going to take any notice of
you, as it would be to expect people you had
never met to lean out of their front windows and
ask you to dinner if you were to stroll down the
avenue some fine evening."

Mr. Flandrau s picture of Harvard life is
daringly honest. He is not afraid to handle
the word " society," or to betray what a
power it is in college life. He gives us
Harvard, not as we should choose to have
it. but as it most assuredly is. At the same
time he gives us a handful of strong, well
told stories, subtle as well as bold, and free
from all the forced funniness that has sur
rounded the undergraduate in fiction.

EXTERMINATED WORDS.

There are certain words which have grown
so worn and battered in the service of Amer
ican letters that there is nothing to do but to

476

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

grant them honorable retirement. They
have been of value in their time, but every
spark of vital meaning has been crushed out
of them by overuse, until now their appear
ance throws a shabby, hackneyed air over
all their surroundings.

One of the most fagged and unexpressive
is the term " Bohemian." This was origin
ally such a significant word that everybody
wanted it; and all the little writers fell upon
it and stripped it, so that it now lies shape
less and meaningless in the ditch of journal
ism. Every girl who cooks on a gas stove,
and dispenses with a chaperon calls herself a
Bohemian. A man may win the title by a
bad collar and a worse poem. Those who
are economizing in apartments cover the
lack of order in their meals and comfort in
their living with the same convenient term,
and all to whom the door of the social world
is closed shriek " we Bohemians " over the
wall to show that they would not enter if
they could. From an expression that held
a volume of meaning between its first and
last letters, it has become a cheap catch
word, applied to such a varied list of sub
jects that all its descriptive value is gone.

Another of these done to death words is
"Cupid." Every ten cent poet has borrowed
the myth for his versery (with the inevitable
" stupid " for a rhyme) until by association
it has gained the tawdry aspect of a last
year s paper valentine. Writers, recognizing
that the epithet was outworn, but liking the
symbol, have tried to freshen it up as " the
blind boy," " the little god who," etc., but
these have failed to revive the lost charm.
Cupid is hopelessly declasse, and he who is
to write freshly of love must invent a new
symbolism.

There are dozens of other words, nouns
and adjectives and adverbs, that are being
rapidly spoiled by indiscriminate handling.
" Dainty " and "quaint," in spite of their
usefulness, have already succumbed to in
temperate usage. " Atmosphere " must go
soon, unless something is done to protect it.
Nothing but a game law system will save our
best and most significant words from being
exterminated.

THE BIBLE MADE OVER.

It is natural that many people should re
sent the Polychrome Bible. Having grown
up with the phrases of the old version in
their ears, they find the new wording cold
and comparatively meaningless. The old
sacredness seems gone. It is like going
back to one s home and finding it completely
altered, with strangers living in it. The
changes may be all for the better, but the
nameless charm that has grown out of af
fection and long habit is gone. Therefore it

is very hard to be just to the new transla
tion, however one may admire its historical
object. We have to remember that what is
now our standard was once resented as an
innovation.

Yet, allowing for prejudice, there seems
to be often a distinct loss of dignity in the
new wording. " This also cometh forth
from the Lord of hosts," is a sonorous line,
beautifully simple. Its new equivalent
sounds trivial beside it " This also from
Jhvh proceeds." We have a Latin verb in
stead of the universally preferred Saxon, in
version to mar the sincerity, and a swinging
dactyl instead of solemn spondees. If we
are to more than coldly admit the value of
this new version, we must be caught in baby
hood and trained up on it.

COLLECTING AS AN INVESTMENT.

" If I were to begin life over again," said
a collector of long experience, " I would
hoard everything in the way of a book,
pamphlet, periodical, or letter that came into
my possession, even if I had to hire a ware
house in which to store the accumulation.
If I lived to the age of three score and ten I
should reap the benefit of my thrift; if not,
my descendants would."

Questioned closely in regard to his mean
ing, the old collector continued: " In my
opinion, the fad for collecting all sorts of
odds and ends is simply in its infancy in this
country, and yet it has attained proportions
that no one could have predicted when I was
a boy. In those days we used to collect
postage stamps. I can well remember when
a postage stamp album of the kind that
every collector possesses nowadays was a
rarity, and happy the boy who could call one
his own. Half a dollar was an enormous
price to pay for a single stamp then, and I do
not remember that any one more than six
teen years of age ever thought of collecting
them. A short time ago I met one of my
old school boy friends, who asked me what
had become of my stamp collection, and I
was literally unable to tell him. Then he
remarked that he had come across his own
a short time before, while rummaging
through some old, forgotten books and
papers, and had sold it for eight hundred
dollars.

" Soon afterwards I took some old letters,
belonging to different members of my fam
ily, to an autograph dealer, and was amazed
to find that certain comparatively insignifi
cant names had a higher value in his eyes
than those of some of the most famous men
in history. He accounted for this by say
ing that people would naturally preserve
every scrap of writing signed by one promi
nently before the public, and would take no

LITERARY CHAT.

477

pains to preserve ordinary letters. This
would make it very difficult for the collector
of half a century later, who might be very
anxious to obtain certain more or less ob
scure autographs in order to complete some
particular collection, like that of the signers
of the Declaration, or the members of the
Continental Congress."

There is reason in the words of this old
collector, and no one who is familiar with
the high prices paid for odd numbers of old
pamphlets, or rare editions of famous books,
would think of disputing them. In this con
nection it may be said that at a recent Lon
don book sale Bernard Quaritch, the orig
inal publisher of Fitzgerald s " Rubaiyat of
Omar Khayyam," paid more than a hundred
dollars for a copy of the first edition, which
he himself had printed in 1859. and had dis
posed of, with great difficulty, at the rate of
one penny apiece.

Another recent sale that has attracted the
attention of book lovers was that of a first
edition of Burns, in the original paper
covers and uncut, which brought more than
twenty eight hundred dollars at auction in
Edinburgh. And yet, less than thirty years
ago, this same volume was advertised in the
Scotch newspapers and disposed of for about
thirty one dollars to a Mr. G. B. Simpson, a
collector, who immediately paid ten dollars
for a morocco case in which to preserve his
treasure.

A BOHEMIAN POET AND PALMIST.

E. Heron Allen has lately placed on the
literary market a version of some of the
poems of Omar Khayyam. This is a ven
ture into a dangerous field, but some critics
have warmly praised his work, which has at
least served to bring once more into notice
a man who achieved a certain sort of fame
in America, as well as in England, about a
decade ago. At that time Allen enjoyed a
remarkable vogue as a palm reader, and
when he came to this country his studio was
thronged with women of fashion who gladly
paid him five dollars to have their future un
folded.

From New York he went to Chicago and
other large American cities, and so widely
were his soothsayings discussed that in a
very short time he accumulated about five
thousand dollars, with which he enjoyed
himself royally. When that was gone, he
settled down to the more commonplace
work of a writer for newspapers and reader
of manuscript for a publishing house. For
a year or more he was a well known figure
in Bohemian circles in New York. He was
extremely kind to Selina Delaro, the actress,
who had been a friend to him in the hour of,
his need, and was constant in his devotion

to her during the long period of her last ill
ness. The two had been in the habit of
dining every night at a certain table in a
cheap Sixth avenue restaurant greatly af
fected at the time by writers, artists, and
actors; and after her death her chair always
remained empty by tacit agreement. No
one of the regular habitues of the place ever
thought of occupying it.

Mr. Allen is remembered to this day as
one of the few foreigners of his class who ex
perienced the ups and downs of New York
life and went away without leaving a trail of
unpaid debts.

CONDENSED LITERATURE.

The book review is the dog biscuit of
modern literature. It contains all the es
sential parts in a compact form, and will sus
tain intellectual existence for an indefinite
period. A man can swallow fifteen reviews
while he would be mastering one book, and
so has fifteen chances of appearing in
telligent instead of one chance of really be
ing so.

To read a book and have a real, true
opinion about it requires a distinct mental
effort; and so, when one can buy a ready
made opinion of fair quality with any paper
or magazine, why should one bother to turn
several hundred leaves and laboriously work
out a home made opinion? The one he
buys is probably the better article, and fur
nishes all the phrases necessary to literary
conversation. And that is what one reads
for to show that one has read.

To be sure, one misses the individual
flavor of the book, and the pleasure of the
personal contact with the author. More
over, every particle of matter so gained is
used specifically and definitely, so that there
is nothing left over to assimilate into one s
general being and increase that elusive
quality known as cultivation. But after all,
we have little time for things in general, if
we are to be well up in things in particular.
One must choose between a showy but shal
low mental existence and a deep but incon
spicuous mental life.

Before choosing, it would be well to offer
a dog a dog biscuit and an old fashioned
mutton chop, and see which he takes. Ani
mals often show surprising intelligence.

First editions of Rudyard Kipling s
earlier books have a rising value, and Mr.
Kipling himself seems to be a bull in the
market. An English bookseller, whose
shop is in Brighton, says that some months
ago the Anglo Indian author walked in and
inquired:

" Got any first editions of my books? *
The tradesman replied that he had not.

478

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" Well, if you come across any, send them
to my address, will you? "

This happened last summer, when Mr.
Kipling was staying at Rottingdean, a tiny
village that runs down to the sea at a gap in
the white chalk cliffs of the Sussex coast,
His near neighbor was Sir Edward Burne-
Jones, who has built a studio there. The
chief attraction of the place, probably,
is the fact that it is five miles from a rail
road.

* * * *

Every now and then some wiseacre grave
ly asserts that the American comic papers
are far inferior to Punch, and would have no
success whatever were they published in
Great Britain. As a matter of fact, an enor
mous quantity of American humorous mat
ter is republished in England, two or three
periodicals in London being made up entire
ly of Life, Puck and Judge matter, which they
arrange to receive from the publishers of
those papers in the form of advance sheets,
sent weekly to them. On the other hand,
very few of Punch s jokes enjoy currency in
this country. This condition of things in
dicates that there is a certain demand for our
native humorous products in the British
markets, and very little demand here for

theirs.

* * * *

Once upon a time, so runs the story,
there was a man in London who had ven
tured upon various publishing schemes with
but poor success, and was beginning to de
spair of ever making a fortune, when, by
chance, he bethought himself of a huge
scrapbook which his wife had compiled of
various literary odds and ends that had en
chained her fancy. She called her scrap-
book " Titbits," and it occurred to her hus
band that such odds and ends, published in
periodical form, might interest other people
as well as his wife. The result of this med
itation on his part was the appearance of a
little penny paper called " Titbits " which
proved so popular and gained such a wide
circulation that its proprietor felt encour
aged to place other literary ventures on the
market, and it was not long before he be
came known as the publisher of a number
of extremely popular penny periodicals. He
is now a millionaire many times over and a
baronet, while his wife, whose scrapbook
proved the corner stone of their prosperity,

finds her reward in the title of Lady Newnes.

* * * *

We hear so often of the great sums earned
by a few successful books that many people
have a vague idea that authorship is a royal
road to riches. They do not realize that
these much advertised volumes are the rarest
of rare exceptions; that most books do not

pay expenses; and that an unknown author s
first work has not one chance in fifty of do
ing so.

Hear the testimony of a man whose books
are known and read throughout the civi
lized world. " During the first twelve years
of my literary life," Herbert Spencer re
cently said, " every one of my books failed
to pay for its paper, print and advertising.
For many years after, they failed to pay my
small living expenses every one of them
left me poorer."

Mr. Spencer could not induce any pub
lisher to accept his first volume, " Social
Statics." He issued seven hundred and
fifty copies at his own expense, and it took
him fourteen years to sell them. In those
fourteen years the financial result of his
work was a net loss of six thousand dollars.
In the next ten years he was able to make
this loss good. That is to say that after
fourteen years of literary apprenticeship a
man who is deservedly ranked as one of the
geniuses of the age was able to earn six
hundred dollars a year with his pen!
* * * *

Zola is not the first prominent author to
suffer the penalty of the law, and if he writes
a book within prison walls it will not be a
new thing in literary annals. " The Pil
grim s Progress," which John Bunyan wrote
during his twelve years in Bedford jail, is
the most famous precedent; but there are
others. Richard Lovelace, whose " To Al-
thea, from Prison " is one of the classics of
the English language, published " Lucasta "
while held prisoner by the victorious
Roundheads.

William O Brien, the Irish author and
politician, has been prosecuted several times
on charges of sedition and libel, and one of
his novels, " When We Were Boys," was
written in prison. The late Edmund Yates
was sentenced to four months incarceration
for a libel on Lord Lonsdale published in
his paper, the World, but he was released
after four weeks in jail.

When Tom Paine published " The Rights
of Man " his bold utterances were so dis
tasteful to George Ill s government that
he was prosecuted and convicted, but before
being sentenced he escaped to France. His
enemies were so bitter that a man whose
only offense was that of selling the pro
scribed book was condemned to fourteen
years transportation. Paine was imprisoned
later, but for another reason. He was
warmly welcomed by the revolutionists in
France, and elected to the convention; but
when he dared to oppose one of Robe
spierre s projects, the champion of liberty
was promptly sent to jail, where he re
mained for nearly a year.

ETCHINGS

FOLLY AND FOOLS.

FOOLS rush in and often come out mil
lionaires.

When a man realizes what a fool he is, it is
sometimes the first dawning of intelligence.

The thought that it is not pleasant to have
fools around has never yet led any of us to
take our departure.

Few productions of nature can equal the
fool that a wise man can make of himself.

When we think what idiots we ve made of
ourselves, we generally console ourselves with
the reflection that we must be remarkably
shrewd to discover it.

The man that has never committed a folly-
is like a river that has either dried up or is
about to overflow its banks.

" A fool and his money are soon parted,"
may be a very wise adage, but the sole effect
it has upon most of us is to convince us that
if we could only once get rich, we d never
again be poor.

H. C. Boultbee.

A NEW VERSION OF SOME OLD
VERSES.

( With ackiHKvledgments to the " other "poet.)

OH, say not woman s heart is caught

With every idle pleasure !
Ah, no ! Tis only when she learns

Golf s name ; it wander s never;
Deep in her heart that passion grows
In spite of cyclones, rains, and snows,

She golfs, and golfs forever !

Ogden Ward.

HOLDING THE SKEIN.

WHEN Madge and I were sweethearts, in the

winters long ago,
We used to trace the future in the fire s ruddy

glow.
The pictures are forgotten, but the memories

remain
Of Madge the yarn a winding, and I I held

the skein.

I watched her nimble fingers with their tips

as red as wine,
And if the yarn grew tangled why, it wasn t

fault of mine,
For I was building castles where my little

queen should reign,
While Madge the } arn was winding, and I I

held the skein.

Demure as any nun was she, this little queen

of mine,
Twas plain that I should be the oak, and she

the clinging vine ;
She bent to every whim of mine, and ne er

did she complain
In those days when she wound the yarn, and

I I held the skein.

But since we now are married, and our chil
dren clamber round,

And find the fire pictures that so long ago we
found,

And now that there s a frock to mend and
little socks to darn,

She winds me round her finger as she used to
do the yarn.

Roy Farrell Greene.

SYLVIA IN THE SPRINGTIME.

VOICE of the youth of the year,

Wren song and thrush song and cuckoo note

clear !
Melody s core, the articulate soul of the

Spring-
On, to hear Sylvia sing !

Flower of the youth of the year,

Bell of the hyacinth, daffodil spear !

Day dream of beauty and veriest vision of

grace
Oh, to see Sylvia s face !

Clinton Seal lard.

IN A GARDEN OLD.

THK hollyhocks grew prim and tall
Along the sunny garden wall,
And wore a staid and stately air,
But none with Polly could compare
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

The roses nodded by the walk,
Heads touching as when lover s talk,
Though sweet they were, and fair to see,
Polly was sweeter far to me
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

Though lavender and thyme both grew
Along the walk, and, gemmed with dew,
A tangled border of grass pinks,
Yet Polly w-as more sweet, methinks
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

And fragrant lilies, white and fair,
Poured out their subtle incense there,
But hung their heads with very shame
And envy when sweet Polly came
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

480

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

The four o clocks oped wide their eyes
To greet her with a glad surprise,
And not a garden flower but knew
That one as fair as she ne er grew
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

And though long years have come and flown,
And left the garden walks o ergrown
With briers, weeds, and tangled grass,
In visions still she seems to pass
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

For of all scenes of bygone days,
Untouched yet by oblivion s haze,
Is that old garden, trim and fair,
And Polly waiting for me there
Sweet Polly among the flowers.

Henry Cleveland Wood.

FORESHADOWED.

OUT from a frame with silver rim

That glints and gleams in the lamplight dim,

Looks the face of a maiden fair,
With eyes that follow me all about,
And a smile the most adorable pout

And a comb set high in her hair.

I saw it first, that radiant face,
Shrined in a dull photographer s case,

And straightway, then and there,
I fell in love with the witching wile
Of the tender eyes, the sunny smile,

And the Spanish comb in her hair.

So, though she smiles from my mantel shelf,
Among my treasures of rook and delf,

And brightens my fire shine,
I haven t a notion of what s her name,
Or where s her home, or whence she came,

For only her shadow is mine.

But I m half inclined to believe it fate,
And that somewhere, some time, soon or late

I shall meet her face to face
And then, if the sun caught half the truth,
I shall tell my story and beg, forsooth,

That she reign in her shadow s place !
Laura Berteaux Bell.

EIGHTEEN.

TODAY she is eighteen oh, joy bells, ring

gaily !

Ring out for the flower of her grace ;
Her lips are the petals of newly blown blos
soms,
The whitest white rose is her face.

And violets are dreaming beneath the dark

lashes

Of eyes that are looking afar ;
Yes, violets are dreaming in that gentle radi
ance
That shines like the light in a star.

Oh, glory of golden hair, royally crowning,
Shines fair o er her beautiful face !

And, slender young throat, like the stem of a

blossom,
What gave thee this exquisite grace !

Oh, lily bud hand, lying gently unfolded,
Asleep in thine own fragile calm,

Go hide thee away ere some too happy lover
Be stealing the dew of thy palm !

A tilt of her head, see, her dear face uplifting,
And now all her fair thoughts are given

Some love frighted message sent down by the

angels,
And sweet with aroma of heaven.

And e en should I whisper her fair name so

gently,

Twould ruffle the down of her wings,
Twould snap the fair cord of her weaving

and dreaming,
And thinking of far away things.

And if I should tell her I love her, I love her,

Her wings would unfurl with a start ;
For more than the charms of the humanly

sweet is
, The Kingdom of God in her heart !

Bettie Garland.

MY LITTLE CLOCK.

A uTTivE; clock I have within

Keeps perfect time for me,
Dependent on no calendar

Nor tides of moon or sea.

It does not mark the silly hours,

But what of that reck I ?
All time is wrong ; some minutes drag,

Some days in seconds fly.

It has a system quite its own,

And ticks for me to hear
Whether another little clock

Is far away or near.

I feel the tiny pendulum

Go throbbing to and fro ;
Sometimes tis like to run away,

Sometimes tis faint and slow.

And when it ticks so loud and fast
It drowns the whole world out,

Oh, then I know that other clock
Is near, beyond a doubt !

But when I scarce believe it goes,

So faint its time beats are,
The slow, dark minutes crawl like snails

That clock is very far ;

And if that other should run down,

My little clock, I know,
Would faint and faint and fainter tick,

Then gently cease to go.

Abbie Farwell Brown.

1 SWEKT JACQUEMINOT, I BF.XD To THICK AND KISS THY 1 KKFUMED PETALS RARE.
Drif:i H by Albert E. Sti-rner.

THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE.

SWEET JACQUEMINOT, I bend to thee

And kiss thy perfumed petals rare,
And beg that thou wilt tell for me

My heart s fond story to my fair.
When she shall come with dainty tread

To breathe thy sweets ah, then for me,
When o er thee bending, lift thy head,

Give her this kiss I give to thee.
And may thy gentle touch convey

Unto her all my heart would tell,
For dare I speak, this would I say,

Sweet Jacqueminot, I love her well.

Meet thou her eyes, and like the flush

Of thine own bloom, then will her cheek,
Adorned with sweet confusion, blush

To hear the vows I bid thee speak.
And let thy every gentle art

Of sweet persuasion plead for me
Until thy story move her heart

To love s impassioned sympathy.
And when she takes thee for her own

To lie and die upon her breast,
I would thy fate were mine alone,

For I could know my love is blest.

James King Duffy.

GIX A BODY KISS A BODY."

From the painting by Maude Goodman By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company,
14 East 23^ Street, New York.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

JULY, 1898.

No. 4.

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

A PORTRAIT GALLERY OF OFFICERS \VIIO HOLD THE POSTS OF HONOR AND OF DANGER

IX OUR NAVAL SERVICE AMERICAN SAILORS \YHOSE RECORD SHO\VS THAT

EVERY MAN OF THEM IS ALWAYS READY TO DO HIS DUTY.

HpHE American naval officer offers strik- calls at every turn for manliness, cour-

ing confirmation of the law of the age, and hardihood. For four years the

survival of the fittest. The path from cadet candidate for a commission must sta\- at

to captain is a long and hard one, and the Naval Academy, and during that

FREDERICK V. McNAIR, UNITED STATES NAVY, THE OFFICER WHO HEADS THE LIST OF

COMMODORES.
From a filwtvgntfifi l&gt;\ /&gt; &lt;//, M ashingtcn.

486

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

CAPTAIN ROBLEY u. EVANS ("FIGHTING BOB"), OF THE BATTLESHIP IOWA.

From a photograph ly Rice, II ashiiigton.

time liis life is one .steady round of drill
and study. If at the end of two more
years spent afloat he can pass a credit
able examination in seamanship and gun
nery he is made an ensign, and waits for
the promotion that will carry him, in the
slow process of years, through the grades

of junior lieutenant, lieutenant, lieuten
ant commander, and commander, finally
bringing him, although not until his
hair is gray, the "eagle and anchor"
which marks the rank of captain. The
path, let it be said again, is a long and
hard one, but there are few who think of

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

487

COMMANDER RICHARD RUSH, OF THK
ARMERIA.

From a photograph by Gilbert, ll ashington.

COMMANDER. RICHARDSON CLOVKR, OF THE
GUNBOAT BANCROFT.

From a photograph by Parker, W ashington.

CAPTAIN WILLIAM C. \VISK, OK THK AUXILIARY
CRUISER YALE.

From a photograph by Faber, Norfolk.

COMMANDER JOSEI-H G. KATON, OF THE
AUXILIARY CRUISER RESOLUTE.

l- roin a photograph by Not man, Boston.

488

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE

CAPTAIN FRENCH E. CHAUWICK, OF THE ARMORED CRUISER NEW YORK.

From a photograph by Gilbert, Washington.

flinching from the duties and dangers
before them.

Why are 3-011 called Fighting
Bob ?" was the question put not long
ago to Captain Robley D. Evans, perhaps
the best known officer of his grade in the
navy.

" I never courted the distinction," was
the reply, " and am no more of a fighter,
and no more deserving of that title, than

any other officer. Every one of them
will fight when it is his duty to do so,
and in all our navy individual cowardice
is so rare that it is not worth consider
ing. If the captain of a battleship with
five hundred men on board goes into
action, he does not make a discount of
one hundredth part of one per cent for
backing or skulking on the part of his

REAR ADMIRAL WILLIAM A. KIRKLAM), SKNIOR OFFICER OF THK UNITED STATES NAVY,
COMMANDANT OF THE MAKE ISLAND NAVY YARD, CALIFORNIA.

From a photograph iy Sarony, New York.
2

490

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CAPTAIN HENRY C. TAYLOR, OF THE BATTLESHIP INDIANA.
From a photograph by Child, Newport.

And what is true of the man behind
the gun holds good also of the com
mander on the bridge. There was fur
nished abundant proof of this during the

Civil War. With the exception of the
three lowest men on the list of captains,
all of the sixty two highest officers in the
navy were active participants in that

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

491

great conflict. Some of them
fought under Farragut and
Porter at the bombardment of
Forts Jackson and St. Philip,
the capture of New Orleans,
the passage of the Vicksburg
batteries, and the battle of
Mobile Bay ; others served
with notable gallantry in
Hampton Roads and before
Port Royal, Charleston, and
Fort Fisher. If there was a
laggard among them, history
contains no record of the fact.
It was as a young lieutenant
in the Gulf that Admiral
Dewey mastered the lessons
which five and thirty years
later made possible the victory
of Manila, while Admiral
Sampson, as executive officer
of the Patapsco in the block
ade of Charleston, first gave
proof of the coolness and dar
ing he has lately displa}-ed in

CAPTAIN LOUIS N. STODDER, UNITED STATES REVENUE CUTTER

SERVICE.
From a photograph ly O Neil, New Bedford.

CAPTAIN ALBERT S. BARKER, OF THE CRUISER NEWARK.
From a photograph by Bell, Washington.

West Indian waters.
On the morning of
January 16, 1865, the
Patapsco was ordered
to enter Charleston
harbor, and find and
destroy the mines and
torpedoes with which
it was suspected the
place was lined. She
steamed in, with Lieu
tenant Sampson on
the bridge, but had
hardly passed the har
bor s moiith when she
became a target for
the rifle bullets of
the Con federate sharp
shooters.

Their fire was with
ering, and the men on
the Patapsco went
down like wheat be
fore a wind. Samp
son ordered the sailors
and marines on deck
to go below, and held
his place, a lone target
for the bullets that
flew about him.

Then, without any

CAPTAIX FREDERICK RODGERS, OF THE CRUISER PHILADELPHIA.

From a photograph by Hargrove, New York.

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

493

CAPTAIN P. F. HARRINGTON, OF THE MONITOR PURITAN.

From a photograph by Faber, Norfolk, I irginiu.

apparent reason, the firing ceased a sure
omen of evil ! But it was too late to
retreat, if such a thought entered the
mind of any man. Foot by foot the little
ironclad moved on, until a mighty roar
broke the silence, and the boat shot
upward, torn into a hundred pieces.
Flames leaped from the hull ; there was

another explosion and still another, and
then she sank slowly in the water. Lieu
tenant Sampson, blown a hundred feet
into the air, fell into the sea yards away
from the sinking hull. Twenty five of
his crew were with him, alive ; the others,
to the number of four score, had met
their death, as the men of the Maine met

494

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CAPTAIN G. \V. STMNKR, COMDT. OF THE XE\V YORK NAVY YARD.
From a photograpli by Gntekuiist, Philadelphia.

theirs in Havana harbor.
Penned inside the ship,
there was no escape for
them. Lieutenant vSamp-
son was rescued with the
other survivors, and was
ready next day for an ex
perience as daring as the
one he had just gone
through.

Moreover, the American
naval officer is generally
something more than a
fighter. Admiral Kirkland
has made himself thor
oughly familiar with the
resources of the several re
publics of South America,

and Commodore McNair is
an astronomer whose opin
ions are held in respect by
students the world over.
Commodore Howell is the
inventor of the torpedo
whichbears his name, Com
modore Kautz is master of
half a dozen languages, and
Commodores Watson and
Robeson are civil engineers
of signal ability.

Captain Philip was
chosen from a score of offi
cers as the one best fitted
to command the Woodruff
scientific expedition in its
voyage around the world.

COMMANDER E. C. PENDLETON, COMDT. OF THE WASHING I ( )X
NAVY YARD.

From a photograph by Parker, H us/iinKti n.

;OMMODORE KAVTZ, COMDT. OF THE NEWPORT NAVAL STATION.

J raiti it pliotrgrnph by Glines, Boston.

Captains Rodgers, Barker,
and Wise are acknowledged
authorities on all matters
pertaining to the construc
tion of steel vessels ; Cap
tains Cooper, Taylor, and
Goodrich have long been
prominent as students and
teachers of the history and
practice of naval strategy ;
Captain Crowninshiekl has
penned the best plea for
the building of the Nica
ragua Canal that has found
its way into print, and;
Captains Harrington and!
Ludlow have made them
selves valuable to the de
partment by their study of.

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

495

COMMODORE JOHN A. HOWKLL, OF THK PATROL SQUADRON".
From a photograph by Bell, Washington.

the manufacture and use of torpedoes.
Captains Simmer, Terry, Read, and Whit
ing are hydrographers of exceptional
skill ; Captain Evans is a designer and
builder of bridges, whose services, when
ever he is on leave of absence, are bid for
in advance by the great steel companies ;

Captain Chadwick has made a thorough
and exhaustive study of marine and in
ternational law, and Captain Jewell
knows as much about the capacity of
modern ordnance and high explosives as
any living man.

The eighty five commanders, hailing

496

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

COMMODORE JOHN C. \VATSON, OF THE CUBAN BLOCKADING SQUADRON.

From a photograph Copyrighted, 1898, by F. Gutekunst, Philadelphia.

from almost every State in the Union, are
the backbone of the navy. Upon them
falls the brunt of the fighting in the pres
ent war, and from their ranks will come
the flag officers of the next dozen years.
Commander Willard PI. Brownson, who
stands near the middle of the list, is a
typical sample of the material which will
be used in the making- of our future ad

mirals and commodores. It was while
commanding the Detroit on her maiden
cruise that Brownson became famous. He
took command of her in July, 1893, and
went to the harbor of Rio de Janeiro,
where lay the fleet of Admiral Da Gama,
of the Brazilian navy, in revolt against
the government, which retained control
on land. An ostensible blockade was-

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

497

CAPTAIN JOHN J. READ, OF THE RECEIVING

SHIP RICHMOND.
From a photograph by Gnteknnst, Philadelphia.

COMMANDER I5OWMAX H. McCALLA, OF THE
CRUISER MARBLEHEAD.

From a photograph by Gilbert, M asliington.

COMMANDER FRANCIS \V. DICKINS, BUREAU

OF NAVIGATION.
From a photograph by Parker, Washington.

CAPTAIN JOHX \V. PHILIP, OF THE BATTLE
SHIP TEXAS.
From a photograph by Gutekuttst, Philadelphia.

498

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CAPTAIN W. H. WHITING, OF THE MONITOR MONADNOCK.
From a photograph.

maintained, and American ships were not
allowed to discharge their cargoes. Ad
miral Benliam, commanding the American
fleet in the harbor, resolved to break up
this condition of affairs, and he gave
Brownson, who is pluck and poise per
sonified, the task of doing it.

Brownson s orders were to fire back if
any of our merchant vessels were molested
by the insurgents while seeking to dis
charge their cargoes. A shot from an
insurgent vessel was fired at but missed
one of the American vessels that was
preparing to haul into its wharf. In-

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

499

COMMANDER WILLIAM H. EMORY, OF THE YOSEMITE.
From a photograph by Pearsall, New York.

stantly the Detroit answered

with a six pounder, sending a

shot under the insurgent s

bow. The latter then fired one

shot to leeward, and another

over the merchantman. The

Detroit answered with a

musket volley that tore the

stern post of the insurgent

craft, after which Brownson

steamed alongside the Brazil
ian, and, hailing her com
mander, told him that the

Detroit would send him to the

bottom if he fired again. It

was this plucky challenge of

the American captain to a

Brazilian officer only a few

yards from him that ended the

rebellion. And Brownson, like

his fellows, can do more than

fight. He is one of the best

hydrographers in the navy,

and an accepted authority on

deep sea soundings.

Above andbelow him on the list of com- ing Francis W. Dickins, Charles H. Davis,

manders are many of the ablest and most Bowman H. McCalla, Edwin White,

resolute of our captains of the fleet, includ- George A. Converse, Eugene W. Watson,

John F. Merry, Wil
liam C.Gibson, Chap
man C. Todd, Joseph
N. Hemphill, Clifford
H. West, Joseph G.
Eaton, Edwin C.
Pendleton, Walton
Goodwin, Richard
son Clover, James
M. Miller, Richard
Rush, and William
H. Emory. Each of
these officers is a
fighter and a disci
plinarian.

Emory in particu
lar is a man to be
taken carefully into
account in any fore
cast of the navy s
future. Stories of
this officer s sturdy
character are com
mon in the service.
It is related of him
that while a young

COMMODORE HENRY B. ROBESOX. lieutenant OU

From a Photograph by Pearsall, Ne-.u York. Asiatic station he had

500

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

COMMANDER W. H. BROWNSON, OF THK
AUXILIARY CRUISER YANKEE.

From a photograpli fry Parker, Washington.

COMMANDER CLIFFORD H. WEST, OF THE

GUNBOAT PRINCETON.
From a photograph by Pearsall, Brooklyn.

CAPTAIN NICOLL LUDLOW, OF THE MONITOR

TERROR.
From a photograph by Gilbert, Washington.

CAPTAIN SILAS W. TERRY, OF THE RECEIVING
SHIP FRANKLIN.

From a photograph by F itz-Patrick, Montevideo.

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

501

COMMANDER EDWIN WHITE.
from a photograph by Buj/Fham, A nnapolis.

occasion to reprimand an
enlisted man who was
physically a powerful fel
low, with some notoriety
as a bully among the
crew. It came to Emory s
ears that the man had
remarked that " Lieuten
ant Emory had on his
uniform for protection, or
he would not have dared
to be so severe. " Emon-
went at once to the captain
and got a tour of shore
leave for the sailor, who
gladl}- availed himself of
the favor, but the lieu
tenant put on his civilian
dress, and, overtaking
the man, invited him into
aback street and told him
to defend himself. There
was a hot fight for five
minutes, and then Emory
helped the jack tar aboard
ship, and turned him over
to the doctor for a week s
convalescence.
Commanders Rockwell,

COMMANDER E. W. WATSON, OF THE SCINDIA.
From a ^-holograph by Uyeiio, Hong: Kong.

CAPTAIN PHILIP H. COOPER, SUPERINTENDENT OF THE UNITED
STATES NAVAL ACADEMY.

From a photograph by Buffhain, Annapolis.

502

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

COMMANDER WALTON GOODWIN, OF THE
SOtFTHERBY.

Front a photograph by Tamamama, Yokohama, Japan.

COMMANDER JOSEPH N. IIEMPHILL, BUREAU

OF V ARDS AXD DOCKS.
From a photcgrapli by Bell, Washington.

COMMANDER JAMES M. MILLER, OF THE

MERRIMAC.
From a photograph by Parkinson, New York.

COMMANDER WILLIAM C. GIBSON, OF THE

PEXSACOLA.
From a photograph by Nickerson, Portsmouth, N. H.

OUR FIGHTING NAVY.

503

Forsyth, and McGowan are
veterans of the old volunteer
navy. McGowan wears the
medal of honor, never given
save for conspicuous bravery
in battle. The transfer of
the revenue cutter service to
the control of the Secretary
of the Navy has added a
number of men with reinem-
berable records to the roster of
fighting" naval commanders.
Captains George E. McCon-
nell and Henry B. Rogers
served as volunteer officers
during the Civil War. Cap
tain Louis N. Stodder, when
a youngster of twentj* two,
was master of the Monitor in
her epoch making encounter
with the Merrimac, and a few
months later he was one of the
last to leave the famous iron-

COMMANDER CHARLES H. DAVIS, OF
From a photograph by Moreno &lt; Lopez,

CAPTAIX THEODORE F. JEWELL, OF THE PROTECTED
CRUISER MINNEAPOLIS.

from a photograph by Prince, Washington.

clad when she sank in a storm off
CapeHatteras in thewinterof 1862.
With such men as these to fight
its ships and squadrons there need
be no fear for the present and the
future of the United States navy.
Both are in strong, sure hands how
strong and how sure, we perhaps
scarcely realize in the piping days
of peace. It is only when there
sounds the call to arms that we see
the metal of our guns, and of the
men behind them, fully tested.
Not very many times in our history
have we had to face the crisis of
war, but whenever the hour has
come it has found the men ready.
Our sailors always welcome a
chance for active service, however
full of hard work, responsibility,
and danger. There have doubtless
been many Farraguts and Deweys
in our navy who have failed of high
renown only for lack of opportu
nity as would Farragut and
Dewey, had the wars that gave
them their laurels come only a few
years later in each case ; and there
may well be some among the Amer
ican officers pictured here who will
rank, a year hence, among our
naval heroes.

Rufus Rockwell Wilson.

THE DIXIE.
Neiv York.

WILLIAM E. MASON*.
From a photograph by Sell, Washington.

THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

BY WILLIAM E. MASON,

United States Senator from Illinois.

Personal impressions of a well known member of our highest legislative body The Senate s
membership and methods, needed reforms in its rules, and the unnecessary air of mystery that
surrounds its secret sessions.

HpHE most agreeable men I have ever
known are the Senators of the United
States. No set of gentlemen with whom
the writer has been associated seem so con
siderate of one another s wishes and con
venience. In fact, it is a question if this
has not been carried too far, at times even
to the point of interference with the trans
action of public business.

The word "parliament" is derived from
parley, or talk ; and how the}- happened
to call otir august body the Senate, in
stead of the Parley-ment or Talk-ament, I

cannot fathom. There are great Senators
who can set their lips moving that is,
begin to parley and then let them run
for daj-s at a time without apparent phys
ical or mental effort.

The first parliament, so far as natural
history shows, was organized by our in
teresting friends, the monkeys. Forages
they have met in the forests and, one at a
time, expressed their views. At the end
of his parley each one is duly applauded,
whether it is because of some wise saying,
or simply because he. has quit, I don t

THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

505

know and cannot tell, as the learned pro
fessor who was to translate the monkey
dialect, and possibly publish their Con
gressional Record, has, I think, not com
pleted his work. Mankind says that the
monkey imitates the man ; but as they
had a parliament or senate before the
kings allowed men to have one, I hold
that man, and not the monkey, is the
imitator.

Under the Senate rules, however, ap
plause is not allowed. There are two
kinds of applause, affirmative and nega
tive ; we waive the former to bar the latter.

Among civilized human beings every
legislative body has rules of procedure
except the Senate of the United States.
I do not mean to say that we have no
rules. We have a book of rules as big as
a Bible. I mean that there is no rule by
which debate can be confined to the sub
ject under consideration ; there is no time,
on this side of eternity, when a Senator
must stop. He can take weeks if he
wishes. There is no rule by which a
given piece of business can be reached
and disposed of by the majority when the
majority is ready to act. Day after day
pending legislation is dragged along ; no
matter how large the majority may be,
one man can render it powerless to act.
No matter that the people may have voted
on the question at issue ; no matter that
business interests may hang in the bal
ance ; no hour can be fixed for a final
vote until unanimous consent is obtained.

This is not fair and is not right. I ad
mit that the minority has a right to be
heard and to protest ; but when the
minority has had its rights as a minority,
the majority ought to be allowed to carry
out its policy. This is a country of
majorities ; all our officers are elected by
majorities of the people. Our courts of
last resort may differ as to law and facts,
but the opinion of the majority is the
opinion of the court. There are men in
the Senate of the United States now who
will never let the question rest until we
have some rule by which the business of
the government can be transacted by a
constitutional majority.

No better illustration can be had than

the difficulties encountered in passing the

last Tariff Bill. Millions of dollars in

business were suffering under the strain

of waiting. Millions of dollars of revenue
were lost to the government while wait
ing for " unanimous consent " to vote,
although the people had voted on the
question, and a large majority of the
Senate was for the measure. The United
States Senate will never be an American
institution until the majority, and not the
minority, controls its every action.

While discussing the rules, executive
sessions should not be forgotten. Before
I blossomed into a United States Senator
I used to be a plain M. C. Sometimes it
happened that I was in the Senate
Chamber when an executive session was
ordered. The first time I heard the
motion made I said to myself: "Well, I
gvtess I ll stay and see the fun." The
motion to go into executive session v;as
carried, and I was invited to go out.

" But," I said, kind of swelling up, " I
am a member of the House of Representa
tives of the United States of America ! "

"Oh! Yes! Is that so?" said the
polite officer. But you 11 have to go.

And go I did, but I mentally shook my
fist at the green baize door and said :
"I ll just run for the Senate myself. "

Men, as everybody knows, are never
curious ; but I confess that I was anxious
to see what was done in the sanctum sanc
torum known as the Executive or Secret
Session of the United States Senate.

At last, after all my trials and tribula
tions (this is in confidence) my supreme
hour came. A Senator from New Eng
land arose and solemnly and earnestly
moved that we go into "executive ses
sion." I heard the magic words. My
dream was to be realized. I saw the gal
leries cleared. I saw new M. C. s get the
gentle hint to go, just as I had. I wanted
to walk out by the same door at which I
had shaken my fist, and then walk in ;
but I was afraid that some part of the
ceremonies of the supreme moment would
escape me. I rushed to my seat, put my
desk in order, dusted my coat collar with
my fingers, smoothed my hair, and tried
to look like my ideal of a Senator in
executive session.

The bells all over the Senate end of the
Capitol rang and made music to my ears.
The chief page clapped his hands three
times, and the pages all rushed from our
sacred presence. Amidst the ringing of

506

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

bells and rushing of feet the people were
all moved out, the doors were closed, and
we were alone !

Thereupon the Senator who had moved
the executive session struck a match in
the usual way and lit a cigar, audibly in
forming his neighbor that it was the only
one he had. He then moved that John
Smith be confirmed in his $700 post office
in Podunk. The President of the United
States Senate, the Vice President of the
United States, said : " Without objection
it is so ordered." A motion to adjourn
was carried. In one moment my dream
was broken, and I was left with a taste
in ni} r mouth as insipid and unsatisfying
as that. of circus lemonade.

Seriously if it is possible to be serious
on this subject the executive session is
a farce. It may be well in times of war
with other nations to have the govern
ment business as to treaties, and things
of that sort, done in secret ; but in ordi
nary business, and in times of peace, there
is no reason for closed doors between the
people and the men employed to represent
them.

This leads to the thought of the election
of United States Senators. The people
pay the Senatorial salaries, and are bound
by the Senate laws, but they have mighty
little to say, in most cases, as to who
shall be United States Senator. A State
may go by fifty thousand majority in
favor of one platform, and yet its Legis
lature may elect a United States Senator
on the other platform. The Legislature
elects the Senator, and it may or may not
carry out the wishes of the people. This
system removes the Senate too far from
the people. Senators are often elected
without having their public and political
record before the public for an hour. In
ray humble opinion there is little prospect
of the prompt transaction of public affairs
until the people elect the United States
Senators. But the Constitution ? Well,
let us amend it. That has been done,
and each time it has been improved.

If a man holds his seat in the Senate
by use of his check book he owes allegi
ance to no man. If he holds his seat at
the dictation of a political boss, he bosses
the people and serves the boss. But if
he holds his commission from the people,
he needs must answer to the people alone.

The pay of a United States Senator is
$5,000 a year, with mileage of five cents
a mile which will about pay one s fare if
one leaves his family at home and gets a
pass for oneself, and also if one is not
held up too often by the sleeping car, the
dining car, and the boss of the road,
commonly called the porter. We all
admit that our pay is too small, but we
have to admit that we all knew what the
pay was when we so reluctantly accepted
the office. I have examined the statutes
and the Constitution very carefully, and
can find nothing in either which prevents
our resigning.

The politics of the present Senate is
mongrel or non partisan, with no party
in a clear majority. Republicans are
divided into free silver and sound money
Republicans ; Democrats the same way.
There are Independents, Populists, and
What-nots. There is no party respon
sibility. Some committees are controlled
by one party and some by the other, and
an appropriation goes through as
smoothly as the Ten Commandments
through a Sunday school.

I wish that I had the space in which to
describe some of the curious things
that befall a United States Senator, and
some of the people who write to him or
call on him, or to bring before the readers
of MUNSEY S the public buildings we
visit daily. Most marvelous of these
latter is the Congressional Library. Every
American citizen ought to see it. So
closely connected is it with the United
States Senate and the House of Repre
sentatives that we can have brought to
us on the underground cable, in two
minutes, almost any book ever published
in our language.

Here are a few samples of letters that
Senators receive :

SENATOR MASON :

Will carp eat gold fish ? If not send me sonic-
carp.

Yours, etc.

This was referred, and I do not today
know what the result was.
Another :

SENATOR MASON :

I wonder if you are my brother that left home
in 1850. His name was William Mason too. If
so please write, etc. etc. (Here followed a
family tree. )

.SARA MASON.

THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

507

I did not leave home in 1850. In fact,
that was the interesting year in which I
first arrived at home. I hardly knew
what to do with this letter. I was in
Washington, she in Oklahoma, and I
could not tell whether I wanted her to
be a sister to me or not.

And here is another, just as written,
all but the writer s name. I follow his
punctuation and spelling. Let us call
him John Brown. He was an honest man
who thought the government ran a found
ling home.
MR. MASON :

We want a baby. We want you to pick us out
a baby, my wife wants a girl and I want a boy
but never mind I don t care witch. Tell me
what it cost.

Yours truly,

JOHN BROWN.

This was referred to the Foundlings
Home at Chicago.

One constituent argued his claim to be
a United States consul as follows : " I am
a Republican and have made sacrifices for
my country. My present wife s first hus
band was a soldier." I cannot tell
whether or not he meant that it was a con
tinuing sacrifice.

Here is a letter covering eight pages of
paper and nearly all of the subjects dis
cussed in the last campaign. It is right
on all questions and more than gratifying,
for it approves my every vote. The last
page is a solemn and unselfish prayer, and
closes :

May God hold up your hands and make you
strong to do battle for the people. May God
shower his choicest blessings upon you is the
prayer of your true and loyal friend,

S. 15. B.

P. S. Don t forget that I am a candidate for
postmaster here.

Some time ago, while I was visiting a
friend in Illinois, he showed me the pic
tures of three famous United States
Senators, Clay, Calhoun, and Webster.
In the course of a most interesting con
versation he told me that he had heard
all three of these illustrious gentlemen
take part in a single debate. One Senator
had said to him that Calhoun was the
lightning, Webster the thunder, and Clay
the rainbow, of the Senate. Clay and
Webster and Calhoun are dead, but their
spirits live and still contend upon the
Senate floor. Henry Clay can never die
while there is one American citizen con

tending for the doctrine of protection to
American industries. One can still see
the spirit of Calhoun, like a lightning
flash, pleading for State sovereignty, and
still hear the swarthy Webster, like the
voice of thunder, saying in reply :
" Liberty and Union, now and forever,
one and inseparable ! "

The contest begun by these two Sena
tors did not end with death. It went on
and on until the lightning flash of the
South and the thunder of the North broke
into the storm, the cyclone of the Civil
War. For four years the trial of that
cause lasted. It was tried at the firesides
of all the people. It was heard amid the
smoke of battles, in the hills, valleys,
swamps, and above the clouds. The
spirit of Calhoun wrote "The Bonnie
Blue Flag. " The spirit of Webster wrote
" The Star Spangled Banner." The spirit
of Calhoun blockaded the Mississippi
River. The spirit of Webster opened
it forever to the Gulf. The spirit of Cal
houn began the argument at Sumter, and
the spirit of Webster closed the debate at
Appomattox.

One of the most important duties of the
United States Senate is the settlement of
treaties between this and other countries.
The last treaty under discussion was that
pending between England and ourselves,
and during its consideration the impracti
cability of the executive session was never
better demonstrated. The proceedings
were reported daily, but the giving of in
formation being against the rules, they
were never reported correctly. The writer
ventures to say that no more learned and
careful dissertations have been made for
years than those delivered by the chair
man of the committee on foreign rela
tions, Senator Davis of Minnesota, and
other thoroughly equipped constitutional
lawyers on both sides of the question.
The people were much interested as to
the terms of the treaty, and general
dissatisfaction was expressed when it was
defeated. The arguments were neither
reported nor printed. Requests for the
whole debate still come from every quarter,
but cannot be granted, because of the old
and absurd practice of closing the doors
and refusing to report the proceedings.

Those who voted for the arbitration
treat)*, as finally amended, gave strong

508

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

and patriotic reasons for so doing. Those
who voted against it rested their action
upon reasons as strong and patriotic, but
different. Some said we were not suffi
ciently protected in the selection of the
judges. Others believed that it would be
time enough to establish the court when
we had a difference to submit to a court.
Still others claimed that under the treaty
the British government could force us to
arbitrate settled American principles, like
the Monroe Doctrine or the right to levy
import duties, w r hich no citizen of the
United States is ready to submit to a court
composed of Europeans not in sj-mpathy
with the doctrines of a republic.

That the treaty was defeated does not
.show, even by implication, that the
Senate favors war rather than arbitration.
Quite the contrary is true in proof of
which see the resolution passed by both
houses of Congress during President
Harrison s administration, settling the
policy of the nation in favor of arbitra
tion, and inviting all the nations of the
world to join in arbitrating all inter

national differences. This does not apply
to England alone, but takes in all nations,
including such weaker sisters as Greece,
Guatemala, and Venezuela.

England is, in diplomacy, the strongest
nation in the world. She has improved
in every way, as we have, since 1776.
Still, we do not imagine that her anxiety
to fix a court of arbitration is wholly in
the interest of your Uncle Samuel. She
has not yet entirely abandoned the doc
trine of extending her territory and com
merce by the aid of her navy. The
sentiment of the people of the United
States has always been opposed to this
doctrine. We have no disposition to mix
in quarrels that do not concern us ; but
there is a growing hope that when we sit
down to the great peace dinner we may
welcome the nations of the whole world.
In any event, our sister republics of this
continent who, according to our brother,
John Bull, do not entirely know the
boundaries of their own homesteads will
be invited to partake of the hospitalities
of peace and liberty.

William E. Mason.

TWO FANCIES.

THIS is the fancy that carne last night,

That came when the moon rose over the hill

And we two stood in its silvery light
By the broken wheel of the mill.

This is the fancy that long ago

When the old dead moon was a thing of life
A younger world, as the wise men know

That we were moon man and wife.

For the thought had come, and is with rne yet,
That we were not strangers that sweet first time

When eager and shy our young eyes met,
And love rang its silent chime.

And this is the fancy that cheers my heart
When it feels despair though die we must

That our souls will never be far apart

Though our bodies turn wind blown dust.

And that far away in the realms of space
In worlds that are better by far than this,

Again and again I shall seek your face
And win your first maiden kiss.

Tom Hall.

THE JOKE CLUB.

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

It has been well said that there is no more serious obstacle to harmony in
human relations than a difference of taste in jokes.

IT was a mystery how any one could have
come into our family minus a sense of
humor, yet there Rachel was, ten years old,
and couldn t see a joke to save her life.
She was so much younger than the rest of
us that we had rather let her off so far, think
ing that her absolute literalness was a child
ish trait which she would outgrow. But
finally it began to dawn on us that if humor
did not develop pretty soon it never would.

It was a trifling incident that started the
great reform movement. Hugh came in to
breakfast one morning, limping. He had
stepped on a tack, he explained, and punc
tured his foot.

" I was like you, Rachel," he added. " I
didn t see the point."

" How could I have seen it when I wasn t
in your room at all? " she demanded. Hugh
lay back wearily in his chair.

" It s no use," he said to me. " We ve
got to take that child in hand. She must
learn to see a point without having to step
on it first. Let s start a joke club."

The idea appealed to me, and we organ
ized that very night. Rachel, dear little
soul, was so interested and so thoroughly
in earnest that we had to take it very
seriously,, so as not to hurt her feelings.

" You know, I really want to grow up
funny, like Hugh," she said. " Perhaps, if
you show me why you laugh at things, I can
learn to say them, too."

It was agreed that the club should meet
every night for five minutes after dinner,
and that each member should bring a new
and original joke. The first night Rachel
was merely to laugh in the right place and
explain why she laughed, but after that she
would have to begin with simple little jokes
herself.

" You must be careful what kind of wit
you cultivate," Hugh began. " There s the
hackneyed, commonplace kind, that finds
suggestiveness in a tunnel and humor in a
sneeze. You don t want that."

" I don t know what you mean about tun
nels," Rachel said, " but a sneeze is real
funny, sometimes, when it s loud."

Hugh laughed and gave up any attempt
to classify.

" Well, you can hand in a good sneeze for
your first joke," he said. " We ll start from
there with your education."

" I guess you only mean that for a joke,"
Rachel. said shrewdly, and beamed with pride
when we all applauded.

The next night, as soon as dinner was
over, Hugh turned gravely to Rachel.

" This afternoon, instead of coming
straight home," he began, " I wheeled up to
a girl s house to get her to take a ride with
me, and as I went in one gate on my tan
dem, she went out the other on a different
tandem. Do you see anything funny in
that? "

Rachel considered earnestly, for she was
glaringly honest.

" No," she had to confess; " truly, I don t,
Hugh."

He held out his hand.

" Shake on it," he said cordially. " I
don t, either. But that other fellow is tell
ing it to his joke club as the best one of the
season. And I shouldn t wonder if her joke
club heard of it, too."

" Did you fall or anything? " Rachel was
making a conscientious effort to put sale on
the tail of the jest.

" My pride did," he answered. " Never
mind. We won t any of us laugh at that.
But I ll tell you something really funny.
She s going to ride with me tomorrow
afternoon, and I. knowing that other man s
habits, am going to take her down a certain
street at a certain minute, and he will see
us whiz by. Now that s a joke worth telling.
Edith, it s your turn."

" I have a better one than that," I said.
" That particular young man is going out of
town tomorrow for the day, and won t be
back till evening." Hugh and I both
laughed, but poor little Rachel looked
puzzled and discouraged.

" I can t keep up," she said so mourn
fully that Hugh pulled her into his lap and
began making bad puns. A particularly
strained one on her own last name roused

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

an appreciative giggle, and as secretary of
the club I was obliged to*write it down,
with the date, in a little blank book.

" When you get five or six pages along,
you ll look back at that and wonder why you
laughed," said Hugh, showing her the en
try. " A sense of humor tells you when, not
to laugh even more than it does when to
laugh."

But that was beyond Rachel.

" How did you know that Lester was go
ing away? " he asked me when the meet
ing had adjourned.

" I had a note from him, saying that he
might not get back in time for the Choral
Club tomorrow night."

Hugh did not look especially sorry.

" I think we ll survive it," he said. " Well.
I m going out to make some calls."

I smiled to myself, knowing how many
he would make, and where; then sigJied a
little, having troubles of my own.

Rachel was very solemn the next morning.

" Do I really have to have a joke ready
by tonight? " she asked me, before she
started for school.

" Well, I d try to," I advised. " You ll
have to begin some time, you know. Keep
your eyes wide open for anything that hap
pens. Maybe you will see something that
will make a funny story."

" I ll watch," she said, and went soberly
off, herself the best little joke ever played
on a fun loving family. At dinner that
night she seemed preoccupied, and did not
even ask what we were going to have for
dessert.

" I m afraid it isn t funny enough." she
said, when the club opened session. " It
made me laugh, but then, you know, I was
looking right at it. He was so big and fat
and scared, and his bicycle wiggled so! And
when a horse passed him he chattered all
over."

I smiled sympathetically, but Hugh shook
his head.

" No, Rachel; we can t laugh at that, I m
afraid," he said seriously. " It is rather
commonplace. If you had told how, in
trying to dodge a trolley car, he had run
over a baby carriage and been flung head
first into an ice wagon, and had then sued
the driver for giving him the frozen face, it
would have had a certain crude, funny paper
amusingness about it. One could hardly
call it subtle, in any case."

But none of that happened at all," she
protested. " It wouldn t be true."

" It doesn t have" to be true, if it s funny,"
said Hugh. " You aren t trying to deceive
people, you re just trying to give them a
good laugh. Oh, you can t contaminate
her," he added aside, in answer to my

glance. " She is altogether too honest.
She will grow up an unmitigated bore if we
don t drill a little playfulness into her."

" I m glad she won t be quite so playful
as some," I was beginning with meaning,
when the door opened, and the first soprano
of the Choral Club brought Hugh to his feet
with a jump. There is only one woman in
the world (at a time) that can make a man
scramble up in just that way.

Pauline smiled on every one impartially.

" Am I very early? " she asked. " Father
was coming by here, so I made him leave
me on his way."

I don t believe there will be many here
tonight," I said, while Hugh took her
wraps. " Almost everybody is away."

" And it s all ready to rain," Pauline
added. " But I just wanted a good time
tonight."

" You ll get it," said Hugh boldly, shak
ing his head at her.

" How? " asked little Rachel, and there
was a general laugh.

Only six or eight members had come
when there was a growl of thunder, and the
clink of rain on the windows. The Choral
Club, in spite of its name, was not seriously
musical, being merely an excuse for the in
formal assembling of a certain little set
every few weeks. We generally sang a
little for form s sake, then did as we pleased.
Tonight a spirit of recklessness possessed
Hugh, and as the thunder crept nearer and
nearer, the excitement spread to the others,
till they were ready for any foolishness.

" Let s play Hide and Go Seek," he pro
posed suddenly. "All over the house, you
know. We re just ev-enly divided, so we ll
hunt in couples, and Rachel can be a rover.
Edith, we will give you and Duncan ten
minutes to hide anywhere, from the roof
to the cellar. Hurry up! I bet Pauline
and I find you."

I wavered, and for the first time since a
certain incident three weeks before Duncan
and I looked each other straight in the eyes.
Something the lightning or Pauline or the
absence of Lester had gone to Hugh s
head, or he would never have made that
suggestion. A long, tumbling peal of thun
der set our pulses beating, and we faced the
situation with a laugh of restored friendship.

" Come on." we said, and slipped out,
closing the doors on the others.

We ran through the halls, that our foot
steps might be misleading if any one were
listening, then tiptoed up to the third story,
and stowed ourselves in an unfinished part
of the attic that was used for a trunk room.
The rough beams sloped sharply down over
our heads, and the pounding rain on the
shingles seemed ready to break through any

THE JOKE CLUB.

minute. Now and then a blaze of lightning
would cross the dusty little window, show
ing piled up trunks and boxes on all sides,
a dressmaker s wire form looming ghost-
wise in a white sheet, and a little old crib
swung on wooden supports.

We seated ourselves on a box behind a
pile of trunks, and waited in throbbing ex
citement. Had we been hiding for our
lives, we could not have felt the tension
more than we did in those few moments
alone in that mysterious room, with the
storm so close to us. When steps sounded
outside we cowered down in a tremor of
elated fear. The door swung open.

" I don t believe they re in here," said
Hugh s voice.

" We d better look, though," Pauline
answered, leading the way in. " They might
have oh, what s that? " She shrank back
and seized Hugh as the lightning showed the
sheeted form.

" It s a wire lady to sew dresses on," he
said. " I won t let it hurt you, Pauline."

They laughed and crossed over to the
window.
" God makes the thunder for the women-folk

to wonder at
God makes it lighten just to frighten who He

can, "

said Hugh. " There s no use wriggling
your fingers, Pauline. I ve got to hold
your hand. If I once lost you in this
spooky place, I d never find you again."

" Perhaps we had better go back, then,"
suggested Pauline. Duncan was choking
down his laughter with an effort that made
the box shake, though we both felt a little
mean. I should have spoken then if I had
dreamed what was coming. The next
moment it was too late.

" Oh, we don t really want to find them,
do we?" Hugh said. " I m sure they don t
want us to. Things have been wrong there,
for several weeks, and I thought I d give
old Duncan a chance to straighten them out.
I suspect that she turned him down just to
see how it felt."

Well, I was paid now. If ever I was
thankful for darkness, it was that minute.
I could feel Duncan s eyes fixed on me,
waiting for the next flash, but the storm
seemed to have passed over.

" They do sometimes," admitted Pauline.
" Do you really think Edith cares for him,
Hugh?"

" I guess yes," was the confident answer,
and I felt as though my face must be light
ing up the room like a red lantern. I don t
believe either of us breathed. " Oh, they ll
come out all right!" he went on. "Let s
talk about us. Do you suppose we ll come
out all right, Pauline ? "

" I shall," she said confidently. " I can t
answer for you."

" But you can t do it all alone. It takes
two to make a anything."

" What s a anything ? " she asked in
that wicked little half voice she kept for
critical moments. " Oh, there s some one
coming! " she added hastily. " Let s hide."

Some one really was coming. They had
barely time to rustle into a corner behind
an old bureau when the door swung open,
letting in a faint light from the hall.

" I thought maybe they came in here,"
said Rachel s voice, a trifle plaintively.
" It s a very queer game, any way. There
are two of them down in the furnace room,
and two in the butler s pantry, ana two on
the back stairs landing, and nobody seems
to be looking at all. They just tell me to
run and hunt."

" Well, perhaps you and I can get them
going again," said another voice, and I
caught my breath as I recognized it as Mr.
Lester s. What Pauline did I don t kno\v.

" Let s look out of the window," said
Rachel, piloting him across the room. " See,
the clouds have big holes in them, and
there s the moon. I wish we could find
Hugh and Miss Pauline, don t you ? It
would be a joke, you know, because they
don t know you re here." The joke club
was beginning to bear fruit, but I doubt if
Hugh rejoiced in his pupil at that moment.

" Yes, there would be a joke on some one,
I suppose," said Mr. Lester, rather moodily.

" Do you think they re lovers? " went on
Rachel s cheerful voice. " Oh, see, here s
the old cradle! " She patted a little old pil
low that lay in it, and began to swing it
gently back and forth. " Don t you wish
there was a dear little baby in it? " she said.
" I do love them. Wouldn t you like to have
one of your own? "

My heart sank, for there was no knowing
where the catechism would stop, but Mr.
Lester did not seem disturbed.

" Yes, Rachel, I should, very much," he
said, with a simple seriousness that made me
warm to him.

" I m going to have four, two girls and
two boys," Rachel went on. " But I don t
think I ll name any of them after me. Would
you? "

" Why, Rachel is a pretty name, very," he
said. " I think we d better go and find the
rest now, don t you? "

" Let s play a joke on them," said Rachel.
" You know I m learning to do jokes now,
so that I ll grow up funny, like Hugh. I ll
tell you " lowering her voice to an excited
whisper " let s tell em you and I are lov
ers! It won t have to be true, you know, if
it s funny. Won t Miss Pauline be mad! "

512

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

Lester laughed in spite of himself. As for
me, I was weeping with smothered laughter
and excitement. A great, stern silence over
shadowed the other corner.

" Why ? " asked Mr. Lester.

" Because you re her other beau, aren t
you ? " inquired Rachel, with beautiful sim
plicity. " I know about beaux, for Maggie
tells me about Tim, and then don t you
ever tell! "

" Never! "

" I heard Hugh ask a girl to marry him
once. I was playing cave under the sofa,
and they didn t know it. Oh, you ought to
have "

" Come, we must go down," interposed
Mr. Lester. " I imagine they are all look
ing for us by this time, don t you? Let s
hurry."

There was an ominous silence in the attic
as their steps retreated. I leaned exhaust-
edly against the wall, and Duncan stealthily
mopped his eyes. Pauline spoke first, in a
cool little voice.

" We may as well follow. I really think
this game has gone far enough."

" Quite far enough," agreed Hugh with
equal coldness. " I suppose it is Lester s
turn now."

Pauline made no answer, and they de
parted in unfriendly silence.

" Well ? " said Duncan.

" They didn t find us, any way," I ex
claimed, jumping up. " Let s get out of this
dreadful place. We must never breathe
where we were."

" I don t know, myself, just where we
are," he persisted.

" All in the dark," I answered. " Come."

It was the end of the evening before
Hugh and Pauline came within the width
of the room of one another. Then, with a
formal apology, he drew her aside.

" I simply wish to tell you," he said, ig
noring the fact that I was not two feet away,
" that I have never seriously asked any girl
to marry me in my life. Rachel must have
overheard some fooling I don t have to
explain to you how one sometimes carries
on and have taken it seriously. That is
all, but I wish you to believe it." He might
have been explaining how he came to step
on her gown, for all the feeling in his voice.
There was a distinct pause, then:

" Aren t you going to take me home? "
she said in that deadly little half whisper.
When I looked Hugh was down at her
feet, putting on her overshoes, and she was
smiling serenely.

The joke club had barely a quorum for the
next two or three meetings, for Hugh was
either at Pauline s or in such a hurry to get
there that he had no time for Rachel s edu

cation. He was getting a good deal of edu
cation himself, I fancy, for I could see that
Pauline never gave him a smile without set
ting one aside for Mr. Lester, and there was
no knowing which way the demure little cat
would jump.

Sunday Hugh repented, and announced
that the club would hold an important ses
sion, three cigarettes long, immediately
after dinner. Rachel was very much ex
cited.

" I ve something to tell," she announced
when she had been allowed to choose the
three cigarettes that seemed to her the
longest.

" Funny? " queried Hugh warningly.

" Yes," said Rachel with confidence. " I
was coming over from Aunt Nellie s and I
went around by the little bridge and what
do you think I saw, walking down through
the willows ? "

There was an impressive pause.

" Ghost? " Hugh suggested.

" No," said Rachel. " It was Mr. Lester
and Miss Pauline, and he had his arm
around her! "

No one laughed in the breathless silence
that followed. Hugh laid down his cigar
ette. Rachel looked a little disappointed,
but brought out her climax bravely.

" And then, just before they got to the
bend, he kissed her, real hard. I saw him.
I thought maybe she d slap him Maggie
did Tim, the other night but I don t believe
she did."

Rachel had made a coup. Hugh, dark
crimson, slammed out of the room, and
Maggie, bright pink, fled to the pantry.
Then we broke down and shouted with
laughter. Rachel s little giggle joined in
delightedly.

" Oh, I like the joke club! " she exclaimed,
and set us all off again. " I wish Hugh
hadn t run away," she added. " There was
two cigarettes and a half more."

Though I couldn t help laughing, I was
very sorry for Hugh, for this was no joke
at all to him. He was angry and hurt and
desperately disappointed. He made a
plucky attempt to appear as if nothing had
happened, and all the next week took pains
to go out just as much as formerly, though
I guessed it was not to Pauline s before she
herself betrayed the fact. I met her down
town towards the end of the week, and we
stopped to talk, each a little constrained.

" When is Hugh coming back? " she
asked very casually.

Why, he hasn t been away," I answered
in surprise, my wits not catching up for a
second.

" Oh, I thought I heard that he was out of
town. I must have mixed him up with some

THE JOKE CLUB.

one else," she said, bowing into the crowd.
Rachel is coming to Florence s little sup
per tonight, isn t she? That s good. Well,
do run in soon."

" And bring brother back to the fold," I
supplemented under my breath, as I smiled
and nodded myself away. I felt no resent
ment against her, for Hugh was quite old
enough to take care of himself, and, frankly,
he had been known to play that game him
self. I couldn t logically resent his being
served in the same way occasionally.

I found Rachel getting ready for her party,
and very important.

" Now, Maggie is going, to take me over
to Florence s," she said, but Hugh will
have to come and bring me back, mother
says, and I m so glad. Really, Edith, Hugh
is so very beautiful that I like to have the
girls see him. And then, you know, he can
talk to Miss Pauline while I m getting my
things on."

Hugh was too proud to protest against
his mission that evening, but when it was
time to go he hung back and suddenly be
came very brotherly.

" Why don t you walk over there with
me, Edy? " he said. " It s a great night."
No amount of nocturnal loveliness had ever
before suggested my going with him in that
direction, but I understood, and went as
matter-of-coursely as possible.

We found an excited troop of children go
ing to Jerusalem around a double row of
chairs, while Lester, at the piano, furnished
the necessary accompaniment, watching the
game or Pauline, perhaps over his
shoulder. Rachel came up to us, beaming.

" Just a little longer," she begged. " We re
having such a grand time, and I haven t
been caught yet. Nobody has gone home."

" Oh, you can t take her away quite yet! "
said Pauline, coming over to shake hands.
So Hugh submitted. As some one claimed
my outer attention, she turned to him.

" Hugh," she said, in a small voice with
a hint of laughter in it, and several other in
gredients that must have been trying to his
resistance, " Hugh you mad at me? "

If I had been a man and in love with her
and Hugh was both I should have sur
rendered without a struggle. Perhaps the
defiant jollity of the piano had something to
do with his fortitude.

" I have been busy this week," he said
indifferently. " Really, I have not been
anywhere."

The music broke off, a signal for the
children to scramble for chairs, and Mr.
Lester came over and joined us.

" Thank you, Teddy," said Pauline, with
a very special smile, and Teddy was evident
ly well repaid.

" Rachel, you must come now," said
Hugh impatiently.

The next Sunday afternoon I was talking
with Duncan in the library when Rachel
wandered in, looking rather forlorn.

" Nothing s any fun any more," she said.
We don t even have the joke club, and
I m forgetting all I learned. Maggie told
me one about sandwiches and it didn t make
me laugh a bit. I wish some one would
tell me a story." Nobody took the hint,
and she evidently began to have an uneasy
sense that something was happening.

" Is Duncan your beau, Edith? " she asked,
in a tone of surprised discovery.

" Girls don t have beaux any more.
They ve gone out of fashion," I answered
as collectedly as I could.

" Maggie does."

" Well, perhaps. But we don t."

" What do you have, then? "

" Oh, best young men, and little play
mates, and things like that."

"What s Duncan?" Rachel persisted.

I looked at him consideringly.

" Do let s make it fiance," he said, going
on with the argument Rachel hafl inter
rupted.

" I suppose we might as well," I admitted,
pressing my face against her shoulder.

" Ve what? " she queried.

" Edith, you in here? " said Hugh s voice.
" Here s Lester." I did my best to look
glad, but Duncan wouldn t even try.

" I just ran in to get my umbrella, and to
tell you something," he said, and I shuddered
for what Hugh might be about to hear.
" No, I can t stop long enough to sit down.
I m going abroad tomorrow."

" Going abroad! "

" Yes; our firm wants a representative in
England for the next few months, so they
are sending me. It was settled only yester
day, so I am simply chasing."

" It is a splendid thing for you," I said,
wondering what it might mean to two
other people.

" Yes; and I am very glad to get away for
a while," he said, and there was a momentary
silence. Then he squared his shoulders, as
though putting something away from him.
" I hadn t an idea of it till a week ago to
day. I went down to my uncle s to stay
over Sunday, never dreaming that he had
any such "

" Last Sunday? " I interrupted.

"Yes; I was there from Saturday till
Monday," he answered, surprised at my
tone.

" Oh, I was thinking I had seen you! " I
stumbled, with a glance at Rachel, who was
unconcernedly amusing herself with Dun
can s watch guard.

5 4

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

Hugh had never been on very friendly
terms with Mr. Lester, naturally enough,
but Mr. Lester, after saying good by to the
rest of us, turned to him and held out his
hand.

" I wish you every kind of good luck," he
said, looking Hugh straight in the eyes.
Hugh flushed a little, and gripped his. hand
with a new heartiness, and the two went out
together.

In a few moments Hugh came striding
back.

" Rachel," he exclaimed, " how could you
have seen Lester last Sunday? "

" H m?" said Rachel.

" Mr. Lester and Miss Pauline," I
prompted. " Don t you remember saying
you had seen them in the willows, when
you were coming from Aunt Nellie s? "

" Oh, the joke club! " said Rachel, with a
pleased smile of recollection. " And he
kissed her. It wasn t really them, you
know, it was two others, but I thought it
would be funnier "

" Do you mean to say that it was just
a confounded lie? " Hugh blazed out.

Rachel s eyes began to wink very fast.

" I didn t lie," she protested, catching her
breath audibly. " I just told it as funny as
I could, the way you said to. It wasn t as
big a fib as the iceman story you told me,
and you know you said it didn t have to be
true if it made people laugh. And they did
laugh," she added, with a hiccup of injured
feelings.

" But, good Lord "

" Hugh, don t. It isn t fair," I inter
posed. " You haven t any right to blame
her." Rachel was sobbing excitedly by this
time, and Hugh relented.

" There, kid, it s all right," he said, rub
bing the top of her head. " It was my fault.
We won t scold each other."

" When you say it it s funny, but when I
say it it s a wicked story," said Rachel, still
aggrieved.

" We won t be funny any more, either of
us," said Hugh, giving her a forgiving pat
and starting for the door.

"Not even at the joke club?" asked
Rachel, lifting her head.

He paused in the doorway.

" Rachel," he said solemnly, " the joke
club is disbanded! "

THE SPIRIT OF SEVENTY SIX.

UK is with us again in the buff and the bine

That was soaked in the Delaware s flood,
Or on Lexington s field in the mist of the dawn

Was blackened with powder and blood.
II is brown curly locks with a black ribbon tied

With gray are beginning to mix,
And bullets have riddled the rim of the hat

Of the spirit of Seventy Six.

The glance of his eye is as clear as the day,

And his heart is as stout as of old,
Though the lawn at his neck and the lace at his wrist

Are touched with a century s mold.
His musket is steady and true in its aim,

And the steel of his sword never sticks
In the worn leather scabbard that swings by the side
Of the spirit of Seventy Six !

Minna Irving.

BY PAUL ARMSTRONG.

A tale of matchmaking strategy How one woman s wit and another woman s
beauty were matched against a man s diplomatic egotism, and which side
won the game.

DAVIS MONROE held curious opinions on
the subject of feminine beauty. He
maintained that nature never forgot herself,
and if to one woman she gave beauty she
never overdid the matter by giving her any
great amount of brains. He used to defy his
friends to disprove his theory, and if some
one should mention a woman who was both
beautiful and undeniably intelligent, he would
exclaim :

"Ah, just so ! But that is the exception
which proves the rule."

Davis Monroe was rich, of course, or women
would never have smiled on him after his
having made public such a theory. In a
young man, to be rich is to be petted, agreed
with, and spoiled. He is sure to become an
egotist, and that, of course, makes him easy
prey generally. So far as Monroe was con
cerned, however, the mammas had begun to
believe that he was not marriageable ; and
they were about to consign him to the outer
darkness of bachelordom when Mrs. An
drews Fillmore Rix, of Philadelphia, chanced
to meet him. It was at the home of Mrs.
Kilsurd, her sister.

"Very curious young man," she had re
marked, after having heard him expound his
theories. "Interesting, too."

"Very," declared Mrs. Kilsurd. " Very
curious. In spite of all I can do he shows no
especial interest in Leona. I have quite given
him up. He will be a bachelor."

Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix laughed.

"Then you have decided there is no
chance of his marrying?"

" Quite," declared Mrs. Kilsurd, with em
phasis.

" Reason, if any ? "

" A very good one. He maintains that he
will marry no one but a woman who is both
beautiful and intelligent ; and in the same
breath he declares that such a person does
not exist."

Again Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix laughed
a quiet little laugh denoting pleasing remin
iscences.

" How odd ! " she mused.

Presently she looked at her sister.

" Then, of course, you have no objection to
my marrying him to my niece, seeing that he
fails to appreciate Leona."

None whatever. In fact, I believe I
should enjoy seeing you try ; " and Mrs.
Kilsurd laughed quietly.

Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix met Davis
Monroe at a musicale a week later, and she
proved such a good listener that his pet theory
seemed to be tottering. Then he suddenly
remembered that it did not apply to women
past the age of thirty.

There was one remark Mrs. Andrews Fill-
more Rix had made which fixed his attention.

"You must meet my niece, Grace Fill-
more," she had said. "She has theories
similar to yours."

As Davis Monroe recalled the words he
concluded that the niece must be as homely
as the aunt was beautiful.

Some two weeks later Mrs. Andrews Fill-
more Rix returned to Philadelphia, knowing
that Davis Monroe would follow a week later.
On business, he had said. Upon her arrival
Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix attempted to
transfer her knowledge of the theories to her
niece. But Grace Fillmore was beaxitiful and
under thirty, and she could not grasp the sit
uation as her aunt had.

"Now, Grace, listen: once a man has a
pet idea he is as easy to handle as a mouse in
a trap. He is absolutely powerless. It is
his undoing. It is paralysis. It is "

" But, aunty, I don t understand what you
mean. If he is subject to paralysis "

"No, no, Grace. Now listen. Can you
follow directions ? "

" Why, of course, if you "

"Well, then, listen to him like a child
would to a fairy tale. Never mind whether
you understand what he is talking about or
not. Just look him in the eyes, nod now
and then, and if he stops ask him to con
tinue. Declare that he is the most interest
ing man you have ever known. But don t
talk. The man always wants to do the talk
ing ; ^and, besides, if 3-011 talk he may dis-

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

cover that you have not understood what he
has been saying. Can you remember that ? "
" I think so," said the clever girl. " Is he
rich?"

"Two millions, twenty six, tall, handsome
everything. And there is no reason in the
world why you should not marry him. You
have only to look at him, listen, nod, and ex
claim. But, don t talk."

Davis Monroe called earlier than Mrs.
Andrews Fillmore Rix had expected. The
theorist had thought much of this girl who
a clever woman had assured him was intelli
gent. He had become interested.
They met.

Grace Fillmore was disappointed in no way
whatever. Davis Monroe was at once agree
ably surprised and not a little suspicious ;
surprised at the girl s beauty, and suspicious
of Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix judgment of
her intelligence.

As the hours wore away and he delivered
himself of his theories, ideas, and beliefs, he
became more and more interested and his
suspicions gradually faded away. As he left
the house he noticed that his voice was
husky ; he could remember nothing but a
pair of interested, child-like eyes and a beau
tiful face.

Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix and her niece
had a consultation.

" I don t understand it," declared the girl.
" How well we get on ! "
Her aunt laughed musically.
" Did I do all right ? " the girl asked.
"You were perfect, my dear," Mrs. An
drews Fillmore Rix said, patting her hands
affectionately. " I ll ask him to dinner some
night this week."

The affair progressed. Davis Monroe told
the same tales, expounded the same theories,
and discussed the same subjects again and
again, without realizing it. He was en
tranced. Nor did the girl seem to realize
the repetition. His theory of intelligence
and beauty was worth more than ever now,
for he had found the exception which proved
the rule. And such a beautiful gitl, too !
He proposed.
She accepted.

He went to his hotel the happiest egotist
on earth.

She kissed Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix,
and declared that she was the dearest aunt
any girl ever had.

Again Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix smiled,
patted the girl s hands and wondered at Mrs.
Kilsurd s stupidity.

A week later there was a quarrel.
Grace Fillmore had what she thought to
be a graceful and attractive in fact, a stylish
way of carrying her hands.

Davis Monroe called her attention to the
fact that she had "contracted a bad habit in
her hands."

She informed him that he had no eye for
either grace or beauty, to say nothing of
style.

He mentioned the fact that from all ap
pearances he had quite a considerable eye
for " Grace," to say the least. But she would
countenance no foolishness. He then de
fended himself bluntly and in man fashion.

To vanquish him she declared that she
was not the girl whom he should marry, and
released him from his engagement.

He apologized, and begged forgiveness and
favor.

She was at first obdurate, but finally con
sented to the renewal of the engagement
on condition that he did not venture to criti
cise her hands again.

He promised, and she told Mrs. Andrews
Fillmore Rix of the quarrel and the final
settlement.

That person, after a moment s silence, de
clared that no harm was done.

A month later Grace became careless, and
attempted to talk with Davis Monroe on one
of his pet theories. The remark she made
chilled him. It was so silly that he could
not forget it for hours.

That night he lay awake trying to recall
what Grace had ever done which led him to
believe her intelligent. She listened well, it
is true, but his horse could do that.

The next day he attempted to draw her out
concerning a certain land scheme which
would forever dispose of the problem of over
crowded tenements. This particular scheme
he had explained at least once to the last
detail, and Grace had nodded and apparently
understood.

His effort, however, was forestalled by
Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix, who took the
conversation upon herself, and left Grace to
agree with him when an argument arose.

Davis Monroe went home humble. Grace
was clever beyond belief.

A few evenings later they were at the
theater.

Grace had declared she loved tragedy
above all things dramatic. He did also. In
fact, he was at first surprised to find that on
this line her tastes and his agreed.

But nothing surprised him of late. He had
found his affinity.

The play was "La Tosca," which he had
never before seen, and the terrible strug
gle of the heroine appealed to him. The
villainy of the persecutor of the lover made
his blood boil.

The scene where the heroine and the vil
lain meet had been reached, and the climax

TWO WOMEN AND A THEORIST.

of the story was at hand. The house was
noiseless as a tomb save for the suppressed
breathing and an occasional stifled, hysteri
cal exclamation.

Davis Monroe sat with hands clenched and
his eyes ablaze with excited interest.

Philadelphia was not the city, nor a theater
box the place. He was there in that room
of the villainous Governor watching the
torture of a woman who loved. Her lover
was without, in the courtyard, about to be
shot. To Davis Monroe it was real, awful,
tragic.

Suddenly Grace turned toward him, leaned
forward, and touched his arm. Then in a
whisper which sounded like a shout in the
stillness of the house, she said :

" Do you see that hat that woman wears in
the sixth row in the balcony, third seat from
the end ? I had a friend at school whose
mother used to wear hats like that."

Just at that moment the heroine stabbed
the villain, but Davis Monroe did not see it.
He was answering in a hoarse, stammering
voice :

" Yes, yes yes sixth seat from the hat,
third row."

Then the act ended suddenly, and a burst
of applause thundered from the audience.
Grace was applauding as if anxious to ruin
her gloves. Davis sat for a moment dazed
and wondering.

" Did did you ever see this play before ?"
he asked.

"No, "said Grace, looking at him with
eyes which he would have sworn reflected
the excitement of the play; "but isn t it
beautiful ?

Again he pondered.

Her eyes and her lips told him she had
seen the play, but he could not believe it.
Then suddenly he recalled a certain remark
she had made. He thought of his plan to
learn what she knew of his land scheme, and
its result, and like a flash he recalled the
part Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix had taken
in that conversation. He thought he under
stood. He looked at the girl furtively.

"Yes," he said; " the play is beautiful.
But it s faulty."

" Oh, yes," said Grace Fillmore.

"Did you notice how she stole that knife
from the church?" he asked. "Wasn t
that clever, though ? "

" Very," said she.

" I didn t like the idea of having that
policeman coming in there while the hero
was saying good by to his mother, did you?"

" Not a bit," said Mrs. Andrews Fillmore
Rix clever niece.

"Wasn t that leap from the bridge excit
ing ? " he said.

"Very; I have never seen better acting,"
she said.

And thus, with similar remarks about
things which never occurred, and which the
commonest sort of intelligence would tell one
could not occur, he trapped her.

The curtain rose on the final act, but Davis
Monroe did not see it. He was at w T ork oti
the next act of his own little tragedy. Sud
denly it occurred to him that he was to
marry this girl, who was worse than stupid.
His first impulse was to run ; then came
saner thoughts.

The audience applauded, and Grace Fill-
more joined in the demonstration. It drew
his attention to her hands. A ray of light
came into his pit of despair. Her hands !
He had been thrown over once, the engage
ment snapped in an instant, because he had
criticised her hands. Would it occur again ?
It was an easy and graceful way out. He
could hardly wait until the play was finished
to put it to the test.

At last his chance came. They were in the
carriage.

"Really, Grace," he said, "your hands
are very awkward."

" Mr. Monroe," she began in a voice which
gave him hope.

" Yes, I know," he interrupted ; " but if
you knew how you looked "

"I thought, " she broke in, "you under
stood that subject was forbidden."

" Well, I can t help that," he went on.
" I really must insist that

There was a sound of tearing kid and a
ring was forced into his hand.

" But, Grace, don t be childish," he began.

" Mr. Monroe, you do not remember well,"
she said. " I release you. We are apparently
not suited

"But, Grace," he interrupted, half apolo
getically, trying to force the ring back in her
hand.

"Not another word, Mr. Monroe," she
said stiffly.

The ride to her home was finished in
silence.

At the door he said :

"Am I to understand that you wish our
engagement broken off on account of a little
thing like "

" L/et us not discuss it further. There is
no engagement between us, Mr. Monroe.
Good night."

She told Mrs. Andrews Fillmore Rix about
it, and that diplomatic person, after a mo
ment s thought, declared:

"You were quite right, my dear. He will
call tomorrow."

But Davis Monroe did not call, and he is
now a bachelor beyond recall.

THE FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY.

BY FREDERIC VAN RENSSELAER DEY.

" The star spangled banner, oh, long may it wave
O er the land of the free and the home of the brave !

""THE mysterious influence of patriotism
* has its fountain head in the flag of
our country. It gleams upon us from
the stars ; it is fastened to our existence
by the immovable, unchangeable stripes.
Its brilliant red teaches us to remember
the heroes who brought it into existence
to symbolize the birth of freedom. Its
cerulean blue is emblematic of truth, of
honor, of principle, and of that kind of
glory which is everlasting. Its spotless
white typifies the purity of purpose which
actuated our forefathers who conceived it.
1 Its stars are the coronet of freedom ; its
stripes, the scourges of oppression.
Wherever it appears, it is the symbol of
power and the shield of safety ; who
clings to it, not all the tyrants on the
earth can tear from its protection. There
is no influence more august, there can be
no holier thrill than that which the flag
of our country inspires in every patriot s
breast."

An American poet has aptly termed
our banner the "Scarlet Veined." It
seems like a channel through which the
heart throbs of a mighty nation impel the
life giving, liberty loving fluid of its
people. It generates the atmosphere of
freedom that we breathe ; it creates the
higher impulses which we absorb ; it
speaks to the highest and to the most
lowly in the same even tone of power, of
steadfastness, of unalterable and unquali
fied promise.

Tradition asserts that the prophets of
old were no more directly inspired than
was our own Washington in its selection.
Picture those grand men, our national
creators, as they were gathered together
in that grim old Philadelphia!] chamber, to
consult and to agree upon the adoption of
a national emblem, as they had been
directed to do by the Continental Con

gress. There were as many designs as
there were men at that solemn conclave,
and yet to Washington, upon whom all
eyes rested, all hearts depended, every
thought concentrated, there was not
among them one which conveyed his
heart s exalted hopes for the future of his
country.

He alone submitted no design. He
had imagined many, but was satisfied
with none ; and at last, perplexed, he rose
in his place, so to state. Just then the
sunlight streamed through the diamond
paned window of the gable, high above
their heads, and fell upon the table before
him. The prismatic gleams begat colors
and resolved themselves into shape before
his eyes. The framework of the window
separated the bars of light in their de
scent, so that when they met again upon
the table they became stripes of red and
white. Washington raised his eyes, and
through the window saw the blue dome
of heaven beyond, where so many nights,
upon the battlefield, he had watched the
glimmering stars. Instantly he saw the
flag of freedom.

History has not recorded the words in
which he gave the fruits of his inspiration
to that august assembly, but with one
voice his suggestions were adopted, and
on the 1 4th of June, 1777, Congress re
solved " that the flag of the United States
be thirteen stripes of alternate red and
white ; that the Union be thirteen stars,
white in a blue field, presenting a new
constellation." Thirteen has proved to
be America s lucky number.

It is only fair to add that there is an
other accotint of the source from which
the pattern of the Stars and Stripes was
drawn an account that is less pictur
esque, but perhaps more historical. It is
pointed out that Washington s coat of

THK FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY.

519

arms consisted of stars and stripes, andthat
either he or, more probably, some other
member of the committee there is no
actual evidence as to the individual origi
nator of the design adopted these heral
dic emblems as no less appropriate for
the banner of the army he commanded.

Be this as it may, historians agree that,
some time during the first days of that
eventful June, Washington, accompanied
by other members of the committee,
called upon Mrs. Elizabeth Ross at 239
Arch Street, Philadelphia, and from a
rough draft which he had made she pre
pared the first flag. Washington s de
sign contained stars of six points, but
Mrs. Ross thought that five points would
make them more symmetrical. She com
pleted the flag in twenty four hours, and
it was received with enthusiasm wherever
displayed. " Betsy " Ross was manufac
turer of flags for the government for
many years, and was succeeded by her
children.

A volume could be written upon the
early history of the Stars and Stripes.
There has been much controversy as to
its first appearance on the field of battle.
"My hand hoisted the first American
flag, " declared John Paul Jones, the pug
nacious Scot who afterwards became
famous as captain of the Bonhomme
Richard ; but this must have been one of
the earlier banners, as the final pattern
had not been adopted when Jones was
serving as lieutenant on the Revolution
ary frigate Alfred. John Adams claimed
the honor for a New England officer. " I
assert, " he said, "that the first American
flag was hoisted by Captain John Manly,
and the first British flag was struck to
him. " Manly was a Massachusetts sailor
whose schooner, the Lee, captured the
British brig Nancy almost at the begin
ning of the war. His ensign was prob
ably one of the pine tree flags, of which
several different patterns were flown as
early as the battle of Bunker Hill.

It was probably at Fort Schuyler, then
besieged by the British, that the Stars and
Stripes received its baptism of fire. The
beleaguered patriots had some difficulty
in finding materials of the proper color.
They had to cut up linen shirts for the
white stripes, and to patch together
pieces of scarlet cloth for the red, while a

fine blue camlet cloak, captured from a
British officer, served for the canton. The
flag s first important battle was that of
Brandywine, where it suffered a defeat
that was speedily and amply avenged
when it flew in triumph at the capture of
Burgoyne s army at Saratoga.

Today, when New York is expressing
her outburst of patriotic feeling by flying
a hundred thousand flags, we can afford
to recall the curious fact that she was the
last American city to greet the Stars and
Stripes, more than six years after its
adoption as our national banner. King
George s colors dominated the metropolis
from a few days after the disastrous
battle of Long Island till the end of the
war. On the day agreed upon for the
evacuation of the city November 25,
1783 when the American troops reached
the Battery at three o clock in the after
noon, they found a British flag hoisted
there upon a tall pole, with the halyards
cut away. The departing garrison, the
last of whom had just embarked, evidently
wished to see their colors flying as long
as they were in sight of land ; but a
young American soldier, Van Arsdale
by name, climbed the pole, tore down the
offending ensign, and set the Stars and
Stripes aloft, in full view of the retreating
squadron.

It is recorded, however, that the flag-
had been flown in New York earlier in
the day. At sunrise a local boarding house
keeper, whose name history does not
seem toliave preserved, ran up the Stars
and Stripes over his residence. His daring
action was reported to Cunningham, the
British provost marshal, who ordered the
rebel ensign down, as the garrison claimed
military possession up to the hour of
noon. The order being disregarded,
Cunningham came in person to haul
down the flag. Before he could touch it
the mistress of the house rallied to its de
fense with a broomstick, which she
wielded with such vigor and success
that the provost marshal retreated in
confusion, with the loss of most of the
powder in his wig.

May i, 1795, brought the first change
in the Stars and Stripes. Vermont and
Kentucky had been admitted to State
hood, and Congress decreed that the flag
should thereafter contain fifteen stars

5 2

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

and fifteen stripes. It .soon became evi
dent that the continual addition of new
States would destroy the symmetry of the
flag, and it was Captain S. E. Reid, of
the famous privateer General Armstrong,
who suggested to Congress the plan upon
which the flag is built today. April 14,
1818, saw the restoration in perpetuity of
the thirteen stripes, and provision made
for the addition of a new star on every
Fourth of July succeeding the admission
of a State to the Union. Captain Reid s
wife made the first flag with the original
number of stripes, and with twenty stars,
arranged in the form of one great star.

" Old Glory " is among the oldest of
flags, although we are one of the young
est of nations. The present flag of Spain
was adopted in 1785 ; the tricolor of
France, in 1794 ; the Union Jack of Great
Britain, in 1801 ; the banner of Portugal,
in 1830 ; of Italy, in 1848, and of the
German Empire, in 1871. It is claimed
for the Stars and Stripes and no flag
except the French or the British can pos
sibly dispute the claim that it has been
in more battles, and has waved over more
victories on land and sea, than any ban
ner in the world, and there is not a Euro
pean standard for which so many men
have fought and died. Something like a
million lives have been laid down, that
the Stars and Stripes might continue to
wave over the land of the free.

Until two years ago all the American
flags used in the army and navy of the
United States were manufactured* at the

Brooklyn navy yard, but they are now
also made at Mare Island, San Francisco.
At these government factories the work
has been reduced to an exact science.
The bunting is carefully weighed, the
colors tested with chemicals, the stars
and the stripes measured to the breadth of
a hair, and every stitch counted with mi
nute exactness. The floor of the measur
ing room is a geometrical problem which
might puzzle a professor of mathematics
a sort of mosaic combination of polished
brass, hard wood, and arithmetic. The
" hoist " of the standard flag must, to the
fraction of a millimeter, be precisely ten
nineteenths of the length.

Before the beginning of the present war
with Spain, fourteen women were kept
busy stitching flags ; now there are forty
four, and it is curious to see them work
ing as diligently upon the flags of Spain
as upon the Stars and Stripes. Every
United States ship carries a full comple
ment of flags of all nations, and of signal
flags, and all these are made by our own
government. Just now Spanish flags are
in especial demand ; our ships are even
searching the high seas for them !

There is a new design in which the
flag workers have made a special display
of their skill the President s flag. It
has never yet appeared upon a battlefield,
nor floated above a man of war, but the
day may come when an American chief
magistrate, making the grand tour of our
territory, may take it with him to Cuba,
to Porto Rico, or to the Philippines.

LOYALTY.

WHAT is true friendship? Hear the answer, then !

True friendship does not doubt, or fail, or fear ;

It turns to calumny a deafened ear ;
Its strength must needs be as the strength of ten
Because it is so pure and selfless, free

From morbid fancies and from vain alarms.

His honor questioned ? Quick ! a call to arms
To fight for him with might of loyalty !
And when his world seems dark, through grief and care,

Let friendship spread for him her wide, strong wings

And bear him up so swift and far and high
That every breath of clear, life giving air

Brings rest and courage, hopes of better things,
A healing calm, a great serenity.

Grace H. Boutelle.

Sunset*

given m tfjc sea unrolled

jjlorg of tyi fjair;
on tlje fnafcics, a mass of
0unlfgljt rcstcti tfjerc.
Frederic Fail-child Shcnnan

THE PRIZES OF VICTORY.

THE MAGNIFICENT ISLANDS THAT ARE LOST TO SPAIN SHALL WE RAISE OUR FLAG IN

THE INDIES OF THE EAST AND OE THE WEST? A GREAT PROBLEM AND A

GREAT OPPORTUNITY.

IT is tolerably clear, and is daily becom
ing clearer, that the United States is
at a turning point in its history. The
great question that is setting itself be
fore us is not that of war or peace with
Spain, or with any other foreign nation.
It is something much more important,
because the issues it involves are not
temporary, but for all time. No one can
precisely estimate its importance to the
future of ourselves and of the civilized
world, but there is no doubt that its in
fluence upon history will be tremendous.
We are accustomed to hear of the vast
extent of the British Empire, and to
marvel at the way in which, within little
more than a century, the people of a small
group of northern islands have carried

their flag over something like one sixth
of the land surface of the globe. We are
apt to forget that our own territorial ex
pansion has been scarcely less remark
able, and that our own history has been
one of periodical and immense annex
ations. A hundred and twenty years
ago, when the successful revolt of our
forefathers left England practically
stripped of her colonial possessions, we
were a mere fringe of settlers scattered
along the eastern coast of North America.
The vast territory to the west of us was
partly unknown, but wholly covered by
the self asserted sovereignty of European
powers. Britain held Florida, to the
south, and Canada, conquered from
France, to the north ; France was estab-

Cl liA A SCK.NK IN MATANZAS, ON THK SAN JUAN KIVKK.

524

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CUBA THE DRIVE TO THE BELLAMAR CAVES, MATANZAS.

lished in our rear, along the whole line
of the Mississippi ; Spain had a sweep
ing and indefinite claim to the region
beyond. It might well have been thought
that of the four flags that flew upon the
almost virgin continent, ours was the
weakest competitor for dominion. Yet

here is a brief summary of the great drama
of empire that began then :

THF, MARCH OF OUR FLAG.

Iii 1803 Napoleon, despairing of his
ability to retain his splendid province of
Louisiana, is glad to sell it to Jefferson

CUBA THK CHURCH OF MONSEKRATE, MATANZAS.

THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS SCENES IN MANILA, THE CAPITAL CITY AND COMMERCIAL CENTER

OF THE GROUP. MANILA IS ON THE ISLAND OF LUZON, WAS FOUNDED BY THE SPANISH

IN 1571, AND HAS A POPULATION OF 2JO,OOO.

THE PRIZES OF VICTORY.

529

I OKTO RICO VIKW OF SAN JUAN FKOM THE I)

for a sum that now seems a ridiculously
small payment. Sixteen years later
Florida, ceded by England to Spain, is
again transferred to us. At the same his
torical hour the Spaniards other great
mainland possession Mexico becomes
an independent .state, with a territory al
most as vast as ours, divided from us by
a thousand miles of a vague and debat
able frontier. The irresistible logic of
events clashes the two repiiblics together
in war, and the stronger takes from the
weaker a princely empire stretching from
Texas to Wyoming and to California.

Thus far our acquisitions are wholly of
adjoining territory, and they make a
state that is huge, indeed, yet thoroughlj
compact "four square to all the winds
that blow," with a frontier which, on
three sides, is marked by the hand of na
ture. Yet it is an easy step to the purchase
of Alaska, where Russia, at the beginning
of this century, had been first in the
field of colonization. Seven millions of
dollars was the price of the sovereignty
of that northern land, with its fisheries,
its furs, and its rich stores of minerals ;
and even without its natural wealth, who
would not vote thrice that sum today to
prevent it from passing into the hands of
any other power ?

Since 1867 our career of national ex
pansion has been halted ; but is it over
forever ? This is the great question that
the war with Spain has forced upon us.

IN Till-: HARBOR.

If the Spaniard is to be expelled from
Cuba, from Porto Rico, and from the
Philippines almost the last fragments of
his squandered heritage what is to be
come of those tropical islands of east and
west ? The decision rests with us. It is
not likely that we shall allow any foreign
power or combination of powers to decide
the question for us. A great problem
and a magnificent opportunity .seem to
lie before us.

No doubt there will be many to oppose
a proposition for the annexation of all or
any of these Spanish islands. It has
been so with even- forward step of our
flag ; yet who would retrace a single one
of those steps today ? Jefferson was
criticised for the Louisiana purchase.
The war with Mexico was stoutly op
posed, and the admission of Texas, when
debated by the Senate, failed to .secure
the two thirds majority necessary for the
approval of a treat}-. Secretary Seward
was told that he had wasted the money
he paid for Alaska. Danger has been
scented in every acquisition of territory,
yet today we have not a foot of ground
that we would give up.

now COLONIAL EMPIRES GROW.
In his famous book on " The Expan
sion of England, " Professor Seeley points
out that his country s colonial empire
has not been built up by any settled and
deliberate policy on the part of her rulers,

532

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CUBA THE PLAZA DE TOKOS, OR BULL RING, IN HAVANA, IN WHICH WERE GIVEN THE BULL
FIGHTS THAT ARE THE GREAT NATIONAL AMUSEMENT OF THE SPANIARDS.

but has grown up in spite of their indif
ference and neglect. Until very recent
times the European governments have
apparently cared little for the wide world
beyond their own borders ; and the
threatened result is that a hundred years
hence most of the great powers must
inevitably find themselves dwarfed by the
vaster states now establishing themselves
upon such a scale of magnitude as the
world never saw before by Russia, by
the United States, and by Greater Britain.

We in America have been benefited not
a little by this European indifference.
Had the Grand Monarque spent in defend
ing Canada a few of the millions he flung
into his baths and fountains at Versailles,
French, and not English, might today
have been the ruling tongue of North
America. Had Napoleon foreseen the
future of the new world, he would never
have sold Louisiana for a mess of pottage
while he dreamed of empire in the east.
And at the same time we ourselves

CUBA THE INTERIOR OF THE PLAZA DE TOROS.

534

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

CUBA THE CASINO ESPANOL, OR SPANISH CLUBHOUSE, HAVANA.

though with more justification, our un
occupied domain being far ampler than
any European state have shown a like
reluctance for the path of expansion.
We have hesitated where we might have
stepped forward.

It may be recalled that in 1867 Mr.
Seward, fresh from his notable achieve

ment of the Alaska purchase, opened
negotiations with Denmark for the sale
of her West Indian islands of St. John
and St. Thomas ; but the Senate declined
to ratify the bargain he made. A few
years later, when Grant w r as President, it
was proposed to annex either the whole
of Santo Domingo, or the harbor of

CUBA A CORRIDOR IN THE CASINO ESPANOL, HAVANA.

536

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Samana, a valuable point in that little
negro republic ; but after much debate
the plan fell through. Then came the
suggestion of the Mole St. Nicolas, a
part of Hayti, as a desirable acquisition ;
but again no active step was taken.

THIS RACE FOR EMPIRE.

Within the last dozen years there has
been a marked change in the general

question arises whether it will be for our
benefit to take them.

CUBA, PORTO RICO, AND THE PHILIP
PINES.

Much depends, of course, upon the na
ture of these islands, on which so much
of the world s attention is centered just
now upon their climate and situation,
their natural resources, and their stand-

CUBA LA FUERZA, ONE OF THE OLDKST BUILDINGS IN HAVANA, ERECTED IN 1573.

policy of the European powers. Several
of them seem to have suddenly awakened
to the importance of colonies and foreign
stations for their flag, and there has en
sued a desperate scramble for the remain
ing unappropriated corners of the earth.
In this competition we have hitherto
taken no part. We have seen the whole
of Africa divided between the rival claim
ants ; we now see the remnant of Asia
threatened with a like partition. Is there
anything left for us ? Provinces once
absorbed by France, England, Russia, or
Germany are never likely to be in the
market, as it were, again. But Spain,
which has already lost a score of depend
encies, is inevitabl} doomed to lose the
three or four that remain to her. The
change will be for their benefit, and very
possibly for hers as well. The great

ing in the scale of civilization. Cuba is
but a hundred miles off our own coast,
yet comparatively few Americans have
visited the Spanish West Indies ; the
Spanish East Indies are almost wholly
unknown to us. What manner of coun
tries are they the Philippines, where
Admiral Dewey x made the first conquest
of the war, and Cuba and Porto Rico,
which, as we write, seem to lie at the
mercy of our squadrons ? The accom
panying illustrations, engraved from re
cent photographs, will help to answer
the question by picturing characteristic
island scenes. A few statistics may also
be of interest, at the risk of repeating
facts already familiar.

In size, these islands are large enough
to form a material addition to our terri
tory, without being so unmanageable as

rue OLD WALL.

NATIVB

ARCHITECT!; RE

PORTO KICO CHAKACTKKISTIC SCKXKS IX TIIK
J^ni-t ii from photographs.

V SAX JTAX.

540

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

the vast tracts France and England have
recently annexed in Africa. Cuba con
tains a few more square miles than Ohio,
a few less than Virginia. Porto Rico is
smaller than any State in the Union,
except Delaware and Rhode Island. The
total area of the Philippines, with their

tional reports of men slain in battle, of
women and children starved to death, and
of families driven into exile, there can be
very few survivors left there now ; but it
would be safer to wait for another census
before making an estimate. It is certain,
however, that with a stable government so

CUBA ROYAL PALM TREES IN THE SUBURBS OF MATANZAS. THE ROYAL PALM (OREODOXA

REGIA) is ONE OF THE HANDSOMEST SPECIES OF THE PALM FAMILY, GROWING IN

FLORIDA AND THE WEST INDIES.

dozen large islands and more than a
thousand small ones, is a little more
than that of Nevada or Colorado.

As to their population, they are neither
very thickl} r nor very thinly settled, the
total for Cuba, Porto Rico, and the
Philippines being something less than
ten million people. About half of this
total belongs to Luzon, the island of
which Manila is the capital. The present
population of Cuba is a matter for specu
lation. The last census, taken in 1890,
reported 1,631,687 people in the Queen
of the Antilles. According to the sensa-

rich an island could support man} more
inhabitants than she possesses. Porto
Rico, which has been less harassed by
civil disorder, is quite densely populated,
having as many people as Connecticut.

Of course it cannot be claimed that the
ten million people of these Spanish de
pendencies are homogeneous with our
selves, or that we should find no difficulty
whatever in extending our political .sys
tem to include them. But what problem
could they present in any way compar
able to those that England has met and
solved in India, where she rules three

544

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

hundred million Asiatics of widely differ- numerical majority. These are by no
ent races, languages, and religions, civil- means savages, though their place in the
ized and uncivilized, and united only in scale of civilization is far from high.

THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS A CHARACTERISTIC
BIT OF MANILA, SHOWING A SPANISH CHURCH
AND A BRIDGE OVER ONE OF THE STREAMS
THAT RUN THROUGH THE CITY.

being absolutely alien to the power that Those who have lived among them as
governs them ? very few Americans have say that they

are as industrious as the tropical climate

THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDERS. permits, and as orderly as could be ex-

Of the seven or eight million people in pected under Spanish misrule. It is

the Philippines, Malay tribes form the worth noting that there is a considerable

THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS A STREET IN THE SUBURBS OF MANILA, SHOWING THE
ARCHITECTURE OF THE NATIVE HOUSES.

fyp

. iKa ....^- .- .J

546

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

colony of them in southern Louisiana,
the origin of which is not quite clear.
The} are known there as " Manila men, "
and their ways of life are said to be pre
cisely those of their kinsmen in the far
east.

Besides the Malays, there is in the
Philippines a race called the negritos,
anil believed to be the aboriginal people

The Philippine climate is summed up
in a Spanish proverb which describes it
as "six months of dust, six months of
mud, six months of all sorts of things."
An account that is less epigrammatic,
but whose arithmetic seems better, states
that there are six months of dry weather
and six months of rainy weather in the
year. Stretching southward almost to

PORTO RICO THE PRINCKSS PROMENADE, A FASHIONABLE PARKWAY IN SAN JUAN.

of the islands, corresponding to such
tribes as the Bhils in India. Driven in
past centuries from the best lands, they
are found among the mountains, and
their contact with civilization has been
very slight. The Spanish population is
inconsiderable, numbering only about
five thousand, most of whom are not set
tlers, but merely transient residents. In
the cities there is also a sprinkling of
Chinese, Japanese, and other immigrants
from Asia, and of miscellaneous half
breeds. Rather a mixed list, perhaps ;
but it may be remembered that we have a
rather mixed population here at home,
and yet we seem to get along very well
with it.

the equator, the islands have no winter.
From November to March, the heat is not
excessive. From April to October, the
climate is tropical indeed. During those
seven months, practically no work is
done between eight in the morning and
four in the afternoon. "In Manila,"
says an American who lived there for
several years, "the whole population
rises between four and five, and gets the
work of the day out of the way before
eight. Then they go into their houses
which are of stone and wood, with heavy
roofs of tile and asphaltum and stay
there until sundown. At sundown the
merchants open their heavy store doors
and the streets suddenlv start to life.

548

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

PORTO RICO GENERAL VIEW OF MAYAGUEZ. MAYAGUEZ IS A SEAPORT OX THE WEST COAST
OF THE ISLAND, WITH A POPULATION OF TWELVE THOUSAND.

The principal meal of the day is served
at six, and after it the whole population
goes out for a walk. "

TROPICAL ARCHITECTURE.

The engravings in these pages will
show that there is a general similarity
in the architecture of Manila and of the
Cuban and Porto Rican cities. In all of
them houses are built after the old
Spanish fashion, with solid, square, and
forbidding walls, painted white for cool

ness, and presenting their best face to an
inner court or patio. The patio is gen
erally the most pleasant spot in the home ;
it will be decorated with palms, vines, or
colored curtains, and here the family will
gather for meals or for social intercourse.
A Philippine peculiarity, which may
possibly commend itself to American
house decorators, is the use of oyster shells
for window glass. The shells, which are
translucent and iridescent, are cut into
tiny squares, and temper the glaring

PORTO RICO THE ADUANA OR CUSTOM HOUSE AT MAYAGUEZ. THE CUSTOM HOUSE, AN

IMPORTANT SOURCE OF GOVERNMENT REVENUE, IS USUALLY A PROMINENT

BUILDING IN A SPANISH COLONIAL PORT.

trrmmwt

THE CHAMPION OF LIBERTY.

553

tropical sunshine into a soft and beauti
ful light. One enthusiastic traveler de
clares that " a great window filled with
these sprays of pearl shows the colors of
ten thousand rainbows."

Those who oppose any extension of our
national domain may dwell upon the ter
rors of West Indian hurricanes and fevers,
and of Philippine earthquakes. They
may quote such tales as this of the perils
of the volcanic fires of Luzon and Min
danao: "Lakes have been thrown into
the sky, hurling floods of water into the
valleys below. Fish, crocodiles, sharks,
serpents, to the extent of millions of
tons, have been belched over the country,
and ravines have been filled to the level
with living flesh, scalded by hot water and
steam from the volcanoes. " Such a de
scription is undoubtedly the wildest sort

of exaggeration. Slight earthquakes are
common in the Philippines, and severe
ones have occurred, notably in 1860 and
1884 ; but it is safe to say^that in none of
these islands does nature wield any more
destructive scourge than the dreaded
tornado of our Western plains.

If we are threatened with exclusion
from eastern Asia and its commerce by
the usurpations of Russia, France, and
Germany, the annexation of the Philip
pines, with a midway station at Hawaii,
would be a most emphatic answer to the
European challenge. The acquisition
of the Spanish West Indies would be a
momentous and magnificent step toward
the fulfilment of what scores of our ablest
statesmen, from Thomas Jefferson down
ward, have foreshadowed as the manifest
destiny of the United States of America.

THE CHAMPION OF LIBERTY.

I BEHOL,D, as in a vision, stern Columbia, sword in hand,
And I hear the tramp of legions marshaling at her command ;
Listen to the ringing challenge that she sends across the sea :
" They that wield the rod oppression must account for it to me ! "

I behold her, the avenger, mighty in her righteous wrath,
Menacing the base pretender who impedes fair freedom s path ;
Jn the lists her name is entered, champion of liberty,
There is none that may withstand her in the tilt with tyranny.

I behold her, God commissioned, striking ancient error down,
Wresting from the cruel despot sword and scepter, throne and crown ;
All the watching world applauds her when she cuts the captive s thongs,
And, full fortified by justice, rights a martyred nation s wrongs.

Xv.v/V M . Jicst.

SWALLOW;

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

" Swallow " is a story of South Africa, where Anglo Saxon, Boer, and Kaffir
still struggle for supremacy, and the reader is like to forget his environment and
imagine that real life is being enacted before him ; that he, too, lives and loves and
suffers with Ralph Kenzie and Suzanne, the Boer maiden This is one of the best
stories from Mr. Haggard s pen since "King Solomon s Mines/ "She," and
" Allan Quatermain."

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

SWALLOW is the name given by the Kaffirs to Suzanne, daughter of a Boer, Jan Botmar, whose
wife is the teller of the story. Long years before, the worthy couple adopted Ralph Kenzie, an
English lad, a castaway, whom Suzanne had found when they were both children, and who, when
he reaches his nineteenth year, is discovered to be the son of a Scotch lord and the heir to vast
estates. Two Englishmen have come out to the Cape to look for him, whereupon Jan and his
wife, though heartbroken at the thought of losing him, for they have come to look upon him as their
own son, decide that they must give him up. Ralph, however, stoutly refuses to leave them, and
tells them if they force him to go he will take Suzanne with him.

VI.

NOW, on hearing this Suzanne said, "Oh!"
and sank back in her chair as though
she were going to faint; but I burst out
laughing, half because Ralph s impertinence
tickled me and half at the sight of my hus
band s face. Presently he turned upon me
in a fine rage.

"Be silent, you silly woman!" he said.
" Do you hear what that mad boy says?
He says that he wants my daughter."

" Well, what of it?" I answered. "Is there
anything wonderful in that? Suzanne is of
an age to be married, and pretty enough
for any young man to want her."

" Yes, yes; that is true, now I come to
think of it," said Jan, pulling his beard.
" But, woman, he says that he wants to take
her away with him."

"Ah! " I replied, " that is another matter.
That he shall never do with my consent."

No, indeed, he shall never do that."
echoed Jan.

" Suzanne," said I in the pause that fol
lowed, " you have heard all this talk. Tell
us, then, openly, what is your mind."

" My mind is, mother," she answered very
quietly, " that I wish to obey you and my
father in all things, as is my duty, but that I
have a higher duty towards him I love and
whom God gave me out of the sea. There
fore, if you send away Ralph without a

cause, if he desires it I shall follow him as
soon as I am of age, and marry him, or if
you keep me from him by force then I shall
die. That is all I have to say."

" And quite enough, too," I answered,
though in my heart I liked the girl s spirit
and guessed that she was playing a part to
prevent her father from sending away Ralph
against his will.

" All this is pretty hearing," said Jan, star
ing from one to the other. " Why, now that
I think of it, I never heard that you two were
more than brother and sister to each other.
Say, you shameless girl, when did all this
come about, and why do you dare to promise
yourself in marriage without my consent?"
Because there was no time to ask it,
father," said Suzanne, looking down, " for
Ralph and I only spoke together this morn
ing."

" He spoke to you this morning, and now
it seems that you are ready to forsake your
father and your mother and to follow him
across the world, you wicked and ungrateful
child."

" I am not wicked and I am not ungrate
ful," answered Suzanne; " it is you who are
wicked, who want to send Ralph away and
break all our hearts."

" It is false, miss," shouted her father in
answer, for you know well that I do not
want to send him awav."

* Copyright, 1898, by H. Riiler Haggard.

SWALLOW.

555

" Then, why did you tell him that he must
go and take your best horse and new hat?"

" For his own good, girl."

" Is it for his good that he should go away
from all of us who love him, and be lost
across the sea? " and choking, she burst into
tears, while her father muttered:

" Why, the girl has become like a tiger,
she who was milder than a sheep!"

" Hush. Suzanne," broke in Ralph; "and
you, who have been father and mother tome,
listen, I pray you. It is true that Suzanne
and I love each other very dearly, as we
have always loved each other, though how
much we did not know till this morning.
Now, I am a waif and a castaway whom you
have nurtured, and have neither lands nor
goods of my own, therefore you may well
think that I am no match for your daugh
ter, who is so beautiful, and who, if she out
lives you, will inherit all that you have. If
you decide thus, it is just, however hard it
may be. But you tell me, though I have
heard nothing of it till now, and I think that
it may be but idle talk, that I have both lands
and goods far away in England, and you bid
me begone to them. Well, if you turn me
out I must go, for I cannot stay alone in
the veldt without a house, or a friend, or a
hoof of cattle. But then, I tell you that
when Suzanne is of age I shall return and
marry her, and take her away with me, as I
have a right to if she desires it, for I
will not lose everything that I love in the
world at one stroke. Indeed, nothing but
death shall part me from Suzanne. There
fore, it comes to this: either you must let
me stay here and, poor as I am, be married
to Suzanne when it shall please you, or, if
you dismiss me, you must be ready to see
me come back and take away Suzanne."

" Suzanne. Suzanne! " I broke in angrily,
for I grew jealous of the girl; " have you no
thought or word for any save Suzanne?"

" I have thoughts for all," he answered,
" but Suzanne alone has thought for me,
since it seems that your husband would send
me away, and you. mother, sit still and say
not a word to stop him."

" Learn to judge speech and not silence,
lad," I answered. " Look you, all have been
talking, and I have shammed dead like a
stink cat when dogs are about; now I am
going to begin. First of all, you, Jan, are
a fool, for in your thick head you think that
rank and wealth are everything to a man,
and therefore you would send Ralph away
to seek rank and wealth that may or may
not belong to him, although he does not
wish to go. As for you, Ralph, you are a
bigger fool, for you think that Jan Botmar,
your foster father here, desires to be rid of
you, when in truth he only seeks your good

to his own sore loss. As for you, Suzanne,
you are the biggest fool of all, for you wish
to fly in everybody s face, like a cat with her
first litter of kittens; but there, what is the
use of arguing with a girl in love? Now,
listen, and I will ask you some questions, all
of you. Jan, do you wish to send Ralph
away with these strangers?"

"Almighty! Vrouw," he answered, "you
know well that I would as soon send away
my right hand. I wish him to stop here
forever, and whatever I have is his; yes,
even my daughter. But I seek what i-&lt; best
for him, and I would not have it said in
after years that Jan Botmar kept an English
lad, not old enough to judge for himself, from
his rank and wealth because he took pleas
ure in his company and wished to marry
him to his girl."

" Good," I said. " And now for you, Su
zanne; what have you to say?"

" I have nothing to add to my words,"
she replied; " you know all my heart."

" Good again. And you, Ralph?"

" I say, mother, that I will not budge from
this place unless I am ordered to go, and if
I do go, I will come back for Suzanne. I
love you all, and with you I wish to live,
and nowhere else."

" Nay, Ralph," I answered sighing; " if
once you go you will never come back, for
out yonder you will find a new home, new
interests, and, perchance, new loves. Well,
though nobody has thought of me in this
matter, I have a voice in it, and I will speak
for myself. That lad yonder has been a son
to me for many years, and I wlft&gt; have none
love him as such. He is a man as we reckon
in this country, and he does not wish to
leave us any more than we wish him to go.
Moreover, he loves Suzanne, and Suzanne
loves him, and I believe that the God who
brought them together at first means them
to be husband and wife, and that such love
as they bear to each other will give them
more together than any wealth or rank can
bring to them apart. Therefore I say, hus
band, let our son Ralph stay here with us
and marry our daughter Suzanne decently
and in due season, and let their children be
our children, and their love our love."

" And how about the Scotchmen who are
coming with power to take him away?"

" Do you and Ralph go to the bush veldt
with the cattle tomorrow," I answered, and
leave me to deal with the Scotchmen."

" Well," said Jan, " I consent, for who
can stand up against so many words, and
the Lord knows that to lose Ralph would
have broken my heart as it would have
broken that girl s, perhaps more so, since
girls change their fancies, but I am too old
to change. Come here, my children."

556

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

They came, and he laid one of his big
hands upon the head of each of them, say
ing:

" May the God in Heaven bless you both,
who to me are one as dear as the other,
making you happy in each other s love for
many long years, and may He turn aside
from you and from us the punishment that
is due to all of us because, on account of
our great love, we are holding you back,
Ralph, from the home, the kin, and the for
tune to which you were born." Then he
kissed each of them on the forehead and let
them go.

" If there be any punishment for that
which is no sin, on my head be it," said
Ralph. " since never would I have gone
from here by my own will."

" Aye, aye," answered Jan. " but who can
take account of the talk of a lad in love.
Well, we have committed the sin and we
must bear the sorrow. Now I go out to
see to the kraaling of the cattle, which we
will drive off to the bush veldt tomorrow at
dawn, for I will have naught to do with these
Scotchmen; your mother must settle with
them as she wills, only I beg of her that she
will tell me nothing of the bargain. Nay,
do not come with me, Ralph; stop you with
your dear, for tomorrow you will be parted
for a while."

So he went, and did not return again till
late, and we three sat together and made
pretense to be very happy, but somehow
were a little sad, for Jan s words about sin
and sorrow stuck in our hearts, as the honest
words of a fttupid, upright man are apt
to do.

Now, on the morrow at dawn, as had been
arranged, Jan and Ralph rode away to the
warm veldt with the cattle, leaving me and
Suzanne to look after the farm. Three days
later the Scotchmen came, and then it was
that for love of Ralph and for the sake of
the happiness of my daughter I sinned the
greatest sin of all my life the sin that was
destined to shape the fates of others yet
unborn.

I was seated on the stoep in the afternoon
when I saw three white men and some Cape
boys, their servants, riding up to the house.

" Here come those who would steal my
boy from me," I thought to myself, and,
like Pharaoh, I hardened my heart.

Now, in those days my sight was very
good, and while the men were yet some way
off I studied them all and made up my mind
about them. First there was a large young
man of five and twenty or thereabouts, and
I noted with a sort of fear that he was not
unlike to Ralph. The eyes were the same,
and the shape of the forehead, only this gen
tleman had a weak, uncertain mouth, and I

judged that he was very good humored, but
of an indolent mind. By his side rode an
other man of quite a different stamp, and
middle aged. " The lawyer," I said to my
self as I looked at his weasel-like face, bushy
eyebrows, and red hair. Indeed, that was an
easy guess, for who can mistake a lawyer,
whatever his race may be. That trade is
stronger than any blood, and leaves the
same seal on all who follow it. Doubtless
if those lawyers of whom the Lord speaks
hard things in the Testament were set side
by side with the lawyers who draw mort
gage bonds and practise usury here in South
Africa, they would prove to be as like to
each other as the grains of corn upon one
mealie cob.

" A fool and a knave," said I to myself.
" Well, perhaps I can deal with the knave
and then the fool will not trouble me."

As for the third man, I took no pains to
study him, for I saw at once that he was
nothing but an interpreter boy.

Well, up they rode to the stoep, the two
Englishmen taking off their hats to me, after
their foolish fashion, while the interpreter,
who called me " Aunt," although I was
younger than he was, asked for leave to off
saddle, according 1 to our custom. I nodded
my head, and having given the horses to
the Cape boys, they came up upon the stoep
and shook hands with me as I sat, for I was
not going to rise to greet two Englishmen
whom I already hated in my heart, first be
cause they were Englishmen, and secondly
because they were going to tempt me into
sin, for such sooner or later we always learn
to hate.

" Sit," I said, pointing to the yellow wood
bench which was seated with strips of rimfi,
and the three of them squeezed themselves
into the bench and sat there like white
breasted crows on a bough; the young man
staring at me with a silly smile, the lawyer
peering this way and that, and turning tip
his sharp nose at the place and all in it, and
the interpreter doing nothing at all, for he
was a sensible man, who knew the habits of
well bred people and how to behave in their
presence. After five minutes or so the law
yer grew impatient, and said something in
a sharp voice, to which the interpreter an
swered, " W T ait."

So they waited till, just as the young man
was beginning to go to sleep before my
very eyes, Suzanne came upon the veranda,
whereupon he woke up in a hurry, and,
jumping off the bench, began to bow and
scrape and to offer her his seat, for there
was no other.

" Suzanne," I said, taking no notice of his
bad manners, " get coffee," and she went,
into the house again to prepare it,

SWALLOW.

557

looking less displeased at his grimaces than
I would have had her do.

In time the coffee came, and they drank
it, or pretended to, after which the lawyer
began to grow impatient once more, and
spoke to the interpreter, who said to me
that they had come to visit us on a matter
of business.

" Then, tell him that it can wait till after
we have eaten," I answered. " It is not my
habit to talk business in the afternoon.
Why is the lawyer man so impatient, seeing
that doubtless he is paid by the day?"

This was translated, and the lawyer asked
how I knew his trade.

"In the same way that I know a weasel
by its face and stink cat by its smell," I re
plied, for every minute I hated that advocate
more.

At this answer the lawyer grew white with
anger, and the young lord burst into a roar
of laughter, for, as I have said, these people
have no manners. However, they settled
themselves down again on the yellow wood
bench and looked at me; while I, folding my
hands, sat opposite, and looked at them for
somewhere about two hours, as the inter
preter told them that if they moved I should
be offended, and I was determined that I
would not speak to them of their business
until Suzanne had gone to bed. At last,
when I saw that they would bear it no
longer, for they were becoming very wrath
ful, and saying words that sounded like
oaths, I called for supper and we went in
and ate it. Here again I noticed the resem
blance between the young man and Ralph,
for he had the same tricks of eating and
drinking, and I saw that when he had done
his meat he turned himself a little sideways
from the table, crossing his legs in a pecu
liar fashion, just as it had always been
Ralph s habit to do. " The two had one
grandfather, or one grandmother," I said
to myself, and grew afraid at the thought.

VII.

WHEN the meat was cleared away I bade
Suzanne go to bed, which she did most un
willingly, for, knowing the errand of these
men, she wished to hear our talk. Then,
when she was gone I took a seat so that the
light of the candles left my face in shadow
and fell full on those of the three men a
wise thing to do if one is wicked enough to
intend to tell any lies and said:

" Now, here I am at your service: be
pleased to set out the business that you have
in hand."

Then they began, the lawyer speaking
through the interpreter, asking, " Are you
the Vrouw Botmar? "

" That is my name."

" Where is your husband, Jan Botmar?"

" Somewhere on the veldt; I do not know
where."

"Will he be back tomorrow?"

" No."

" When will he be back?"

" Perhaps in two months, perhaps in
three, I cannot tell."

At this they consulted together, and then
they went on :

" Have you living with you a young Eng
lishman named Ralph Mackenzie?"

" One named Ralph Kenzie lives with us."

" Where is he?"

" With my husband on the veldt. I do
not know where."

Can you find him?"

" No, the veldt is very wide. If you wish
to see him you must wait till he comes
back?"

" When will that be?"

" I am not his nurse and cannot tell; per
haps in three months, perhaps in six."

Now again they consulted, and once more
went on :

" Was the boy, Ralph Mackenzie, or
Kenzie, shipwrecked in the India in the year
1824?"

" Dear Lord!" I cried, affecting to lose
my patience, " am I an old Kaffir wife up
before the landdrost for stealing hens that
I should be cross questioned in this fashion?
Set out all your tale at once, man, and I
will answer it."

Thereon, shrugging his shoulders, the
lawyer produced a paper which the inter
preter translated to me. In it were written
down the names of the passengers who were
upon the vessel India when she sailed from
a place called Bombay, and among the
names those of Lord and Lady Glenthirsk
and their son, the Honorable Ralph Mac
kenzie, aged nine. Then followed the evi
dence of one or two survivors of the ship
wreck, which stated that Lady Glenthirsk
and her son were seen to reach the shore in
safety in the boat that was launched from
the sinking ship. After this came a para
graph from an English newspaper pub
lished in Cape Town, dated not two years
before, and headed " Strange Tale of the
Sea," which paragraph, with some few
errors, told the story of the finding of Ralph
though how the writing man knew it I
know not, unless it was through the tutor
with the blue spectacles of whom I have
spoken and said that he was still living on
the farm of Jan Botmar in the Transkei.
This was all that was in the paper. I asked
to look at it and kept it, saying in the morn
ing that the Kaffir girl, seeing it lying about
the kitchen, had used it to light the fire; but

558

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

to this day it lies with the other things in
the wagon chest under my bed.

When the paper was finished the lawyer
took up the tale and told me that it was be
lieved in England that Lord Glenthirsk was
drowned in the sea, as indeed he was, and
that Lady Glenthirsk and her son perished
on the shore with the other women and chil
dren, for so those sent by the English gov
ernment to investigate the facts had re
ported. Thus it came about that after a
while Lord Glenthirsk s younger brother
was admitted by law to his title and estates,
which he enjoyed for some eight years that
is, until his death. About a year before he
died, however, some one sent him the para
graph headed " Strange Tale of the Sea,"
and he was much disturbed by it, though to
himself he argued that it was nothing but an
idle story, such as it seems are often put into
newspapers. The end of the matter was
that he took no steps to discover whether
the tale were true or false, and none knew of
it save himself, and he was not minded to
go fishing in that ugly water. So it came
about that he kept silent as the grave, till
at length, when the grave yawned open at
his feet, and when the rank and the lands
and the wealth were of no more use to him,
he opened his mouth to his son and to. his
lawyer, the two men who sat before me, and
to them only, bidding them seek out the be
ginnings of the tale, and, if it were true, to
make restitution to his nephew.

Now for all this, listening with my ears
wide open, and sometimes filling in what
was not told me in words, I gathered from
the men before they left the house as it
chanced, the dying lord could not have
chosen two worse people for such an errand,
seeing that, though the son was honest, both
of them were interested in proving the tale
to be false. Since that time, however, often
I have thought that he knew this himself,
and trusted by this choice both to cheat his
own conscience and to preserve the wealth
and dignity for his son. God, to Whom he
has gone, alone knows the truth of it, but
with such a man it may very well have been
as I think. I say that both were interested,
for it seems, as he told me afterwards, that
the lawyer was to receive a great sum ten
thousand pounds under the will of the dead
lord, for whom he had done much durirg his
lifetime. But if Ralph were proved to be the
heir, this sum would have been his and not
the lawyer s, for the money was part of his
father s inheritance; therefore it was worth
just ten thousand pounds to that lawyer to
convince himself and the false lord that
Ralph was not the man, and therefore it was
that I found him so easy to deal with.

Now, after his father was dead the lawyer

tried to persuade the son to take no notice
of his dying words, and to let the matter
rest where it was, seeing that he had noth
ing to gain and much to lose. But this he
would not consent to, for, as I have said, he
was honest, declaring that he could not be
easy in his mind till he knew the truth, and
that if he did not go to find it out himself he
would send others to do so for him. As the
lawyer desired this least of anything, he
gave way, and they set out upon their jour
ney which in those days was a very great
journey indeed arriving at last in safety at
our stead in the Transkei; for, w r hether he
liked it or not, his companion who now
was called Lord Glenthirsk would not be
turned aside from the search or suffer him
to prosecute it alone.

At length, when all the tale was told, the
lawyer looked at me with his sharp eyes and
said, through the interpreter:

" Vrouw Botmar, you have heard the
story, tell us what you know. Is the young
man who lives with you he whom we seek?"

Now I thought for a second, though that
second seemed like a year. All doubt had
left me, there was no room for it. Ralph
and no other was the man, and on my an
swer might hang his future. But I had
argued the thing out before and made up
my mind to lie, though, so far as I know, it
is the only lie I ever told, and I am not a
woman who often changes her mind; there
fore I lied.

" It is not he," I said, " though for his
sake I might wish that it were, and this I
can prove to you."

Now, when I had told this great false
hood, prompted to it by my love for the lad
and my love for Suzanne, his affianced wife,
my mind grew as it were empty for a mo
ment, and I remember that in the empti
ness I seemed to hear the sound of laughter
echoing in the air somewhere above the
roof of the house. Very swiftly I recovered
myself, and looking at the men I saw that
my words rejoiced them, except the inter
preter, who, bei ng a paid servant coming
from far away, from the neighborhood of
Cape Tcwn, I believe, had no interest in the
matter one way or the other beyond that of
earning his money with as little trouble as
possible. Indeed, they smiled at each other,
looking as though a great weight had been
lifted off their minds, till presently the law
yer checked himself and said:

" Be so good as to set out the proofs of
which you speak, Vrouw Botmar."

"I will," I answered; "but tell me first,
the ship India was wrecked in the year 1824,
was she not?"

" Undoubtedly," answered the lawyer.

" Well, have you heard that another ship

SWALLOW.

559

called the Flora, traveling from the Cape, I
know not whither, was lost on this coast in
the same month of the following year, and
that a few of her passengers escaped?"

" I have heard of it," he said.

" Good. Now, look here; " and going to a
chest that stood beneath the window, I lifted
from it the old Bible that belonged to my
grandfather and father, on the white pages
at the beginning of which was written the
record of many births, marriages, deaths,
and other notable events that had happened
in the family. Opening it I searched and
pointed to a certain entry inscribed in the
big writing of my husband Jan, and in ink
which was somew hat faint, for the ink that
the traders sold us in those days had little
virtue in it. Beneath this entry were others
made in later years by Jan telling of things
that had happened to us, such as the death
of his great-aunt, who left him money, the
outbreak of smallpox on the farm and the
number of people who died from it, the at
tack of a band of the red Kaffirs upon our
house, when by the mercy of God we beat
them off, leaving twelve of their dead behind
them, but taking as many of our best oxen,
and so forth.

" Read," I said, and the interpreter read
as follows:

" On the twelfth day of September in the
year 1825 (the date being written in letters)
our little daughter found a starving English
boy in a kloof, who had been shipwrecked
on the coast. We have taken him in as a
gift of the Lord. He says that his name is
Rolf Kenzie."

" You see the date," I said.

" Yes," answered the lawyer, " and it has
not been altered."

" No," I added, " it. has not been altered;"
but I did not tell them that Jan had not writ
ten it down till afterwards, and then by mis
take had recorded the year in which he wrote,
refusing to change it, although I pointed
out the error, because, he said, there was no
room, and that it would make a mess in the
book.

"There is one more thing," I went on;
" you say the mother of him you seek was a
great lady. Well, I saw the body of the
mother of the boy who was found, and it
was that of a common person, very roughly
clad, with coarse underclothes and hands
hard with labor, on which there was but one
ring, and that of silver. Here it is," and
going to a drawer I brought out a common
silver ring which I once bought from a ped-
ler because he worried me into it. " Lastly,
gentlemen, the father of our lad was no lord.
unless in your country it is the custom of
lords to herd sheep, for the boy told me
that in his own land his father was a shep

herd, and that he was traveling to some dis
tant English colony to follow his trade.
That is all I have to say about it, though I
am sorry that the boy is not here to tell it
you himself."

When he had heard this statement of
mine, which I made in a cold and indifferent
voice, the young lord, Ralph s cousin, rose
and stretched himself, smiling happily.

" Well," he said, " there is the end of a
very bad nightmare, and I am glad enough
that we came here and found out the truth,
for had we not done so I should never have
been happy in my mind."

" Yes," answered the lawyer, the inter
preter rendering their words all the while,
" the Vrouw Botmar s evidence is conclu
sive, though I shall put her statement in
writing and ask her to sign it. There is
only one thing, and that is the strange re
semblance of the names; " and he glanced at
him with his quick eyes.

" There are many Mackenzies in Scot
land," he answered, " and I have no doubt
that this poor fellow was a shepherd emi
grating with his wife and child to Australia
or somewhere." Then he yawned and added,
" I am going outside to get some air before
I sleep. Perhaps you will draw up the
paper for the good lady to sign."

" Certainly, my lord," answered the law
yer, and the young man went away quite
convinced.

After he had gone the lawyer produced
pen and ink and wrote out the statement,
putting in it all the lies that I had told, and
copying the extract from the fly leaf of the
Bible. When it was done it was translated
to me, and then it was that the man told me
about the last wishes of the dying lord, the
father of the young Scotchman, and how it
would have cost him ten thousand pounds
and much business also had the tale proved
true. Now at last he gave me the paper to
sign. Besides the candles on the table,
which being of mutton fat had burned out,
there was a little lamp fed with whale s oil,
but this also was dying, the oil being ex
hausted, so that its flame, which had sunk
low, jumped from time to time with a little
noise, giving out a blue light. In that un
holy blue light, which turned our faces
ghastly pale, the lawyer and I looked at each
other as I sat before him, the pen in my hand,
and in his eyes I read that he was certain
that I was about to sign to a wicked lie, and
in mine he read that I knew it to be a lie.

For a while we stared at each other, thus
discovering each other s souls. " Sign," he
said, shrugging his shoulders; " the light
dies."

Then I signed, and as I did so the lamp
went out, leaving us in darkness, and

5 6

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

through the darkness once more I heard
that sound of laughter echoing in the air
above the house.

VIII..

Now, although Suzanne heard not a word
of our talk, still she guessed its purport well
enough, for she knew that I proposed to
throw dust into the eyes of the Englishmen.
This troubled her conscience sorely, for the
more she thought of it the more did it seem
to her to be wicked that, just because we
loved him and did not wish to part with him,
Ralph should be cheated of his birthright.
All night long she lay awake brooding, and
before ever the dawn broke she had settled
in her mind that she herself would speak to
the Englishmen, telling them the truth,
come what might of her words, for Suzanne
was a determined girl with an upright heart.
Now feeling happier because of her de
cision, at length she fell asleep and slept late,
and as it happened this accident or fate was
the cause of the miscarriage of her scheme.

It came about in this way. Quite early
in the morning at sun up, indeed the
Englishmen rose, and, coming out of the
little guest chamber, drank the coffee that
I had made ready for them, and talked to
gether for a while. Then the young lord
Ralph s cousin said that as they journeyed
yesterday at a distance of about an hour on
horseback from the farm he had noticed a
large vlei, or pan, where were many ducks
and also some antelope. To this vlei he
proposed to ride forward with one servant
only, and to stay there till the others over
took him, shooting the wild things which
lived in the place, for to be happy these
Englishmen must always be killing some
thing. So he bade me farewell, making me
a present of the gold chain which he took
off his watch, which chain I still have.
Then he rode away smiling after his fashion;
and as I watched him go I was glad to think
that he was no knave, but only an easy tool
in the hands of others. We never met again,
but I believe that death finished his story
many years ago; indeed, all those of whom
I tell are dead; only Jan and I survive, and
our course is well nigh run.

When Suzanne awoke at length, having
heard from a Kaffir girl that the strangers
had ordered their horses, but not that the
young lord had ridden forward, she slipped
from the house silently, fearing lest I should
stay her, and hid herself in a little patch of
bush at the corner of the big mealie field,
by which she knew the Englishmen must
pass on their return journey. Presently she
heard them coming, and when she saw that
the young lord was not with them, she went

to the lawyer, who pulled up his horse and
waited for her, the rest of the party riding
on, and asked where he was, saying that she
wished to talk with him. And here I must
say, if I have not said it before, that Suzanne
could speak English, though not well, for
the Hollander tutor had instructed her in
that tongue, in which Ralph also would
converse with her at times when he did not
wish others to understand what they were
saying, for he never forgot his mother lan
guage, though he mixed many Dutch words
with it.

" He has ridden forward an hour or more
ago. Can I take any message to him for
you?" said the lawyer. " Or if you wish to
talk of business, to speak to me is to speak
to him."

"That may be so," answered Suzanne;
" still, I like to draw my water at the foun
tain itself. Yet, as he has gone, I beg you
to listen to me, for when you have heard
what I have to say I think that you will
bring him back. You came here about
Ralph Kenzie, did you not, and my mother
told you that he is not he whom you seek,
did she not?"

The lawyer nodded.

" Well, I tell you that all this tale is false,
for he is the very man; " and she poured out
the true story of Ralph and of the plot that
had been made to deceive them about him.

Now, as I have said, Suzanne s English
was none of the best and it is possible that
the lawyer did not understand. For my
part, however, I think that he understood
well enough, for she told me afterwards that
his face grew heavy as he listened, and that
at length he said:

" All this you tell me is very strange and
weighty, so much so that I must bring my
friend back to look more closely into the
matter. Return now to the farm and say
nothing of having met me, for by this eve
ning, or tomorrow at the latest, we will
come there again and sift out the truth of
the question."

To this she agreed, being guileless, and the
lawyer rode away after the other. All that
day and all the next Suzanne scarcely spoke
to me. but I saw that she was expecting
something to happen, and that she glanced
continually towards the path by which the
Englishmen had journeyed, thinking to see
them riding back to the farm. But they rode
back no more, and I am sure that the cun
ning lawyer never breathed one word of his
meeting with Suzanne and of what took
place at it to the young lord. The book
was shut and it did not please him to reopen
it, since to do so might have cost him ten
thousand pounds. On the third morning
I found Suzanne still looking down the path,

SWALLOW.

561

and my patience being exhausted by her
silence. I spoke to her sharply.

" What are you doing, girl?" I asked.
" Have we not had enough visitors of late
that you must stand here all day awaiting
more?"

" I seek no new visitor," Suzanne said,
but those who have been here only, and I
see now that I seek in vain."

" What do you mean, Suzanne?"

Now of a sudden she seemed to make up
her mind to speak, for she turned and faced
me boldly, saying:

" I mean, mother, that I told the English
man with the red hair, the agent, that all
the fine tale you spun to him about Ralph
was false, and that he ivas the man they
came to find."

" You dared do that, girl?" I said, then
checked myself and added, " Well, what did
the man say?"

" He said that he would ride on and bring
the young lord back that I might talk with
him, but they have hot come."

" No, nor will they, Suzanne, for if they
sought they did not wish to find, or at least
the lawyer did not wish it, for he had too
much at stake. Well, things have gone
finely with you, seeing that your hands are
clean from sin, and that Ralph still stays at
your side."

" The sin of the parents is the sin of the
child," she answered, and then of a sudden
she took fire as it were, and fell upon me
and beat me with her tongue; nor could I
hold my own before this girl of eighteen,
the truth being that she had right on her
side, and I knew it. She told me that we
were wicked plotters who, to pleasure our
selves, had stolen from Ralph everything
except his life, and many other such hard
sayings she threw at me till at last I could
bear it no more, but gave her back word for
word. Indeed, it would be difficult to say
which had the best of that quarrel, for if
Suzanne s tongue was the nimbler and her
words were winged with truth, I had the
weight of experience on my side and the
custom of authority. At last as she paused
breathless, I cried out:

" And for whose sake was all this done,
you ungrateful chit, if it was not for your
own?"

" If that was so, which is not altogether
true." she answered, " it would have pleased
me better if, rather than make me a partner
in this crime, and set me as bait to snare
Ralph, you had left me to look after my
own welfare."

"What!" I exclaimed, "are you then so
shallow hearted that you were ready to bid
farewell to him who for many years has been
as your brother, and is now your affianced

husband? B or you know well that, if once
he had gone across the sea to England, you
would have seen him no more."

" No," she answered, growing calm of a
sudden, " I was not so prepared, for sooner
would I die than lose Ralph."

" How, then, do you square this with all
your fine talk?" I asked, thinking that at
length I had trapped her. " If he had gone,
you must have lost him."

" Not so," she answered innocently, for
I should have married him before he went,
and then I could have been certain that he
would return here whenever I wished it."

Now when I heard this I gasped, partly
because this girl s cleverness took the breath
from me, and partly with mortification that
I should have -lived to learn wisdom from
the mouth of a babe and a suckling. For
there was no doubt of it, this plan, of which
I had not even thought, was the answer to
the riddle, since by means of it Ralph might
have kept his own, and we, I doubt not,
should have kept Ralph. Once married to
Suzanne he would have returned to her, or
if she had gone with him for a little while,
which might have been better, she would
certainly have brought him back, seeing
that she loved us and her home too well to
forsake them.

I gasped, and the only answer that I could
make when I reflected how little need there
had been for the sin which we had sinned,
was to burst into weeping, whereon Su
zanne ran to me and kissed me and we made
friends again. But all the same, I do not
think that she ever thought quite so well of
me afterwards, and if I thought the more ol
her, still I made up my mind that the sooner
she was married and had a husband of her
own to preach to, the better it would be
for all of us.

Thus ended the story of the coming of the
Englishmen, and of how Ralph lost his
wealth and rank, for we never heard or saw
more of them, seeing that in those days be
fore the great trek we did not write letters,
and if we had we should not have known
where to send them, nor did the post cart
pass twice a week as in this overcrowded
land.

Now I must go on to tell of the doings of
that devil upon earth. Swart Piet, and of
how the little Kaffir witch doctoress, Siham-
ba Ngenyanga. which means " She who
walks by the moonlight," became the slave
and savior of Suzanne.

At this time the Heer van Vooren, Swart
Piet s father, had been dead for two years,
and there were strange stories as to the
manner of his death, which I do not think it
necessary to set out here. Whether or no
Swart Piet did or did not murder his father

562

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

I cannot say, nor does it matter for, at the
least, he worked other crimes as bad. After
the death of the Heer van Vooren, however
he may have chanced to die, this is certain,
that Swart Piet inherited great riches, as we
used to reckon riches in those days; that is,
lie had vast herds of cattle and goats and
sheep, some of which were kept for him by
native chiefs far away, as much land as he
wanted, and, it was said, a good sum in
English gold. But he was a strange man,
not like to other men, for he married no
wife and courted no misses, that is, until he
took to courting Suzanne, and his only
pleasure was to keep the company of Kaffir
chiefs and women, and to mix himself up
with the devilments of the witch doctors.
Still, as every man has his fate, at last he fell
in love with Suzanne, and in love with her
he remained during all his wicked life, if
that can be love which seeks to persecute and
bring misery upon its object. It was just
before the coming of the Englishmen that
this passion of his manifested itself, for
whenever he met the girl outside the house
for the most part, since Jan did not like to
have him in it he made sweet speeches and
passed foolish pleasantries, which, to be just,
I am sure Suzanne never encouraged, since
all her heart was elsewhere.

Now, Swart Piet had information of every
thing, for his Kaffir spies brought it to him,
therefore he very soon learned that Jan and
Ralph had gone away with the cattle to the
warm veldt, and that we two women were
alone in the house. This was his oppor
tunity, and one of which he availed himself,
for now two or three times a week he would
ride over from his place, take supper, and
ask leave to sleep, which it was difficult to
refuse, all this time wearying the poor girl
with his attentions. At last I spoke my
mind to him about it, though not without
hesitation, for to tell truth Swart Piet, was
one of the few men of whom I have ever
been afraid. He listened to me politely and
answered:

" All this is very true, aunt, but if you
desire a fruit and it will not fall, then you
must shake the tree."

" What if it sticks to the bough?" I
asked.

" Then, aunt, you must climb the tree
and pluck it."

" And what if by that time it is in another
man s pouch?"

" Then, aunt," he answered, with one of
those dark smiles that turned my blood cold,
" then, aunt, the best thing that you can do
is to kill the other man and take it out, for
after that the fruit will taste all the sweeter."

" Get you gone, Swart Piet," I said in
anger, " for no man who talks thus shall

stay in my house, and it is very well for you
that neither my husband nor Ralph Kenzie
is here to put you out of it."

" Well," he answered, " they are not here,
are they, and as for your house, it is a pretty
place; but I only seek one thing in it, and
that is not built into the walls. I thank
you for your hospitality, aunt, and now,
good day to you."

" Suzanne! " I called. " Suzanne! " for I
thought that she was in her chamber; but
the girl, knowing that Piet van Vooren was
here, had slipped out, and of this he was
aware. He knew, moreover, where she had
gone, for I think that one of his Kaffir ser
vants was watching outside and told him,
and thither he followed her and made love
to her.

In the end for he would not be put off
he asked her for a kiss, whereat she grew
angry. Then, for he was no shy wooer, he
tried to take it by force; but she was strong
and active and slipped from him. Instead
of being ashamed, he only laughed after his
uncanny fashion and said:

" Well, missy, you have the best of me
now, but I shall win that kiss yet. Oh, I
know all about it; you love the English
castaway, don t you? But there, a woman
can love many men in her life, and when
one is dead another will serve her turn."

" What do you mean. Mynheer van
Vooren?" asked Suzanne, afraid.

Mean? Nothing; but that I shall win
that kiss yet; yes, and before very long."

IX.

Now, in the valley of the hills, something
over an hour s ride from the farm, and not
far from the road that ran to Swart Piet s
place, lived the little Kaffir witch doctoress,
Sihamba Ngenyanga. This woman did not
belong to any of the Transkei or neighbor
ing tribes, but had drifted down from the
north; indeed, she was of Swazi or some
such blood, though why she left her own
people we did not know at that time. In
appearance Sihamba was very strange, for,
although perfectly shaped and copper
colored, rather than black, she was no taller
than a child of twelve years old a thing
that made many people believe that she was
a bush woman, which she most certainly
was not. For a Kaffir, also, she was pretty,
having fine small features, beautiful white
teeth, and a fringe of wavy black hair that
stcod out round her head something after
the fashion of the gold plates which the
saints wear in the pictures in our old Bible.
This woman, who might have been a little
over thirty years of age, had been living
in our neighborhood for some three or

SWALLOW.

563

four years and practising as a doctoress.
Not that she was a " black " doctoress,
for she never took part in the " smell
ing out " of human beings for witch
craft, or in the more evil sort of rites. Her
trade was to sell charms and medicines to
the sick, and also to cure animals of their
ailments, at which, indeed, she was very
clever, though there were some who said
that when she chose she could " throw the
bones " and tell the future better than most,
and this without dressing herself up in blad
ders and snake skins, or falling into fits, or
trances, and such mummery. Lastly,
among the natives about, and some of the
Boers, too, I am sorry to say, she had the
reputation of being the best of rainmakers,
and many were the head of cattle that she
earned by prophesying the break up of a
drought, or the end of continual rains. In
deed, it is certain that no one whom I ever
knew had so great a gift of insight into the
omens of the weather at all seasons of the
year as this strange Sihamba Ngenyanga, a
name that she got, by the way, because of
her habit of wandering about in the moon
light to gather the herbs and the medicines
which she used in her trade.

On several occasions Jan had sent animals
to be doctored by this Sihamba, for she
would not come out to attend to them, what
ever fee was offered to her. At first I did
not approve of this, but as she always cured
the animals, whatever their ailments might
be, I gave in on the matter.

Now, it happened that, a few months be
fore, some traveler, who had guested at our
house, gave Suzanne a little rough haired
English dog bred of parents which had been
brought from England. Of this dog Su
zanne grew very fond, and when it fell sick
of the distemper she was much distressed.
So it came about that one afternoon Suzanne
put the dog in a basket, and taking with her
an old Hottentot to carry it, set out upon
her gray mare for the valley where Sihamba
lived. Now, Sihamba had her hut and those
of the few people in her service in a -recess
at the end of the valley, so placed that until
you were quite on to them you would never
have guessed that they were there. Down
this valley Suzanne rode, the Hottentot with
the basket on his head trotting by her side,
till, turning the corner, she came upon a
scene which she had very little expected.
In one part of the open space beyond,
herded by some Kaffirs, were a number of
cattle, sheep, and goats. Opposite to them
in the shadow under the hillside were the
huts of Sihamba, and in front of these grew
a large tree. Beneath this tree was Sihamba
herself with scarcely anything on, for she
had been stripped, her tiny wrists bound to

gether behind her back and a rope about her
neck, one end of which was thrown over a
bough of the tree. In front of her, laugh
ing brutally, stood none other than Swart
Piet, and with him a small crowd of men,
mostly half breed wanderers of the sort that
trek from place to place claiming hospitality
on the grounds of cousinship or poverty,
until they are turned off as nuisances. Also
there were present a few Kaffirs, either head
men in Swart Piet s pay, or some of his dark
associates in witchcraft.

At first Suzanne was inclined to turn her
horse and fly, but she was a brave girl, and
the perilous state of the little doctoress
moved her to pity, for where Swart Piet was
there she suspected cruelty and wicked
motive. She rode on, yes, straight up to
Swart Piet himself.

" In the name of Heaven, what passes
here, mynheer ? " she asked.

" Ah, Miss Suzanne, is it you? " he an
swered. " Well, you have not chosen a nice
time for your visit, for we are about to
hang this thief and witch, who has been
duly convicted after a fair trial."

"A fair trial?" said Suzanne, glancing
scornfully at the rabble about her. " And
were these friends of yours the jury? What
is her offense?"

" Her offense is that she who lives here
on my land has stolen my cattle and hid
them away in a secret kloof. It has been
proved against her by ample evidence.
There are the cattle yonder mixed up with
her own. I, as Veld Cornet of the district,
have tried the case according to law, and the
woman, having been found guilty, must die
according to law."

" Indeed, mynheer," said Suzanne,
" then, if I understand you right, you are
both accuser and judge, and the law which
permits this is one that I never heard of.
Oh!" she went on angrily, " no wonder that
the English sing a loud song about us Boers
and our cruelty to the natives, when such a
thing as this can happen. It is not justice,
mynheer; it is a crime for which, if you es
cape the hand of man, God will bring you to
account."

Then for the first time Sihamba spoke in
a very quiet voice, which showed no sign of
fear.

" You are right, lady," she said; " it is not
justice, it is a crime born of revenge, and my
life must pay forfeit for his wickedness. I,
am a free woman, and I have harmed none
and have bewitched none. I have cured sick
people and sick creatures, that is all. The
heer says that I live upon this land, but I
am not his slave; I pay him rent to live here.
I never stole his cattle; they were mixed up
with mine by his servants in a far off kloof

564

MAGAZINE:

in order to trump up a charge against me,
and he knows it, for he gave orders that the
thing should be done, so that afterwards he
might have the joy of hanging me to this
tree, because he wishes to be avenged upon
me for other matters private matters be
tween me and him. But, lady, do not
trouble yourself about the fate of such a poor
creature as I am. Go away and tell the
story if you will, but go quickly, for these
sights are not fit for young eyes to see."

" I will not go," exclaimed Suzanne, " or
if I go, it shall be to bring down upon you,
Swart Piet, the weight of the law which you
have broken. Ah, would that my father
were at home. He does not love Kaffirs, but
he does love justice."

Now, when they heard her speaking such
bold words and saw the fire in her eyes,
Swart Piet and those with him began to
grow afraid. The hanging of a witch doc-
toress after a formal trial upon a charge of
theft of cattle was no great matter, for such
thefts were common, and a cause of much
trouble to outlying farmers, nor would any
one in those half settled regions be likely to
look too closely into the rights and wrongs
of an execution on account of them. But
if a white person who was present went
away to proclaim to the authorities, perhaps
even to the governor of the Cape, whose ear
could always be won through the mission
aries of the London society, that this pre
tended execution was nothing but a mur
der, then the affair was serious. From the
moment that Suzanne began to speak on be
half of Sihamba, Swart Piet had seen that
it would be impossible to hang her unless
he wished to risk his own neck. But he
guessed also that the girl could not know
this, and therefore he determined to make
terms by working on her pity, such terms
as should put her to shame before all those
gathered there; yes, and leave something of
a stain upon her heart for so long as she
should live.

" I do not argue law with young ladies,"
he said, with a little laugh, " but I am always
ready to oblige young ladies, especially this
young lady. Now, yonder witch and cattle
thief has richly earned her doom, yet, be
cause you ask it, Suzanne Botmar, I am
ready to withdraw the prosecution against
her, and to destroy the written record of it
in my hand, on two conditions, of which the
rst is that she pays over to me, by way of
compensation for what she has stolen, all
her cattle and other belongings. Do you
consent to that, witch?"

" How can I refuse?" said Sihamba, with
a bitter laugh " seeing that if I do you will
take both life and goods. But what is the
second condition?"

" I am coming to that, witch, but it has
nothing to do with you. Suzanne, it is this:
that here, before all these people, as the
price of this thief s life, you give me the kiss
which you refused to me the other day."

Now, before Suzanne could answer, Si
hamba broke in eagerly, " Nay, lady, let not
your lips be stained and your heart be
shamed for the sake of such as I. Bet
ter that I should die than that you should
suffer defilement at the hands of Swart Piet.
who, born of white blood and black, is false
to both and a shame to both."

"I cannot do it," gasped Suzanne, turn
ing pale and not heeding her outburst,
" and, Heer van Vooren, you are a coward
to ask it of me."

" Can t you? " he sneered. " Well, you
need not, unless you please, and it is true
that young women like best to be kissed
alone. Here, you Kaffirs, pull that little
devil up; slowly now, that she may learn
what a tight string feels like about her
throat before it chokes her."

In obedience to his command three of
the evil fellows with him caught hold of
the end of the rope which hung over the
bough, and began to pull, dragging the light
form of Sihamba upwards till only the tips
of her big toes touched the ground.

" Doesn t she dance prettily?" said Swart
Piet with a brutal laugh, at the same time
motioning to the men to keep her thus a
while.

Now, Suzanne looked at the blackening
lips and the little form convulsed in its
death struggle, and could bear the sight no
more.

"Let her down!" she cried, and, spring
ing from the saddle, for .all this while she
had been seated upon her horse, she walked
up to Piet, saying, " Take what you seek,
but oh, for your sake I wish to God that my
lips were poison! "

"No, no!" gasped Sihamba, who now
was lying half choked upon the ground.

" That is not our bargain, dear," said
Piet; "it is that you should kiss me, not
I you."

Again Suzanne shrank back, and again at
his signal the men began to pull upon the
rope. Then, seeing it, with her face as pale
as death, she leaned forward and touched
his lips with hers, whereon he seized her
round the middle, and, drawing her to him,
covered her with kisses till even the brutes
with him called to him not to push his jest
too far, and to let the girl go. This he did,
uttering words which I will not repeat, and
so weak was she with shame that when his
arms were taken from round her she fell
to the ground, and lay there till the old
Hottentot, her servant, ran to her, cursing

SWALLOW.

565

and weeping with rage, and helped her to
her feet. For a while she stood saying
nothing, only wiping her face with the sun
kapje, which had fallen from her head, as
though filth had bespattered it, and her face
was whiter than her white cap. At last she
spoke in a hoarse voice:

" Loose that woman," she said, " who has
cost me my honor! "

They obeyed her, and Sihamba, snatching
up her skin rug, turned and fled swiftly down
the valley. Then Suzanne went to her horse,
but before she .mounted it she looked Swart
Piet straight in the eyes. At the time he was
following her, begging her not to be angry
at a joke, for his madness was satisfied for
a while and had left him. But she only
looked in answer, and there was something
so terrible to him in the dark eyes of this
young, unfriended girl that he shrank back,
seeing in them, perhaps, the shadow of death
to come. Then Suzanne went away, and
Swart Piet, having commanded his ruffians
to fire the huts of Sihamba. and to collect
her people, goods, and cattle, went away
also.

Just at the mouth of the valley something
stirred in a bush, causing the horse to start,
so that Suzanne, who was thinking of other
things, slipped from it to the ground. Next
moment she saw that it was Sihamba, who
knelt before her, kissing her feet and the
hem of her robe.

" Rise." she said kindly: " what has been
cannot be helped, and at least it was no fault
of yours."

" Nay, Swallow." said Sihamba. for I
think I have said that was the name which
the natives had given to Suzanne from child
hood, I believe, because of the grace of her
movements and her habit of running swiftly
hither and thither nay, Swallow, in a way-
it was my fault."

" What do you mean, Sihamba?"

I mean. Swallow, that although I am so
small some have thought me pretty, and the
real reason of Black Piet s hate for me is
but why should I defile your ears with the
tale?"

" They would only match my face if you
did," answered Suzanne grimly," but there is
no need; I can guess well enough."

" You can guess. Swallow, then you will
see why it was my fault. Yes, yes; you will
see that what I, a black woman, who am less
than dirt in the eyes of your people, would
not do to save my own life, you. a white
chieftainess, and the fairest whom we know,
have done of your own will to keep it in
me."

" If the act was good." answered Suzanne,
may it go to my credit in the Book of the
Great One Who made us."

It will go to your credit, Swallow," an
swered Sihamba with passion, " both in that
Book and in the hearts of all that hear this
story, but most of all in this heart of mine.
Oh, listen, lady; sometimes a cloud comes
over me, and in that cloud I see visions of
things that are to happen true visions.
Among them I see this: that many moons
hence and far away I shall live to save you
as you have saved me, but between that day
and this the cloud of the future is black to
my eyes, black but living."

" It may be so," answered Suzanne, " for
I know you have the Sight. And now, fare
well; you had best seek out some friends
among your people and hide yourself."

" My people? " said Sihamba. " Then, I
must seek long, for they are very, very far
away, nor do they desire to see me."

" Why not ? "

Because, as it chances, I am by blood
their ruler, for I am the only child of my
father s head wife. But they would not have
me set over them as chieftainess unless I
married a man, and towards marriage I have
no wish, for I am different from other wo
men, both in body and heart. So, having
quarreled with them on this and other mat
ters, I set out to seek my fortune."

" Your fortune was not a good one, Si
hamba, for it led you to Swart Piet and the
rope."

Nay, lady, it led me to the Swallow and
freedom; no, not to freedom, but to slavery,
for I am your slave, whose life you have
bought. Now I have nothing left in the
world; Swart Piet has taken my cattle, which
I have earned cow by cow and bred up
heifer by heifer, and save for the skill within
my brain and this kaross upon my shoulders
I have nothing."

" What, then, will you do, Sihamba? "

What you do. Swallow, that I shall do,
for am I not your slave, bought at a great
price? I will go home with you and serve
you, yes, to my life s end."

" That would please me well enough, Si
hamba, but I do not know how it would
please my father."

" What pleases you pleases him. Swallow;
moreover, I can save my food twice over by
curing his cattle and horses in sickness, lor
in such needs I have skill."

" Well," she said, come, and when my
father returns we will settle how it shall be."

came home and told me her
story, and when I heard it I was as a mad
woman: indeed, it would have gone ill with
Swart Piet s eyes and hair if I could have
fallen in with him that night.

566

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" Wait till your father returns, girl," I
said.

" Yes, mother/ she answered; " I wait for
him and Ralph."

" What is to be done with the little doc-
toress, Sihamba? I asked, adding, " I do
not like such people about the place."

" Let her bide also till the men come back,
mother,"she answered, " and then they will
see to it. Meanwhile there is an empty hut
down by the cattle kraal where she can live."

So Sihamba stopped on and became a
body servant to Suzanne, the best I ever
saw, though she would do no other work
save attending to sick animals.

Ten days afterwards Jan and Ralph re
turned safe and sound, leaving some Kaffirs
in charge of the cattle in the bush veldt, and
very glad we were to see them, since putting
everything else aside, it was lonely work for
two women upon the place with no neigh
bor at hand, and in those days to be lonely
meant to be in danger.

When we were together Jan s first ques
tion to me was:

" Have those Englishmen been here?"
/ They have been here," I answered, " and
they have gone away."

He asked me nothing more of the matter,
for he did not wish to know what had passed
between us. Only he looked at me queerly,
and, as I think, thought the worse of me
afterwards, for he found out that Suzanne
and I had quarreled about the song I sang in
the ears of those Englishmen, and what that
song was he could guess very well. Yes,
yes; although he had been a party to the
fraud, in his heart he put all the blame of it
upon me, for that is the way of men, who
are mean and always love to say. " The
woman tempted me," a vile habit that has
come down to them with their blood.

Meanwhile another talk was passing be
tween Ralph and Suzanne. They had
rushed to greet each other like two sepa
rated colts bred in the same meadow, but
when they came together it was different.
Ralph put out his arms to embrace her, but
she pushed him back and said, " No, not
until we have spoken together."

" This is a cold greeting," said Ralph,
amazed and trembling, for he feared lest
Suzanne should have changed her mind as
to their marriage. " What is it that you
have to tell me? Speak on, quickly."

" Two things, Ralph," she answered, and
taking the least of them first, she plunged
straightway into a full account of the com
ing of the Englishmen, of all that had passed
then, and of her quarrel with me upon the
matter.

" And now, Ralph," she ended, " you will
understand that you have been cheated of

your birthright, and this I think it just that
you should know, so that, if you will, you
may change your mind about staying here,
for there is yet time, and follow these Eng
lishmen to wherever it is they have gone, to
claim from them your heritage."

Ralph laughed and answered, " Why,
sweet, I thought that we had settled all this
long ago. That your mother did not tell
the men quite the truth is possible, but if
she played with it, it was for the sake of all
of us and with my leave. Let them go and
the fortune with them, for even if I could
come to England and find it, there I should
be but as a wild buck in a sheep kraal, out
of place and unhappy. Moreover, we should
be separated, dear, for even if you would
all consent, I could never take you from
your own people and the land where you
were born. So now that there is an end to
this, once and forever, let me kiss you in
greeting, Suzanne."

But she shook her head and refused him,
saying, " No, for I have another tale to tell
you, and an uglier so ugly, indeed, that
after the hearing of it I doubt much whether
you will wish to kiss me any more."

" Be swift with it, then," he answered,
" for you torment me; " and she began her
story.

She told how, after he had gone away.
Swart Piet began to persecute her; how he
had wished to kiss her and she had refused
him, so that he left her with threats. Then
she paused suddenly and said:

" And now, before I finish the story, you
shall sw 7 ear an oath to me. You shall swear
that you will not attempt to kill Swart Piet
because of it."

At first he would swear nothing, for al
ready he was mad with anger against the
man, whereupon she answered that she
would tell him nothing.

At last, when they had wrangled for a
while, he asked her in a hoarse voice, " Say
now, Suzanne, have you come to any harm
at the hands of this fellow?"

" No," she answered, turning her head
away, " God be thanked! I have come to
no harm of my body, but of my mind I have
come to great harm."

Now he breathed more freely and said:

" Very well, then, go on with your story,
for I swear to you that I will not try to kill
Swart Piet because of this offense, whatever
it may be."

So she went on setting out everything
exactly as it had happened, and before she
had finished Ralph was as one who is mad,
for he ground his teeth and stamped upon
the earth like an angry bull. At last, when
she had told him all. she said:

" Now, Ralph, you will understand why

SWALLOW.

567

I would not let you kiss me before you had
heard my story. It was because I feared
that after hearing it you would not wish to
kiss me any more."

You talk like a foolish girl," he an
swered, taking her into his arms and em
bracing her; and though the insult can
only be washed away in blood, I think no
more of it than if some beast had splashed
mud into your face, which you had washed
away at the next stream."

"Ah!" she cried, "you swore that you
would not try to kill him for this offense."

" Yes, sweet, I swore, and I will keep my
oath. I will not try to kill Swart Piet."

Then they went into the house, and Ralph
spoke to Jan about this matter, of which,
indeed, I had already told him something.
Jan also was very angry, and said that if he
could meet Piet van Vooren it would go
hard with him. Afterwards he added, how
ever, that this Piet was a very dangerous
man, and one whom it might be well to
leave alone, especially as Suzanne had taken
no real hurt from him. Nowadays such a
villain could be made to answer to the law,
either for attempting the life of the Kaffir,
or for the assault upon the girl, or for both,
but in those times it was different. Then
the Transkei had but few white people in it,
living far apart, nor was there any law to
speak of; indeed, each man did what was
right in his own eyes, according to the good
or evil that was in his heart. Therefore it
was not well to make a deadly enemy of one
who was restrained by the fear of neither God
nor man, and who had great wealth and
power, since it might come about that he
would work murder in revenge or raise the
Kaffirs on us, as he who had authority
among them could well do. Indeed, as will
be seen, he did both these things, or tried
to do them. When his anger had cooled a
little Jan spoke to us in this sense and we
women agreed with him, but Ralph, who
was young, fearless, and full of rage, set his
mouth and said nothing.

As for Sihamba, Jan wished to send her
away, but Suzanne, who had grown fond of
her, begged him that he would not do so, at
least until he had spoken with her. So he
ordered one of the slaves to fetch her and
presently the little woman came, and, having
saluted him, sat herself down on the floor of
the sitting room after the Kaffir fashion.
She was a strange little creature to see in
her fur kaross and bead broidered girdle,
but for a native she was very clean and
pretty, with her wise woman s face set upon
a body that had it been less rounded might
almost have been that of a child. Also she
had adorned herself with great care, not in
the cast off clothes of white people, but after

her own manner, for her wavy hair, which
stood out from her head, was powdered over
with that sparkling blue dust which the
Kaffir women use, and round her neck she
wore a single string of large blue beads.

At first Jan spoke to her crossly, saying:

" You have brought trouble and disgrace
upon my house, Sihamba, and I wish you to
begone from it."

" It is true," she answered, " but not of
my own will did I bring the trouble, O
Father of Swallow," for so she always called
Jan. Indeed, for Sihamba, Suzanne was the
center of all things, and thus in her mouth
the three of us had no other names than
" Father " or " Mother " or " Lover " of
Swallow.

" That may be so," answered Jan, " but
doubtless Black Piet, who hates you, will
follow you here, and then we shall be called
upon to defend you, and there will be more
trouble."

" It is not I whom Black Piet will follow,"
she replied, " for he has stolen all I have,
and as my life is safe there is nothing more
to get from me; " and she looked at Su
zanne.

" What do you mean, Sihamba? Speak
plain words," said Jan.

" I mean," she answered, " that it is not
I who am now in danger, but my mistress,
the Swallow, for he who has kissed her once
will wish to kiss her again."

Now, at this Ralph cursed the name of
Swart Piet aloud, and Jan answered:

" It is a bullet from my roer that he shall
kiss if he tries it;" that I swear."

" I hope it may be so," said Sihamba;
" yet, Father of Swallow, I pray you send
me not away from her who bought me at a
great price, and to whom my life belongs.
Look; I cost you but little to keep, and that
little I can earn by doctoring your horses
and cattle, in which art I have some skill,
as you know well. Moreover, I have many
eyes and ears that can see and hear things
to which yours are deaf and blind, and I
tell you that I think a time will come when
I shall be able to do service to all of you
who are of the nest of the Swallow. Now,
if she bids me to go I will go, for am I not
her servant to obey? Yet I beseech you do
not so command her."

Sihamba had risen as she spoke, and now
she stood before Jan, her head thrown back,
looking up into his eyes with such strange
power that, though he was great and strong
and had no will to it, yet he found himself
forced to look back into hers. More, as he
told me afterwards, he saw many things in
the eyes of Sihamba, or it may be that he
thought that he saw them, for Jan was al
ways somewhat superstitious. At least, this

5 68

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

is true that more than once during the terri
ble after years, when some great event had
.happened to us, he would cry out, " I have
seen this place or thing before, I know not
where." Then if I bade him think he would
answer, " Now I remember; it was in the
eyes of Sihamba that I saw it, yonder in the
Transkei, before Ralph and Suzanne were
married."

Presently she freed his eyes and turned
her head, whereon he grew pale and swayed
as though he were about to fall. Recover
ing himself, however, he said shortly:

" Stay if you will, Sihamba; you are wel
come for so long as it shall please you."

She lifted her little hand and saluted him,
and I noticed that it was after another fash
ion to that of the Kaffirs who lived there
abouts after the Zulu fashion, indeed.

" I hear your words, chief," she said, " and
I stay. Though I be but as a lizard in the
thatch, yet the nest of the Swallow shall be
my nest, and in the fangs of this lizard there
is poison, and woe to the hawk of the air or
the snake of the grass that would rob this
nest wherein you dwell. Cold shall this
heart be and stiff this hand, empty shall this
head be of thought and these eyes of sight,
before shame or death shall touch the swift
wings of yonder Swallow who stained her
breast for me. Remember this always, you
whom she loves, that while I live, I, Sihamba

Ngenyanga, Sihamba the walker by moon
light, she shall live, and if she dies I will die
also." Then once more she saluted and
went, leaving us wondering, for we saw that
this woman was not altogether as other
Kaffirs are, and it came into our minds that
in the time of need "he would be as a spear
in the hand of one who is beset with foes.

That night as we lay abed I talked with
Jan, saying:

Husband, I think there are clouds upon
our sky, which for many years has been so
blue. Trouble gathers round us because of
the beauty of Suzanne, and I fear Swart
Piet, for he is not a man to be stopped by a
trifle. Now, Ralph loves Suzanne and Su
zanne loves Ralph, and, though they are
younp, they are man and woman full grown,
able to keep a house and bear its burdens.
\Yhy, then, should they not marry with as
little delay as may be, for when once they
are wed Van Vooren will cease from troub
ling them, knowing his suit to be hope
less."

As you will, wife, as you will," Jan an
swered somewhat sharply, " but I doubt if
we shall get rid of our dangers thus, for I
think that the tide of our lives has turned,
and that it sets toward sorrow. Aye," he
want on, sitting up in the bed, " and I will
tell you when it turned: it turned upon the
day that you lied to the Englishmen."

To be continued.*)

THE RED WING BLACKBIRD.

" The blackbird flutes his o-ka-lee" EMERSON.

IN swampy swales where alders grow
The red wing blackbird loves to go ;
And on his coat of burnished jet,
Behold ! two epaulets are set.

Or, should you call them drops of blood-
Not less may war be understood
To claim the badge upon his wings
As he for joyous freedom sings.

Above the marsh sedge, near the low,
Faint ripple of the runners flow,
Voiced by his clear cut o-ka-lee,
I hear the echo, " Cuba free ! "

Joel Benton.

FAMOUS WAR PICTURES.

Stirring scenes of war from the brushes of six great military painters Realistic incidents of

battle and campaign as pictured by Detaille, de Neuville, Meissonier, Aime Morot,

Caton Woodville, and Lady Butler.

THE RETURN OF THE SCOUTS." A SCOUTING PARTY OF FRENCH CAVALRY RETURNS TO CAMP BRING
ING IN FOUR GERMAN PRISONERS, TWO OF WHOM ARE UHLANS. DE NEUVILLE REPRESENTS
ONE OF THE FRENCH TROOPERS AS CARRYING THE LANCES OF THE CAPTURED HORSEMEN.

..* MfT;

A LACK IN A LIFE.

BY J. EDMUND V. COOKE.

The strange experience of a dissatisfied millionaire whose spirits were raised
by an unexpected contact with the soil of the earth.

WHKN I was twenty nine years of age
my father died, and if he had left me
as many thousands as he did millions, I think
I might have developed into a happy man.
As it was, there was a lack in iny life which
I found it difficult to put into words, and
which perhaps was all the more real for that
very reason.

There had never been a time in my life
when I was denied anything which money
could buy or influence procure. My mother
loved me intensely, as her first born, and did
her best to spoil me from the day of my birth
to the day of her death or after, for she left
me almost all of her personal possessions.
I was sent to private schools for my early
mental training, and my education was
finished by private tutors. My teachers al
ways accorded me much more than my due
of praise when I knew my lessons, and made
excuses for me when I was delinquent. They
were as affable and deferential as the rest of
the world, and I could see that their chief
aim was " to keep on the right side of me."

When my father died our attorneys politely
condoled with me upon his death, and in the
same breath congratulated me upon my ac
cession to one of the world s great fortunes,
hoping that they might have the honor of
occupying the same trusted relation to the
estate as in former years.

There was a lady to whom I was paying
serious attentions, but she, too, received most
of my speeches with a set smile, and never
differed from me unless, gnawed by the rest
less feeling of lack, I said something im
patient concerning myself.

I have wondered why, in writing of her,
I have not called her a young lady ; young
in years she certainly was. Most of the
girlishness had apparently been trained out
of her. She was a martyr to " good form ,"
and a brilliant match brilliant with the
brilliancy of knightly decoration or of golden
specie was one of the important points of
vantage in her game with the world.

Most of my immense wealth was in bonds,
stocks, and real estate, and though my inter
ests undoubtedly often conflicted with those

of my millionaire acquaintances I hesitate
to call them friends they were always ex
ceedingly cordial to me when we met.

I have found out since that I was occasion
ally attacked by "radical" newspapers and
speakers, but they were generally too ob
scure to come to my notice. The general
press lauded me for my occasional gifts and
endowments, and sent reporters to interview
me on questions of which I knew nothing
whatever.

When I mingled with the public, I could
not help but observe that I was whispered
about and pointed out, and that people gazed
at me with expressions of curiosity, envy, and
even of a vague, impersonal dislike. I began
to understand why men born with political
power, instead of such dominion as mine, oc
casionally plunged nations into wars for their
own personal relief and the distraction of
their subjects, and without any real grievance.

One day when the lady to whom I have
previously referred was out riding with n;e,
our carriage passed a street car as it was
slowing up at a crossing. Between the car
riage and the car stood a rough looking man
with a sallow face and a ragged beard, glossily
black in some places, but blending to a rusty
brown in others, so that when he raised his
head in the sunlight one almost fancied that
the pigment flowed to and fro. As the car
approached him I noticed him grin broadly,
and drawing back his hand he suddenly de
livered a resounding whack to a man stand
ing on the running board of the car. The
receiver of the blow seemed to think it ;is
good a joke as the other.

"Wouldn t I a let you have it if I had
seen you first?" he shouted good naturally,
kicking heavily into the air to further indi
cate his meaning.

" Wouldn t you just? " roared the other as
we passed on.

" How hopelessly vulgar the common mass
of people are ! " observed the lady at my side
with supercilious disdain.

"Yes," I said mechanically, for her re
mark surprised me into a discovery that I
had found something interesting in this scene.

578

MUNSEY S MAGAZINK.

The roughness jarred on me, of course, as did
its bawling publicity, but there was some
thing in it opposite to these, some embryo of
good which my life had missed.

When our ride was ended I ordered the
coachman to drive to my attorney s offices,
and upon arriving there I learned that im
portant business awaited my attention, so I
sent the carriage home in advance.

It was dark when the obsequious senior
partner bade me "Good evening," and I
walked up the street alone. I had not gone
far when some one tapped my shoulder with
a quick, cordial touch and exclaimed, "By
George, old man, but I m glad to see your
homely face again ! "

There was something in the tone and in
the gesture which brought a gush of moisture
to my eyes, a something which seemed to
reach back into my boyhood, which brought
memories of my mother and almost, it seemed,
of some previous, half plebeian incarnation.
All this in a flash, of course, for in the same
instant that I recognized an old playfellow at
one of the private schools I had attended and
felt my heart leap out to him, he straightened
back and stammered : " Oh, I I beg your
pardon, Mr. Van Dyke, but I thought I took
you for Lawrence Potter."

"Ah!" I answered, "and you find I am
only George Van Dyke. I m sorry to disap
point you, Osborne. " There was a touch of
sadness and bitterness in my tone which sur
prised myself and which he evidently misun
derstood for sarcasm, for he cried :

" Oh, I say, Mr. Van Dyke ! I assure you
it was a mistake. I didn t mean to offend

"But you haven t offended," I interrupted,
forcing a laugh. " Come, Osborne, we used
to be good friends. We ll renew the inti
macy. Can t you come to dinner with me? "

" Oh, thank you, thank you ! " he gushed.
" So sorry I have an unbreakable engagement
for tonight. Some other time, any other
time, I shall be delighted, I m sure."

" Well, come when you can," I responded
carelessly and, I fear, coldly as I left him.
His words of attempted cordiality to me were
so different in tone from those in which he
had addressed me as Lawrence Potter that
the old heavy feeling of lack rolled back on
ni} heart like a stone on a sepulcher.

I walked moodily on and turned into my
own park, thinking of Walter Osborne and
of the rough man with the black beard. I
was like an eagle, in men s eyes, sitting on a
lofty aery, and no one guessed that I was
chained to the rock and could move but a
little way. I am beating my wings against
the air vainly.

" Keep quiet and hold up your hands ! "

The command came in a low, determined

voice. A dark figure had stepped from be
hind a tree and obstructed my patliway.

I did not stop to think. My instincts
thought for me. Quicker than lightning
there shot through my harassed brain that
here was something tangible at which to fling
myself, here was an outlet for my vexation of
spirit different from what had ever offered
before.

In a second I was on him. My left hand
grasped his right wrist and flung the pistol
upwards and out of his hand. My right hand
sought his throat, and my heel struck at the
back of his. Oh, the savage joy of that
physical combat ! I could have cried aloud
for ecstasy. He had not counted on my
attacking him and was caught off his guard,
but he was game. I felt his muscles roll into
hard mounds, as if rushing together in little
squads and companies to repel the enemy.

He struck fiercely at me with his free hand
and I loosened my grip on his throat par
tially to ward the blow. We came together,
body to body. As we did so, I ducked my
head, which crashed full in his face. A curse
of pain came from him and he seemed to let
out an extra link of strength, broke the grasp
of my left hand, and in a second had me
around the neck, holding me like a vise. His
free hand swung at me in short arm blows.

I flung my left arm up over his shoulder
across his face. I bent him backwards, and
struck with all the force I could muster at the
pit of his stomach, which wasn t far from
where my own head was held. My very first
blow was lucky enough to reach the spot.
He gave a grunt and a gasp, and his muscles
relaxed. I released my head, followed up my
advantage, and forced him backwards to the
earth, but though gasping and panting, he
still struggled desperately and dragged me
down with him. His right arm hooked my
neck this time, but, being on top, I should now
have had a distinct advantage had not he
fallen almost within reach of the pistol, which
lay from a gleam which I caught of its
polished barrel but a few feet from the reach
of his left hand.

He was stronger than I, and evidently
used to " rough and tumble," for he seemed
a very Antaeus on the ground. He held me
fast to his right side, and wormed along
towards the weapon. My left hand was under
him. My right he gripped with his left. I
struggled to hold him back, but could obtain
no brace, and I am afraid I lost my head for
a moment. He seemed to be growing fresher,
while I was wearing out. My wits came
back to me, after a while, and I only made a
feint of struggling, blocking him a little bit
with my feet and legs, but allowing him to
do most of the work and to drag both our

A LACK IN A LIFE.

579

weights towards his goal. I realized that I
was taking desperate chances. A flash of his
hand towards the weapon, and if he grasped
it fairly its barrel would be at my head in a
second and I should be done for.

I awaited his movement. Suddenly it came.
His grasp shot out along the path, but at the
same instant my released hand came down on
his throat with a jolt and forced his head
back and away. He missed the pistol by a
hair. I put every bit of nerve I had left into
my grasp. I could feel his throat quiver and
his tongue writhe within it. His breath came
slower ^id slower, heavier and heavier. At
last he brought his hands together above his
head. I understood him. It was a prayer
for mercy.

I released him, sprang up, and secured the
pistol. " Roll over! " I panted. He did so,
and I tied his hands behind his back with my
handkerchief.

"Get up!" I commanded. lie staggered
to his feet. I marched him to a wing of the
house where I had a private entrance to a
den of my own. I took out my keys.

" What are you goin to do with me?" he
asked sullenly.

" I don t know, my friend ! " I cried, and
I was surprised at my own voice ; it was so
elated, so jocular. Hatless, covered with
clay, and scratched with gravel, bleeding
with wounds on my head and face from his
hard fists, stained with the sweat and blood of
both of us, I yet was happy !
For the first time in my life I had been
thrown back on myself, despoiled of every
adventitious aid of birth, position, fortune,
servitors, friends. I had been stripped of
every help of civilization, and had been
hurled down to the basic elements of physical
existence. I had been turned back ages and
ages to the time when a man was a man, as a
wolf was a wolf, and the fittest survived.
Another and I had met, animal to animal,
and I had won. Fortuitously, perhaps, but
nevertheless I had won. My pulses tingled
and iny brain quickened. It was not that I
rejoiced merely to have won a victory over
a fellow being. No ; it was because I had
awakened my own personality. I was no
longer the human embodiment of an estate.
1 was a man among men. Oh, I was so
happy !

I opened the door and sent him in ahead of
me. Then I felt for the electric buttons at
the entrance, and pushed the white one.
There was a gush of light.

" Take that chair in front of you, please,"
I sang out, with mock politeness, still in high
spirits.

He obeyed sullenly, and the action brought
his face toward me. It was the man with

the black and ragged beard, and the pigment
seemed to flow to and fro as he moved his
head to stare around.

" What ! " I cried, though I was in such an
elated mood that I was hardly surprised,
you again ?

"No," he snarled, "it ain t me again.
It s just me."

"Oh, we ll waive that point ! " I laughed.
"Do you know I owe you a debt of real
gratitude? " ,

" I ain t kickin on your payin it, am I ? "
he retorted tersely.

"Yes," I continued ; "I was in a very bad
humor before our late unpleasantness, but
since I have met you I feel quite jolly."

"Mighty good of you!" he grunted.
" Mebbe you d better keep me to liven you
up a bit whenever you re off color."

There was more in his remark than he in
tended. "What if I have discovered that I
possess a personality?" I thought. I really
knew that before ; but I felt a lack, neverthe
less. It surely wasn t physical violence for
which I was hungry.

"You can stop pulling at that handker
chief," I said, turning to him. "Remember
1 have the pistol, and even without it I
whipped you once and can do it again."

How buoyant and boastful I was becoming !

"Well," he answered, " seein as you got
so much fun out of it before, I sh d think
you d kind o like to take me on again."

I had to laugh at the fellow. " No, thank
you," I said; "though your disinterested
ness does you credit. I have some other
business with you. I want to ask you some
questions, and I can assure you it will be to
your interest to answer them truthfully."

He gave a grunt of assent and I went on.

"First, why did you hit that man on the
street car such a whack today ? "

He stared at me in surprise, and I now
noticed that one of his eyes was so badly
swollen that it was almost closed. My head
must have struck him there.

" Ye re guyin me," he said.

" Not at all. It was at the corner of Calu
met Avenue and Forty First Street."

" Oh, you mean Bill Robinson ! " he ex
claimed, with a grin. Then he bit his lip
and looked furious. " I know yer game," he
growled. "You re tryin to pump me."

"Don t be a fool," I said quietly. "If I
had any particular designs against you I
should have pressed down that police call on
the wall long ago. Perhaps I may do it yet.
Do you mind telling me why you whacked
Bill Robinson? "

I could see he was puzzling to explain the
truth of the matter involved by the novelty
of the question.

5 8o

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

" Course I don t mind tellin you," he said ;
"but it s a fool question, an that makes it
hard to answer. I swatted him cause he s a
good friend of mine, I s pose."

"That s it, that s it!" I said eagerly.
" But is it usually a mark of friendship to
swat a man? "

" Why, o course. You wouldn t swat a
perfick stranger, would you? Cept," he
added ruefully, twisting his features around
to see if the movement would relieve the
pain " cept in some case like you swatted
me tonight. If a feller s yer friend, he
understands you. He knows you re jokin
an he allows for the way you feel. What s
the good of a friend if he ain t a real pal to
you ? Why, I know Bill Robinson as well as
if I was inside of him. He wouldn t hurt
nor harm me for nothin nor me him." He
had begun slowly, but ended with something
like enthusiasm. Rough as his words were,
they contained a pearl of truth to me.

It was the lack of what the French call
camaraderie, the lack of meeting and know
ing friends on the level plane of equality,
the lack of personal contact, which I had
felt. I was an estate. What have stocks
and bonds to do with comradeship ?

Suddenly I said, " Do you suppose you
could be a pal, as you call it, to me ? "

"Why, no!" he answered; "I don t
s pose so. I don t know who you are, but
you re too big a bug ; I can see that. I
couldn t swing around in your circle. I d be
afraid of j ou, half the time. I d be thinkin
all the time of how nice I d got to be to you,
stead ofactin just as I cussed pleased."

Ah, I understood Osborne better now.
He had not dared to be niy familiar. Why,
this footpad was a mine of knowledge ! \Vhat
a happy fellow he must be !

" Well," I said, "you have friends. You
are strong and look healthy, and today when
I saw you you seemed as happy as if you
didn t have a care in the world. Why did
you waylay me ? "

" Money, o course."

" How much did you hope to get ? "

" I didn t know. A hundred, if I was
lucky. Any way, ten or twenty."

"Why don t you go to work?" I asked
the hackneyed question gravely.

Why don t you go to work ? This with
out any touch of flippancy.

" H rn ! I hardly need to," I laughed.

"Yes, you do. Now, I ought to go to"
work and earn a livin . You ought to, cause
it would learn you a heap. I don t know
what yer lay is, but a smart feller like you
could learn more in a week about things
you ve asked me than I could tell him in a
year. It stands to reason. No doubt you

got a good job here secretaryin or some-
thin , but you ought to try workin a while."

"Thank you," I rejoined amusedly.
"Really, I owe you more and more." I
turned to my desk and filled out a check for
a hundred dollars, and placed it before him
where he could read it. You can insert
your name," I said. " I don t know it."

He glanced at the paper disdainfully.

"What s your game now?" he growled.
" Goin to play with me? Goin to pretend
to gi me somethin and let me go, only to be
nabbed again when I go fer the dough ? "

" Oh, very well ! " I said. "I ll c^sh jt for
you." I took out a hundred dollars and laid
the bills by the side of the check. " Only,
you will, of course, indorse it, before I can
pay you. It s a mere matter of form."

He looked at the money and then at me.
" You want my name ? " he asked slowly.

"Yes, on the check," I said.

" Don t you see I can sign a false name? "
he asked contemptuously.

"Certainly," I answered; "but why
should you?" As I spoke, I went behind
him and cut the handkerchief.

" You re the rummest feller I ever see!"
he ejaculated. "Look a here ! Why don t
you make me swear on the honor of a thief
that I ll never steal no more ? Why don t you
make me promise somethin ? Course I d do
it. I d be a fool not to."

I shook my head.

" Then what you want me to do ? "

" I want you to indorse your check."

He seized the pen and signed in a cramped
hand, "William Rooker," and there was no
trace of hesitation, as if concocting a name.
Then he turned the check over and seemed
for the first time to see my signature. He
thrust a heavy finger down upon it and looked
up in utmost amazement.

" You ? " he queried incredulously.

" Why, yes."

"An" you gi me these plunkers for tryin
to rob you ?

"Oh, no! I give you those for value re
ceived."

My name had cast its spell over him. He
was shamefaced now for the first time, and
looked as if he were going to kneel at my
feet, but I stopped him.

"There!" I said sharply. "So far you
have been a man, even though a bad one.
Don t let me lose a certain amount of respect
I have for you. Goodnight."

He stiffened up. I saw a look of manliness
mingle with his gratitude, and a conscien
tious determination shone in his face. He
put out his hand, and I am not ashamed to
to say that I shook it heartily.

" Good night," he said simply.

THE CASTLE INN.*

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Mr. "Weyman, whose "Gentleman of France" created a new school of
historical romance, has found in the England of George HI a field for a story
that is no less strong in action, and much stronger in its treatment of the
human drama of character and emotion, than his tales of French history.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

IN the spring of 1767, while detained at the Castle Inn, at Marlborough, by an attack of the gout,
Lord Chatham, the great English statesman, sends for Sir George Soane, a young knight who has
squandered his fortune at the gaming tables, to inform him that a claimant has appeared for the
, 50,000 which were left with him by his grandfather in trust for the heirs of his uncle Anthony
.Soane, and which, according to the terms of the will, would have become Soane s own in nine
months more. The mysterious claimant is a young girl known as Julia Masterson, who has been
reputed to be the daughter of a dead college servant at Oxford, and who is already at the Castle
in company with her lawyer, one Fishwick. Here Sir George, quite ignorant as to her identity,
falls in love with her and asks her to be his wife. She promises to give him his- answer on the
morrow, but before Soane has returned from a journey he has taken, she is abducted by hirelings
of Mr. Dunborough, a man whom Sir George has recently worsted in a duel, and who is himself an
unsuccessful suitor for Julia s hand. The Rev. Mr. Thomasson, a tutor at Oxford, who has discovered
Julia s identity, attempts to interfere and is carried off for his pains. Sir George and Fishwick set
out in pursuit, meeting on the road Mr. Dunborough, who has been delayed by an accident from
joining his helpers, and who, thoroughly cowed by the dangerous situation in which he now finds
himself, sullenly agrees to aid them in effecting the girl s release. When not far from Bastwick, on the
road to Bristol, the abductors become alarmed at the nearness of the pursuers and set their captives
free. Julia and Thomasson apply at the house of a man known as Bully Pomeroy for shelter for the
night, and after the girl retires the tutor acquaints his host and Lord AlmericDoyley, a dissolute young
nobleman who is a guest there, with the true state of affairs. The desirability of recouping their
fortunes by an alliance with the heiress dawns on them simultaneously, and each signifies his in
tention of marrying her. The result is a heated argument until Lord Almeric, noticing the cards
on the table, suggests playing for her.

and half the glasses were swept pell meil

IT was a suggestion so purely in the spirit to the floor, a new pack was torn open, the

* of a day when men bet on every con- candles were snuffed, and Mr. Pomeroy,

tingency in life, public or private, decorous smacking him heartily on the back, was bid-

or the reverse, from the fecundity of a sister ding him draw up.

to the longevity of a sire, that it sounded less "Sit down, man! Sit down!" cried that
indecent in the ears of Lord Almeric s com- gentleman, who had regained his jovial
panions than it does in ours. Mr. Thomas- humor as quickly as he had lost it, and whom
son, indeed, who was only so far a gamester the prospect of the stakes appeared to intox-
as every man who had pretensions to be a icate. " May I burn if I ever played for a
gentleman was one at that time, and who girl before! Hang it, man, look cheerful!
had seldom, since the days of Lady Har- We ll toast her first and a daintier bit never
rington s faro bank, staked more than he swam in a bowl and play for her after-
could afford on a card, hesitated and looked wards. Come, no heel taps, my lord. Drink-
dubious; but Mr. Pomeroy, a reckless and her! Drink her! Here s to the mistress of
hardened gambler, gave a boisterous assent, Bastwick!"

and in the face of that the tutor s objections "Lady Almeric Doyley!" said my lord,

went for nothing. In a trice all the cards rising and bowing with his hand to his heart,

* Copyright, iSy8, by Stanlfy J. Weymati.

5 82

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

while he ogled the door through which she
had disappeared. " I drink you! Here s to
your pretty face, my dear!"

" Mrs. Thomasson! " said the tutor, " I
drink to you. But

" But what shall it be, you mean?" Pom-
eroy cried briskly. " Loo, quinze, faro,
langquement? Or cribbage, all fours, put, if
you like, parson. It s all one to me. Name
your game, and I am your man!"

" Then, let us shuffle and cut, and the
highest takes," said the tutor.

" Sho! man, where is the sport in that?"

" It is what Lord Almeric proposed," Mr.
Thomasson answered. The two glasses of
wine he had taken had given him courage.
" I am no player, and at games of skill I am
no match for you."

A shadow crossed Mr. Pomeroy s face, but
he recovered himself immediately. " As you
please," he said, shrugging his shoulders
v/ith a show of carelessness. " I ll match
any man at anything. Let s to it!"

But the tutor kept his hands on the cards,
which lay in a heap face downwards on the
table. " There is a thing to be settled before
we draw," he said, hesitating somewhat. " If
she will not take the winner what then?"

" What then?"

" Yes, what then?"

Mr. Pomeroy grinned. " Why, then No.
2 will try; and if he fail, No. 3. There, my
bully boy, that is settled. It seems simple
enough, don t it?"

" But how long is each to have?" said the
tutor, in a low voice. The three were bend
ing over the cards, their faces near one an
other. Lord Almeric s eyes turned from
one to the other of the speakers.

" How long?" Mr. Pomeroy answered,
raising his eyebrows. " Ah! Well, let s
say what do you think? Two days?"

And, failing him, two days for the sec
ond?"

" There will be no second if I am first,"
Pomeroy answered grimly.

" But otherwise," the tutor persisted,
" two days for the second?"

Bully Pomeroy nodded.

" But then the question is, can we keep
her here?"

" Four days?"

" Yes."

Mr. Pomeroy laughed harshly. " Aye,"
lie said, " or six if needs be, and I lose. You
may leave that to me. We ll shift her to the
nursery tomorrow."

" The nurser;-?" said my lord, staring.

" Leave that to me."

The tutor turned a shade paler, and his
eyes sunk slyly to the table. " There ll
there ll be no pressure, of course," he said,
his voice a trifle unsteady.

" Pressure? Oh, no, there will be no
pressure!" Mr. Pomeroy answered, with an
unpleasant sneer; and they all laughed Mr.
Thomasson a little tremulously, Lord Al
meric as if he scarcely followed the other s
meaning and laughed that he might not
seem outside of it. Then, " There is an-,
other thing that must not be," Pomeroy
continued, tapping softly on the table with
his forefinger, as much to command atten
tion as to emphasize his words, " and that
is peaching! Peaching! We ll have no
Jeremy Twitchers here, if you please."

" No, no !" Mr. Thomasson stammered.
" Of course not."

" No, damme !" said my lord grandly.
" No peaching !"

" No," said Mr. Pomeroy, glancing keen
ly from one to the other. " And by token,
I have a thought that will cure it! D ye see
here, my lord. What do you say to the
losers taking five thousand each out of
madam s money? That should bind all to
gether if anything will though I say it that
will have to pay it," he continued boast
fully.

My lord was full of admiration. " Un
common handsome !" he said. " Pom, that
does you credit. You have a head! I al
ways said you had a head."

" You are agreeable to that, my lord?"

" Burn me, if I am not !"

" Then, shake hands upon it. And what
say you, parson ?"

Mr. Thomasson proffered an assent fully
as enthusiastic as Lord Almeric s. The
tutor s nerves, never strong, were none the
better for the rough treatment he had under
gone, his long drive, and his longer fast. He
had taken enough wine to obscure remoter
terrors, but not the image of Mr. Dunbor-
ough impiger iracundus, inexorabilis, acer
Dunborough doubly and trebly offended!
That recurred when the glass was not at his
lips, and, behind it, sometimes the angry
specter of Sir George, sometimes the face of
the girl, blazing with rage, slaying him
with the lightning of her contempt.

He thought it would not suit him ill,
therefore though it was a sacrifice if Mr.
Pomeroy took the fortune, the wife, and the
risk; and five thousand only fell to him.
True, the risk, apart from that of Mr. Dun-
borough s vengeance, might be small; no
one of the three had had art or part in the
abduction of the girl. True, too, in the at
mosphere of this unfamiliar house into
which he had been transported as suddenly
as Bedreddin Hassam to the palace in the
fairy tale with the fumes of wine in his
head, and the glamour of lights and beauty
before his eyes, he was in a mood to mini
mize even that risk. But under the jovial

THE CASTXE INN.

good fellowship which Mr. Pomeroy af
fected, and which he strove to instil into
the party, he discerned at odd moments a
something sinister that turned his craven
heart to water and loosened the joints of his
knees.

The lights and cards and jests, the toasts
and laughter these were a mask that some
times slipped and let him see the death s
head that grinned behind it. They were
three men alone with the girl in a country
house, of which the reputation, Mr. Thomas-
son had a shrewd idea, was no better than its
master s. No one outside knew that she
was there; as far as her friends were con
cerned, she had vanished from the earth.
She was a woman, and she was in their pow
er. What was to prevent them bending her
to their purpose?

It is probable that had she been of their
rank from the beginning, bred and trained,
as well as born, a Soane, it would not have
occurred, even to a broken and desperate
man, to frame so audacious a plan. But
scruples grew weak, and virtue the virtue
of Vauxhall and the Masquerades lan
guished where it was a question of a woman
who a month before had been fair game for
undergraduate gallantry, and who now car
ried fifty thousand pounds in her hand!

Mr. Pomeroy s next words showed that
this aspect of the case was in his mind.
" Damme, she ought to be glad to marry
any one of us!" he said, as he packed the
cards and handed them to the others that
each might shuffle them. " If she is not, the
worse for her! We ll put her on bread and
water until she sees reason!"

" D you think Dunborough knew that
flie had the money, Tommy? " said Lord
Almeric, grinning at the thought of his
friend s disappointment.

Dunborough s name turned the tutor
grave. He shook his head.

" He ll be monstrous mad monstrous!"
said Lord Almeric, with a chuckle; the wine
he had drunk was beginning to affect him.

He has paid the postboys, and we ride.
Ha! ha! Well, are you ready? Ready all?
Hallo! who is to draw first? "

" Let s draw for first," said Mr. Pomeroy.
" All together!

" Altogether!

For it s hey, derry down, and it s over the lea,
And it s out with the fox in the dawning ! "

sang my lord in an uncertain voice; and
then, " Lord, I ve a cursed deuce! Tommy
has it! Tommy s pam has it! No, by Gad,
Pomeroy, you have got it! Your queen
takes! "

" And I shall take the queen! " quoth Mr.
Pomeroy: then ceremoniously: " My first
diaw, I think? "

" Yes," said Mr. Thomasson nervously.

" Yes," said Lord Almeric, his eyes gloat
ing over the blind backs of the cards as they
lay extended in a long row before him.
" Draw away! "

" Then, here s for a wife, and five thou
sand a year! " cried Pomeroy. " One, two,
three ugh! Oh, hang and sink the cards! "
he continued furiously, as he flung down the
card he had drawn. " Seven s the main! 1
have no luck! Now, Mr. Parson, get on!
Can you do better? "

Mr. Thomasson, a damp flush on his
brow, chose his card gingerly, and turned it
with trembling fingers. Mr. Pomeroy
greeted it with a savage oath, Lord Almeric
with a yell of tipsy laughter. It was an
eight.

" It is bad to be crabbed, but to be
crabbed by a smug like you! " Mr. Pomeroy
cried churlishly. Then, " Go on, man! " he
said to his lordship. " Don t keep us all
night! "

Lord Almeric, thus adjured, turned a card
with a flourish. It was a king!

" Fal lal lal, lal lal la!" he sang, rising
with a sweep of the arm that brought down
two candlesticks. Then seizing a glass and
filling it from the punch bowl, " Here s your
health once more, my lady! And drink her,
you envious beggars! Drink her, both of
you! You shall throw the stocking for us.
Lord, we ll have a right royal wedding!
And then

" Don t you forget the five thousand,"
said Pomeroy sulkily. He kept his seat, his
hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets;
he looked the picture of disappointment.

Not I, dear lad, not I! Lord, it is as
safe as if your banker had it! Just as safe! "

Umph! She has not taken you yet!"
Pomeroy muttered, watching him; and his
face relaxed. " No, hang me, she has not! "
he continued, in a tone but half audible.
" And it is even betting she will not. She
might take you drunk, but damn me, if she
will take you sober! " And cheered by the
reflection he pulled the bowl to him, and fill
ing a glass, " Here s to her, my lord," he
said, raising it to his lips. " But remember
you have only two days."

" Two days? " my lord cried, reeling
slightly the last glass had been too much
for him. " We ll be married in two days.
See if we are not."

" The act notwithstanding? " Mr. Pome
roy said, with a sneer.

Oh, sink the act! " his lordship retorted.
But where s where s the door? I shall
go," he continued, gazing vacantly about
him " go to her at once and tell her tell
her I shall marry her! You you fellows
are hiding the door! You are you are all

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

jealous! Oh, yes! Such a shape and such
eyes! You are jealous, all of you! "

Mr. Pomeroy leaned forward and leered
at the tutor. " Shall we let him go? " he
whispered. " It will mend somebody s
chance. What say you, parson? You
stand next. Make it six thousand instead
of five, and I ll see to it."

" Let me go to her! " my lord hiccuped
fretfully. He was standing holding on to
the back of a chair. "I tell you I where is
she? You are jealous! That s what you
are! Jealous! She is fond of me pretty,
pretty charmer and I shall go to her! "

But Mr. Thomasson shook his head, not
so much because he shrank from the out
rage which the other contemplated with a
grin, as because he now wished Lord Al-
meric to succeed. He thought it possible,
and even likely, that the girl, dazzled by his
title, would be willing to take the young
sprig of nobility; and the influence of the
Doyley family was great.

He shook his head therefore, and Mr.
Pomeroy, thus rebuffed, solaced himself
with a couple of glasses of punch. After
that Mr. Thomasson pleaded fatigue as his
reason for declining to take a hand at any
game whatever; and my lord continued to
maunder and flourish and stagger. On this
the host reluctantly suggested bed, and go
ing to the door bawled for Jarvey and his
lordship s man. They came, but were found
to be incapable of standing separately. The
tutor and Mr. Pomeroy therefore took my
lord by the arms and partly shoved and
partly supported him to his room.

There was a second bed in the chamber.
" You had better tumble in there, parson,"
said Pomeroy. " What say you, will t do? "

" Finely," Tommy answered. " I am
obliged to you." And when they had jointly
loosened his lordship s cravat and removed
his wig, and set the cool jug of small beer
within his reach, Mr. Pomeroy bade the
other a curt good night and took himself off.

Mr. Thomasson waited until his footsteps
had ceased to echo in the gallery, and then,
he scarcely knew why, he furtively opened
the door and peeped out. All was dark, and
save lor the regular tick of the pendulum on
the stairs the house was still. Air. Thomas-
son, wondering which way Julia s room lay,
stood listening until a stair creaked, and
then, retiring precipitately, locked his door.

Lord Almeric, in the gloom of the green
moreen curtains that draped his huge four
poster, had fallen into a drunken slumber.
The shadow of his wig, which Pomeroy had
clapped on the wig stand by the bed, nodded
on the wall as the draft moved the tails. Mr.
Thomasson shivered and, removing the
candle to the hearth as was his prudent

habit of nights muttered that a goose was
walking over his grave, undressed quickly,
and jumped into bed.

XXV.

WHEN Julia awoke in the morning, with
out start or shock, to the dreary conscious
ness of all she had lost, she was still
under the influence of the despair which
had settled on her spirits overnight, and
had run like a dark stain all through her
troubled dreams. Fatigue of body and lassi
tude of mind the natural consequences of
the passion and excitement of her adven
tures combined to deaden her faculties.
She rose aching in all her limbs but most
at heart and wearily dressed herself; but
neither saw nor heeded the objects round
her. The room to which poor, puzzled
Mrs. Olney had hastily consigned her
looked over a sunny stretch of park,
sprinkled with gnarled thorn trees that
poorly filled the places of the oaks and
chestnuts which the gaming table had con
sumed. Still the outlook pleased the eye;
nor was the chamber itself, hung with a
pleasant white dimity that lightened the
faded panels on the walls wherein needle
work cockatoos and flamingos, worked
under Queen Anne, strutted under care of
needlework black boys lacking in liveli
ness.

But Julia, wrapped in bitter thoughts and
reminiscences, her bosom heaving from
time to time with ill restrained grief, gave
scarce a glance at the position, until Mrs.
Olney appeared and informed her that
breakfast awaited her in another room.

" Can I not take it here?" Julia asked,
shrinking painfully from the prospect of
meeting any one.

" Here? " Mrs. Olney repeated. The
housekeeper never closed her mouth except
\yhen she spoke; for which reason, perhaps,
her face faithfully mirrored the weakness of
her mind.

" Yes," said Julia. " Can I not take it
here, if you please? I suppose we shall
have to start by and by? " she continued,
shivering.

"By and by, ma am?" Mrs. Olney an
swered. " Oh, yes! "

Then, I can have it here? "

" Oh, yes; if you will please to follow
me, ma am; " and she held the door open.

Julia shrugged her shoulders and, con
testing the matter no farther, followed the
good woman along a corridor and through
a door which shut off a second and shorter
passage. From this three doors opened, ap
parently into as many apartments. Mrs.
Olney threw one of them wide and ushered

THE CASTLE INN.

her into a room damp smelling and hung
with drab, but of good size and otherwise
comfortable. The windows looked over a
neglected Dutch garden, so rankly over
grown that the box hedges scarce rose above
the wilderness of parterres; beyond which,
and divided from it by a deep sunk fence, a
pool fringed with sedges and marsh weeds
carried the eye to an alder thicket that closed
the prospect.

Julia, in her relief at finding that the table
was laid for one only, paid no heed to this,
or to the bars that crossed the windows, but
sank into a chair and mechanically ate and
drank. Apprised after a while that Mrs.
Olney had returned and was watching her
with fatuous good nature, she asked her if
she knew at what hour she was to leave.

"To leave?" said Mrs. Olney, whose al
most invariable custom it was to repeat the
last words addressed to her. " Oh, yes, to
leave! Of course."

" But at what time?" said Julia, wonder
ing whether the woman was as dull as she
seemed.

" Yes, at what time? " Then, after a pause
and with a phenomenal effort, " I will go
and see if you please."

She returned presently. " There are no
horses," she said. "When they are ready
the gentlemen will let you know."
" They have sent for some? "
" Sent for some," repeated Mrs. Olney,
and nodded, but whether in assent or im
becility it was hard to say.

After that Julia troubled her no more, but,
rising from her meal, had recourse to the
window and her own thoughts. These were
in sad unison with the neglected garden and
the sullen pool, which even the sunshine
failed to enliven. Her heart was torn be
tween the sense of Sir George s treachery
which now benumbed her brain and now
awoke it to a fury of resentment and found
memories of words and looks and gestures
that shook her very frame and left her sick
love sick and trembling. She did not look
forward, nor, in the dull lethargy in which
she was for the most part sunk, was she
aware of the passage of time until Mrs.
Olney came in and, her mouth and eyes a
little wider than usual, announced that the
gentleman was coming up.

She supposed the woman to refer to Mr.
Thomasson, and, recalled to the necessity of
returning to Maryborough, gave a reluctant
permission. Great was her astonishment
when, instead of the tutor, Lord Almeric,
fanning himself with a laced handkerchief
and carrying his little French hat under his
arm, appeared on the threshold and entered,
simpering and bowing. He was extrava
gantly dressed in a mixed silk coat, pink

satin waistcoat and a mushroom stock, with
breeches of silver net and white silk stock
ings, and had a large pearl pin thrust
through his wig. But, alas! his splendor, de
signed to captivate the porter s daughter,
only served to exhibit more plainly the
nerveless hand and sickly cheeks which he
owed to last night s debauch.

Apparently he was aware of this, for his
first words were, " Oh, Lord, what a twitter
I am in! I vow and protest, ma am, I don t
know where you get your roses of a morn
ing, but I wish you would give me the se
cret."

" Sir! " she said, interrupting him, sur
prise in her face " or," she continued, with
a momentary flush of confusion, " I should
say, my lord, surely there must be some mis
take here."

" None, I swear! " Lord Almeric an
swered, bowing gallantly. " But I am in
such a twitter" he dropped his hat and
picked it up again " I hardly know what I
am saying. To be sure, I was devilish cut
last night! I hope nothing was said to to
oh, Lord! I mean I hope you were not
much incommoded by the night air, ma am."

" The night air has not hurt me, I thank
you," said Julia, who did not take the
trouble to hide her impatience.

However, my lord, nothing daunted, ex
pressed himself monstrous glad to hear it;
and, after looking about him and humming
and hawing, " Won t you sit? " he said, with
a killing glance.

" I am leaving immediately," Julia an
swered, coldly declining the chair which he
pushed forward. At another time hin fop
pish dress might have moved her to smiles,
or his feebleness and vapid oaths to pity.
This morning she needed her pity for her
self, and was in no smiling mood. Her
world had crashed round her; she would sit
and weep among the ruins, and this butterfly
insect flitted between. " I will not detain
your lordship," she continued, curtsying
frigidly.

" Cruel beauty! " my lord answered, drop
ping his hat and clasping his hands; and
then, "Look, ma am," he cried "look, I be
seech you, on the least worthy of your ad
mirers, and deign to listen to him. And
oh, I say, do not stare at me like that! " he
continued hurriedly, plaintiveness suddenly
taking the place of grandiloquence. " I vow
and protest I am in earnest."

" Then you must be mad! " Julia cried, in
great wrath. " You can have no other ex
cuse, sir, for talking to me like that! "

" Excuse? " he cried rapturously. " Your
eyes are my excuse, your lips, your shape!
Whom would they not madden, madam"
Whom would they not charm insanitate

586

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

intoxicate? What man of sensibility, seeing
them, at an immeasurable distance, would
not hasten to lay his homage at the feet of
so divine, so perfect a creature, whom even
to see is to taste of bliss! Deign, madam,
to oh! Oh, I say, you don t mean to say
you are really of offended? " Lord Al-
meric stuttered, again falling lamentably
from the standard of address which he had
conned while his man was shaving him.
" You you look here "

" You must be mad!" Julia cried, her eyes
flashing lightning on the unhappy beau. " If
you do not leave me, I will call for some one
to put you out! How dare you insult me?
1 f there were a bell I could reach "

Lord Almeric stared in the utmost per
plexity, and, suddenly fallen from his high
horse, alighted on a kind of dignity. " Mad
am," he said, with a little bow and a strut,

tis the first time an offer of marriage from
one of my family has been called an insult!
And I don t understand it. For hang me, if
we have married fools, we have married
high I
ll was Julia s turn to be overwhelmed
with confusion. Having nothing. less in her
n ; i.nd than marriage, and least of all an offer
of marriage from such a person, she had set
down all he had said to impudence and her
unguarded situation. Apprised of his mean
ing, she felt in a moment a degree of shame
and muttered that she had not understood;
she craved his pardon.

" Beauty asks and beauty has! " Lord Al
meric answered, bowing and kissing the tips
of his fingers, his self esteem perfectly re
stored.

Julia frowned. " You cannot be in earn
est," she said.

" Never more in earnest in my life! " he
replied. " Say the word, say you ll have
me," he continued, pressing his little hat to
his breast and gazing over it with melting
looks, " most adorable of your sex, and I ll
call up Pomeroy, I ll call up Tommy, the old
woman, too, if you choose, and tell em tell
em ail! "

" I must be dreaming," Julia murmured,
gazing at him in a kind of fascination.

" Then, if to dream is to assent, dream on,
fair love! " his lordship spouted, with a
grand air; and then, " Hang it, that s that s
rather clever of me," he continued. " And
I mean it, too! Oh, depend upon it, there s
nothing that a man won t think of when he s
in love! And I am fallen confoundedly in
love with with you, ma am."

" But very suddenly," Julia replied, begin
ning to recover from her amazement.

" You don t think that I am sincere? " he
cried plaintively. "You doubt me! Then."
and he advanced a pace towards her, with

hat and arms extended, " let the eloquence
of a a feeling heart plead for me, a heart
too yes, too sensible of your charms, and
and your many merits, ma am! Yes, most
adorable of your sex but," he added, break
ing off abruptly, " I said that before, didn t
I? Yes, Lord, what a memory I have got!
I am all of a twitter. I was so cut last night
I don t know what I am saying."

" That I believe," Julia said, with chilling
severity.

" Eh, but but you do believe I am in
earnest? " he cried anxiously. " Shall I
kneel to you? Shall I call up the servants
and tell them? Shall I swear that I mean
honorably? Lord, I am no Mr. Thornhill!
I ll make it as public as you like," he con
tinued eagerly. " I ll send for a bishop

" Spare me the bishop," Julia rejoined,
with a faint smile, " and any further appeals
which I am convinced, my lord, come
rather from your head, than your heart."

" Oh, Lord, no! " he cried.

" Oh, Lord, yes! " she answered, with a
spice of her old archness. " I may have a
tolerable opinion of my own attractions
women commonly have, it is said but I am
not so foolish, my lord, as to suppose that
on the three or four occasions on which I
have seen you I can have gained your heart.
To what I am to attribute your sudden
shall I call it whim or fancy?" Julia con
tinued with a faint blush " I do not know,
my lord. I am willing to suppose that you
do not mean to insult me "

Lord Almeric denied it with a woful face.

" Or to deceive me. I am willing to sup
pose," she repeated, stopping him by a
gesture as he tried to speak, " that you are
in earnest for the time, my lord, in desiring
to make me your- wife, strange and sudden
as the desire appears. Eut it is an honor
which I must as earnestly and positively de
cline."

"Why?" he cried, gaping, and then,
" Oh, swounds, ma am, you don t mean it? "
he continued piteously. " Not have me?
Not have me? And why? "

" Because," she said modestly, " I do not
love you, my lord."

" Hey? Oh, but but when we are mar
ried," he answered eagerly, raiding his
scattered forces, " when we are one, sweet
maid "

" That time will never come," she replied
cruelly; and then, gloom overspreading her
face, " I shall never marry, my lord. If it
be any consolation to you, no one shall be
preferred to you."

" Oh, but, damme, the desert air and all
that! " cried Lord Almeric, fanning himself
violently with his hat. "I oh. you mustn t
talk like that, you know. Lord, you might

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587

be some queer old put of a dowager ! "
And then with a burst of sincere feeling, his
little heart inflamed by her beauty, and his
manhood or such of it as had survived the
lessons of Vauxhall and Mr. Thomasson
rising in arms at sight of her trouble, " See
here, child," he said, in his natural voice,
" say yes, and I ll swear I ll be kind to you!
Sink me if I am not! And mind you, you ll
be my lady, and go to Ranelagh and the
Masquerades with the best. You shall have
your box at the opera and the King s
House; you shall have your frolic in the pit
when you please, and your own money for
loo and brag, and keep your own woman
and have her as ugly as the bearded lady for
what I care. I want nobody s lips but yours,
sweet, if you ll be kind! And, so help me,
I ll stop at one bottle, my lady, and play as
small as the churchwarden s club! And,
Lord, I don t see why we should not be as
happy together as James and Betty! "

She shook her head, but kindly, with tears
in her eyes and a trembling lip. She was
thinking of another who might have given
her all this, or as much as was to her taste;
one with whom she had looked to be as
happy as any James and Betty. " It is im
possible, my lord," she said.

" Honest Abram? " he cried, very down
cast.

" Oh, yes, yes! "

" S help me, you are melting! "

" No, no! " she cried; " it is not it is not
that! It is impossible, I tell you. You
don t know what you ask," she continued
hurriedly, struggling with the emotion that
almost mastered her.

" But, curse me, I know what I want! " he
answered gloomily. " You may go farther
and fare worse! Swounds! I d be kind to
you, and it is not everybody would be that! "

She had turned from him so that he might
not see her face, and she did not answer.
He waited a moment, twiddling his hat; his
face was overcast, his mood hung between
spite and pity. At last, " Well, tisn t my
fault," he said; and, then relenting again,
" But there, I know what women are!
Vapors one day, kissing the next. I ll try
again, my lady. I am not proud."

She flung him a gesture that meant assent,
dissent, dismissal, as he pleased to interpret
it. He took it to mean the first, and mut
tering, " Well, well, have it your own way.
I ll go for this time. But hang all prudes,
say I ! " he withdrew reluctantly, and closed
the door on her.

As soon as he was gone, the tempest
which Julia s pride had enabled her to stem
for a time broke forth in a passion of tears
and sobs, and throwing herself on the shabby
window seat, she gave free vent to her grief.

The happy future which the little beau had
dangled before her eyes, absurdly as he had
fashioned and bedecked it, reminded her
only too sharply of that which she had
promised herself with one in whose affec
tions she had fancied herself secure despite
the attacks of the prettiest Abigail in the
world! How fondly had she depicted life
with him! With what happy blushes, what
joyful tremors! And now? What wonder
that at the thought a fresh burst of grief con
vulsed her frame, or that she presently
passed from the extremity of grief to the ex
tremity of rage, and, realizing anew Sir
George s heartless desertion and more cruel
perfidy, ground her tear stained face in the
dusty chintz of the window seat, that had
known so many childish sorrows, and there
choked the fierce, hysterical words that rose
to her lips.

Or what wonder that her next thought
was revenge? She sat up, her back to the
window and the unkempt garden, whence
the light stole through the disordered
masses of her hair; her face to the empty
room. Revenge? . Yes, she could punish
him, she could take his money from him,
she could pursue him with a woman s un
relenting spite, she could hound him from
the country, she could have all but his life!
But none of these things would restore her
maiden pride, would remove from her the
stain of his false love, or rebut the insolent
taunt of the eyes to which she had bowed
herself captive. If she could so beat him
with his own weapons that he would doubt
his conquest, doubt her love if she could
effect that, there were no means she would
not adopt, no way she would not take!

Pique in a woman s mind, even in the best,
finds in a rival the tool readiest to hand. A
wave of crimson swept across Julia s pale
face, and she stood up on her feet. Lady
Almeric! Lady Almeric Doyley! Here
was a revenge, the fittest of revenges, ready
to her hand, if she could bring herself to
take it. What if in the same hour in which
he heard that his plan had gone amiss he
heard that she was to marry another? and
such another that marry almost whom he
might she would take precedence of his
wife! That last was a small thought, a
petty thought, worthy of a smaller mind
than Julia s; but she was a woman, and the
charms of such a revenge in the general
came home to her. It would show him that
others valued what he had cast away; it
would convince him she hoped so, and yet,
alas! she doubted that she had taken his
suit as lightly as he had meant it. It would
give her a a home, a place, a settled posi
tion in the world.

She followed it no farther, perhaps be-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

cause she wished to act and knew it on
impulse rather than reason, blindly rather
than on foresight. In haste, with trembling
fingers, she set a chair below the broken,
frayed end of a bell rope that hung on the
wall; and having reached it, as if she feared
her resolution might fail before the event,
pulled and pulled frantically, until hurrying
footsteps come along the passage, and Mrs.
Olney entered with a foolish face of alarm.

" Fetch tell the gentleman to come
back," Julia cried.

" To come back? "

" Yes! The gentleman who was here
now."

"Oh, yes, the gentleman!" Mrs. Olney
murmured. " Your ladyship wishes him? "

Julia s very brow turned crimson, but her
resolution held. " Yes, I wish to see him,"
she said imperiously. " Tell him to come
to me! "

She stood erect, panting and defiant, her
eyes on the door, while the woman went to
do her bidding stood erect, refusing . to
think, her face set hard, until far down the
outer passage Mrs. Olney had left the door
open the sound of shuffling feet and a shrill
prattle of words heralded Lord Almeric s
return. Presently he came tripping in with
a smirk and a bow, the inevitable little hat
under his arm, and was in an attitude that
made the best of his white silk stockings be
fore he had recovered the breath the ascent
of the stairs had cost him.

" See at your feet the most obedient of
your slaves, ma am!" he cried. "To hear
was to obey, to obey was to fly! If it s
Pitt s diamond you need, or Lady Mary s
soap box, or a new conundrum, or hang it
all, I cannot think of anything else, but
command me! I ll forth and get it, stap me
if I won t! "

" My lord, it is nothing of that kind,"
J lia answered, her voice steady, though her
cheeks burned.

"Eh? What? It s not?" he babbled.
" Then, what is it? Command me, what
ever it is!"

"J believe, my lord," she said, smiling
faintly, " that a woman is always privileged
to change her mind once? "

My lord stared; then, gathering her mean
ing as much from her heightened color as
from her words, "What?" he screamed.
" Eh? Oh, Lord! Do you mean that you
will have me? Eh? Have you sent for me
for that? Do you really mean that? " And
he fumbled for his spy glass that he might
see her face more clearly.

" I mean," Julia began, and then more
firmly " yes, I do mean that," she said, " if
you are of the same mind, my lord, as you
were half an hour ago."

" Crickey, but I am!" cried Lord Al-
meric, fairly skipping in his joy. " By
jingo, but I am! Here s to you, my lady!
Here s to you, ducky! Oh, Lord, but I was
fit to kill myself five minutes ago, and those
fellows would have done naught but roast
me. And now I am in the seventh heaven.
Ho! ho! " he continued, with a comical
pirouette of triumph, " he laughs best who
laughs last. But Lord ! you are not afraid
of me, pretty? You ll let me buss you? "

But Julia, with a face grown suddenly
white, shrank back and held out her hand.

" Sakes! but to seal the bargain, child,"
he remonstrated, trying to get near her.

She forced a faint smile and, still retreat
ing, gave him her hand to kiss. " Seal it
on that," she said graciously. Then, " Your
lordship will pardon me, I am sure. I am
not very well, and and yesterday has shak
en me. Will you be so good as to leave me
now until tomorrow ? "

"Tomorrow?" he cried. "Tomorrow?
Why, it is an age! An eternity! "

But she was determined to have until to
morrow God knows why! And with a
little firmness she persuaded him, and he
went.

XXVI.

LORD ALMERIC flew down the stairs on the
wings of triumph, rehearsing at each corner
the words in which he would announce his
conquest. He found his host and the tutor
in the parlor, in the middle of a game of
shilling hazard which they were playing, the
former with as much enjoyment, and the lat
ter with as much good humor, as consistent
with the fact that Mr. Pomeroy was losing
and Mr. Thomasson played against his will.
The weather had changed for the worse
since morning. The sky was leaden, the
trees were dripping; the rain hung in rows
of drops along the rails that flanked the ave
nue. Mr. Pomeroy cursed the damp hole
he owned, and sighed for town and the
Cocoa Tree. The tutor wished he were quit
of the company and his debts. And both
were so far from suspecting what had hap
pened, up stairs though the tutor had his
hopes that Air. Pomeroy was offering
three to one against his friend when Lord
Almeric danced in upon them.

"Give me joy!" he cried breathless.
"D you hear, Pom? She ll take me, and I
have bussed her! March could not have
done it quicker! She s mine, and the and
the pool! She is mine! Give me joy! "

Mr. Thomasson lost not a minute in ris
ing and shaking him by the hand. " My
dear lord," he cried, in a voice rendered un
usually rich and mellow by the prospect of

THE CASTLE INN.

539

five thousand pounds, " you make me in
finitely happy. You do, indeed! I give
your lordship joy! I assure you that it will
ever be a matter of the deepest satisfaction
to me that I was the cause under Providence
of her presence here. A fine woman, my
lord, and a a commensurate fortune."

" A fine woman? Gad, you d say so if
you had held her in your arms! " cried my
lord, strutting and lying.

" I am sure," Mr. Thomasson hastened to
say, " your lordship is every way to be con
gratulated."

" Gad, you d say so, Tommy! " the other
repeated, with a wink. He was in the sev
enth heaven of delight.

So far all went swimmingly, neither of
them remarking that Mr. Pomeroy kept si
lence. But at this point the tutor, whose
temper it was to be uneasy unless all were
on his side, happened to turn, saw that he
kept his seat, and was struck with the black
ness of his look. Anxious to smooth over
any unpleasantness, and to recall him to the
requirements of the occasion, " Come, Mr.
Pomeroy," he cried jestingly, " shall we
drink her ladyship, or is it too early in the
day? "

Bully Pomeroy thrust his hands deep into
his breeches pockets and did not budge.
" Twill be time to drink her when the ring
is on! " he said, with an ugly sneer.

" Oh, I vow and protest that s ungenteel,"
my lord complained. " I vow and protest
it is! " he repeated querulously. " See here,
Pom, if you had won her I d not treat you
like this."

" Your lordship has not won her yet! "
was the churlish answer.

" But she has said it, I tell you! She said
she d have me."

" She won t be the first woman who s
altered her mind nor the last! " Mr. Pome
roy retorted, with an oath. " You may be
amazingly sure of that, my lord! " And
muttering something about a woman and a
fool being akin, he spurned a dog out of his
way, overset a chair, and strode cursing
from the room.

Lord Almeric stared after him, his face a
queer mixture of vanity and dismay. At
last. " Strikes me, Tommy, he s uncommon
hard hit! " he said, with a simper. " He
must have made surprising sure of her.
Ah! " he continued with a chuckle, as he
passed his hand delicately over his well
curled wig, and glanced at a narrow black
framed mirror that stood between the win
dows, " he is a bit too old for the women, is
Pom! They run to something lighter in
hand. Besides, there s a a way with the
pretty creatures, if you take me, and Pom
has not got it. Now, I I flatter myself I

have, Tommy; and Julia it is a sweet name,
Julia, don t you think? Julia is of that way
of thinking. Lord, I know women! " his
lordship continued, growing the happier the
longer he talked. " It is. not what a man
has, or what he has done, or even his taste
in a coat or wig though, mind you, a
French friseur does a lot to help men to
bonnes fortunes but it is a sort of way one
has got! The silly creatures cannot stand
against it."

Mr. Thomasson hastened to agree, and to
vouch her future ladyship s flame as proof of
my lord s prowess. But he was a timid
man, and the more perfect the contentment
with which he viewed the turn things had
taken, and the more nearly within his grasp
seemed his five thousand, the graver was the
misgiving with which he regarded Mr.
Pomeroy s attitude. He had no notion
what shape that gentleman s hostility might
take, or how far his truculence might
aspire; but he guessed that Lord Almeric s
victory had convinced the elder man that
his task would have been easy had the cards
favored him; and when, a little later in the
day, he saw Pomeroy walking in the park in
the drenching rain, his hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his wrap rascal and his
chin bent on his breast, he trembled. He
knew that when men of Mr. Pomeroy s
class take to thinking some one is likely to
lose.

At dinner, however, the tutor s fears were
temporarily lulled. Mr. Pomeroy put in a
sulky appearance, but his gloom, it was
presently manifest, was due to the burden of
an apology, which being lamely offered and
readily accepted he relapsed into his ordi
nary brusk and reckless mood, swearing that
they would have the lady down and drink
her; or, if that were not pleasing, "Damme,
we ll drink her, any way! " he continued.
" I was a toad this morning. No offense
meant, my lord. Lover s license, you know.
You can afford to be generous, having won
the pool."

" And the maid," satd my lord, with a
simper. " Burn me, you are a good fellow,
Pom! Give me your hand. You shall see
her after dinner. She said tomorrow, but
hang me, I ll to her! "

Mr. Pomeroy expressed himself properly
gratified, adding demurely that he would
play no tricks.

" No, hang me, no tricks! " my lord cried,
somewhat alarmed. " Not that "

" Not that I am likely to displace your
lordship, her affections once gained," said
Mr. Pomeroy.

He lowered his face to hide a smile of
bitter derision, but he had only the tutor to
fear; for Lord Almeric, fatuously happy. \vns

590

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

blinded by vanity. " No, I should think
not!" he said, with a conceit which nearly de
served the other s contempt. " I should think
not, Tommy! Give me twenty minutes of a
start, as Wilkes says, and you may follow as
you please! Didn t I bring down the bird
at the first shot? "

" Certainly, my lord."

" Didn t I, eh? Didn t I?"

" Most certainly, your lordship did," re
peated the obsequious tutor, who, basking
in the smiles of his host s good humor, began
to think that things would run smoothly
after all. The lady was toasted, and toasted
again. Nay, so great was Mr. Pomeroy s
complaisance and so easy his mood, he must
needs have up three or four bottles of Brook
& Hellier that had lain in the cellar half a
century the last of a batch and gave her
a third time in bumpers and no heel taps.

But that opened Mr. Thomasson s eyes.
He discerned that Pomeroy had reverted to
his idea of the night before, and was bent on
making the young fop drunk and exposing
him in that state to his mistress; perhaps
had even the notion of pushing him on to
some rudeness that, unless she proved very
compliant indeed, must ruin him forever
with her. Three was their dinner hour; it
was not yet four, yet the young lord was
already flushed and a little flustered; talked
fast, swore at Jarvey, and bragged of the
girl lightly and without reserve. By six
o clock, if something were not done, he
would be- unmanageable.

The tutor stood in no little awe of his
host. lie had tremors down his back when
he thought of his violence; nor was this
dogged persistence in a design as cruel as it
\vas cunning calculated to lessen the feeling.
But he had five thousand pounds at stake, a
fortune on which he had been pluming him
self since noon; it was no time for hesita
tion. They were dining in the hall at the
table at which they had played cards the
night before, Jarvey and Lord Almeric s
servant attending them. Between the table
and the staircase was a screen. The next
time Lord Almeric s glass was filled, the
tutor, in reaching something, upset the glass
and its contents over his own breeches, and
amid the laughter of the other two retired
behind the screen to be wiped. There he
slipped a crown into the servant s hand, and
whispered him to keep his master sober and
he should have another.

Mr. Pomeroy saw nothing and heard
nothing, and for a time suspected noth
ing. The servant was a crafty fellow, a
London rascal, deft at whipping away full
bottles. He was an age finding a clean
glass, and slow in drawing the next cork.
He filled the host s bumper and Mr. Thom

asson s, and had but half a giass for his
master. The next bottle he impudently pro
nounced corked, and when Pomeroy cursed
him for a liar, brought him some in an un
washed glass that had been used for Bor
deaux. The wine was condemned, and went
out; and though Pomeroy -with unflagging
spirits roared to Jarvey to open the other
bottles, the butler had got the office and
was slow to bring it. The cheese came and
went, and left Lord Almeric cooler than it
found him. The tutor was overjoyed at the
success of his tactics.

But when the board was cleared, and the
bottles were set on, and the men withdrawn,
Bully Pomeroy began to push what re
mained of the Brook & Hellier after a fash
ion that boded an early defeat to the tutor s
precautions. It was in vain Thomasson
clung to the bottle and sometimes returned
it Hertfordshire fashion. The only result
was that Mr. Pomeroy smelled a rat, gave
Lord Almeric a backhander, and sent the
bottle on again, with a grin that told the
tutor he was understood.

After that Mr. Thomasson had the choice
between sitting still or taking his own part.
It was neck or nothing. Lord Almeric was
already hiccuping and would soon be talk
ing thickly; the next time the bottle came
round the tutor retained it, and when Lo"d
Almeric reached for it, " No, my lord," he
said, laughing. " Venus first and Bacchic
afterwards. Your lordship has to wait on
the lady. When you come down, with Mr.
Pomeroy s leave, we will crack another
bottle."

My lord withdrew his hand more readily
than the other had hoped. " Right, Tom
my? " he said. " What s that song? Rich
the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is
pleasure after pain ! Oh, no, damme, I
don t mean that! " he continued. " Xo!
How does it go ? "

Mr. Pomeroy thrust the bottle almost
rudely into his hands, looking daggers the
while at the tutor. " Take another glass! "
he cried boisterously. " Swounds, the girl
will like you the better for it! "

" D ye think so, Pom? Honest? "

" Sure of it! Twill give you spirit, my
lord."

" So it will! "

" At her and kiss her! Are you going to
be governed all your life by that whey faced
old Methodist? Or be your own man? Tell
me that.

" My lord, there s fifty thousand pounds
upon it," said Thomasson, his face red;
and he set back the bottle. The setting sun,
peeping a moment through the rain clouds,
flung an angry yellow light on the board and
the three flushed faces round it. " Fifty

THE CASTLE INN.

thousand pounds," repeated Mr. Thomas-
son firmly.

" Damme, so there is! " cried my lord,
settling his chin in his cravat and dusting
the crumbs from his breeches. " I ll take
no more. So there! "

" I thought your lordship was a good
humored man and no flincher," Mr. Pom-
eroy retorted, with a sneer.

"Oh, I vow and protest if you put it that
way," said the weakling, once more extend
ing his hand, the fingers of which closed
lovingly round the bottle, " I cannot refuse.
Positively I cannot."

" Fifty thousand pounds," said the tutor,
shrugging his shoulders. Lord Almeric
slowly drew back his hand.

" Why, she ll like you the better! " Pom-
eroy cried fiercely, as he thrust the bottle
back again. " D you think a woman doesn t
love an easy husband, and wouldn t rather
have a good fellow than a thread paper? "

" Mr. Pomeroy ! Mr. Pomeroy ! " cried
the tutor, shocked.

A milksop! A thing of curds and
whey! "

" After marriage, yes," muttered the tutor,
pitching his voice cleverly in Lord Almeric s
ear, and winking as he leaned towards him.
" But your lordship has a great stake in t,
and to abstain one night why, sure, my
lord, it s a small thing to do for a fine wo
man and a fortune! "

" Hang me, so it is! " Lord Almeric an
swered. " You are a good friend to me,
Tommy! " And he flung his glass crashing
into the fireplace. " No, Pom, you d bite
me. You want the pretty charmer yourself.
But I ll be hanged if you shall have her.
I ll walk, my boy, I ll walk, and at six I ll go
to her, and take you, too. And mind you,
no tricks, Pom! Lord, I know women as
well as I know my own head in the glass!
You don t bite me."

Pomeroy, with a face like thunder, did not
answer a word; and Lord Almeric, walking
a little unsteadily, went to the door, and a
moment later became visible through one of
the mullioned windows; his back to which,
he stood a while, now sniffing the evening
air, and now with due regard to his mixed
silk coat taking a pinch of snuff.

Mr. Thomasson, his heart beating, wished
he had had the courage to go with him. But
this would have been to break with his host
beyond mending; and besides, it was now
too late. He was still seeking a propitia
tory phrase with which to end the dreadful
silence when Pomeroy anticipated him.

" You think yourself vastly clever, Mr.
Tutor! " he growled, his voice hoarse with
anger. " You think a bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush. I see."

" Ten in the bush," said Mr. Thomasson,
affecting an easiness he did not feel. " Ten
fives are fifty."

" Two in the bush, I said, and two in the
bush I mean," the other retorted, his voice
still low. " Take it or leave it," he contin
ued, with a muttered oath and a swift side
glance at the windows, through which Lord
Almeric was still visible, walking slowly to
and fro, and often standing. " If you want
it firm, I ll aut it in black and white.
Ten thousand, or security, the day after we
come from church."

The tutor was silent a moment. Then,
" It is too far in the bush," he answered, in
a low voice. " I am willing enough to
serve you, Mr. Pomeroy. I assure you, my
dear sir, I desire nothing better. But if
if his lordship were dismissed, you d be as
far off as ever. And I should lose my bird
in hand."

" She took him. Why should she not
take me? "

" He has no offense a title, Mr. Pome
roy."

" And is a fool! "

Mr. Thomasson raised his hands in depre
cation; such a saying, spoken of a lord,
really shocked him. But his words went to
another point. " Besides, it s a marriage
brocage contract and void," he muttered.

" You don t trust me? "

" Twould be no use, Mr. Pomeroy," the
tutor answered, gently shaking his head,
and avoiding the issue presented to him.
" You could not persuade her. She was in
such a humor today my lord had special
advantages. Break it off with him, and
she ll come to herself; and she is wilful.
Lord, you don t know! Petruchio could
not tame her."

" I know nothing about Petruchio," Mr.
Pomeroy answered grimly. " But I ve ways
of my own. You can leave that to me."

But Mr. Thomasson, who had only par
leyed out of compliance, took fright at that
and rose from the table, nervously shaking
his head.

" You won t do it? " said Mr. Pomeroy.

The tutor shook his head again, with a
sickly smile. " Tis too far in the bush."
he said.

" Ten thousand," replied Mr. Pomeroy,
his eyes on the other s face. " Man," he
continued forcibly, " do you think you will
ever have such a chance again? Ten thou
sand! Why, tis eight hundred a year! Tis
a gentleman s fortune."

For a moment Mr. Thomasson did waver.
Then he put the temptation from him and
shook his head. " You must pardon me,
Mr. Pomeroy," he said. " I cannot do it."

" Will not! " Pomeroy cried harshly.

592 MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Will not!" And would have said more petticoat! I vow and protest I am in love

but at that moment Jarvey entered behind with her! It were brutal not to be, and

him. she so fond! Stuff me, a cross word would

" Please, your honor, the man said, " the break her ! I ll to her ! Tell her I fly ! I

lady would see my lord." stay but for a dash of bergamot, and I am

" Oh ! " said Pomeroy coarsely, " she is with her! "

impatient, is she? Devil take her for me! " I thought that you were going to take

And him, too! " And he sat sulkily in his us with you," said Mr. Pomeroy. watching

place. him sourly.

But the interruption suited Mr. Thomas- " I will! Pon honor, I will!" replied the
-on perfectly. He went to yie outer door, delighted beau. " But you ll see she will
and, opening it, called Lord Almeric, who, soon find a way to dismiss you, the cunning
hearing what was afoot, hurried in. " Sent baggage, and then Sweet is pleasure after
for me! " he cried, in a rapture, pressing his pain! Ha! ha! I have it aright this time!
hat to his breast. " Dear creature! " And Sweet is Hea oh, the doting little bag-
he kissed his fingers to the gallery. " Posi- gage! But, flames and raptures! Let us
lively she is the kindest, sweetest morsel! to her. I vow if she is not civil to you, I ll
The most amiable charmer who ever wore a- I ll be cold to her!"

(To be continued.)

A SONG FOR THE SAILORS.

A SONG for the men who have sailed the seas

Under the stripes and the stars,
For our sailor lads of all degrees,

Our valorous Yankee tars !
The man on the bridge when the tempests shriek,

And the gunner at his gun,
And the lad who runs the flag to the peak,

Behold they are all as one !

Call the roll, aye, call the roll,

From that first and fortunate crew
That flung to the winds from the northern pole

The flag of the brave and true !
Oh, their names they shine in a lusty line,

And stanch were the ships they manned :
Av.d they smote the ships of the queen of the brine

I- or the love of their motherland !

Glory be to that knight of the sea,

And his heroes, conflict scarred,
\Vlio laughed at the odds of one to three

On the stout Bonhomme Richard !
And to him, when around there was ruin and wreck,

Who roused in his patriot ire,
A nd crossed the flood from deck to deck

In the face of a galling fire !

Praise to the victor of I^ake Champlain,

McDonongh of dauntless mien,
To him who harried the Tripoli main

And the coast of the Algerine ;
To those who fought in that fearsome fight

Whence the Monitor "bore the bell,"
And to him who, lashed to the mizzen height,

Drove straight through the jaws of he!! !

A -ung for the dead, for the heroes sped

To the haven of no return,
But a song as well for those that tread

Their path with its perils stern ;
A song for our sailors of all degrees.

Our tried and our trusty tars,
For every man who has sailed the seas

ruder the stripes and the stars !

Clinton .S" olli fa

THE GREAT CHESSBOARD OE WAR.

Reputations are often quickly made in
war time. Promotion conies rapidly in the
army and the nav}* all the more rnpidU r
when, as in the present case, a new army
and a new navy are practically created to
meet a sudden call and to any one of
scores or hundreds of officers any day may
bring the chance for brilliant service.
The soldier and the sailor are always ready

to risk their lives for their country, and
in return their country is always read} to
hail them as heroes.

But while the fighting 1 men play the
picturesque parts in the great drama, it
will not do to lose sight of those whose
role is less showy but certainly not less im
portant. The soldier in the field, the sailor
on his gun deck, are like single pieces
on a great chessboard. Amid the smoke

CAPTAIN ALFRED T. MAHAN, THE FOREMOST AMERICAN AUTHORITY UPON
NAVAL STRATEGY.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MARK A. HANNA, UNITED STATES SENATOR FROM OHIO, AND ONE OF THE PRESIDENT S

PERSONAL FRIENDS AND ADVISERS.
From a photograph by Davis &^ Sanford, Neiu York.

of battle each can see only his own part
of the board. His task is assigned to him
by the master mind who stands at the
central point, surveys the whole game,
and moves pawns and castles steadily
toward the grand final result. So it is
that our forces, wide apart as the earth s
diameter, are linked into an intelligent
unit by the wires that keep them in touch
with the government at Washington.
Here, where policies are formulated and
campaigns planned, where daily orders

are flashed to army and fleet, to camp and
supph" station here are the men whose
share in the w r ar is the most onerous and
the most important of all. To the soldier
and the sailor the path of duty, difficult
and dangerous though it be, is almost
always an obvious one. "His not to
reason why, his but to do or die" for his
whole decalogue is to obey instructions.
The executive authority whose task it is
to issue those instructions this is the
man to whom there come sleepless nights

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

595

and bitter hours of doubt ; who must let
others gather the brightest laurels of
victory, while on him falls the direst
sting of repulse ; who must meet the
divided counsels of friends and the clamor
of relentless political foes.

to allow the creation of anything more
than a skeleton body of trained soldiers.
He has the advantage of fighting on the
defensive an advantage far greater in
the warfare of today than in that of a
generation ago. Our nav\ r is powerful

SrfrtBMMlP 18 *

ARTHUR P. GORMAN, UNITED STATES SENATOR FROM MARYLAND, A DEMOCRATIC
LEADER IN THE NATIONAL LEGISLATURE.

From a photograph by Bell, Washington.

Our present administration has been
forced into a position of peculiar diffi
culty. Perennial hurry is an American
characteristic, and events having forced
us into a foreign war, press and public
vehemently clamor for the instant anni
hilation of the enemy. That enemy has
a considerable army ; we have practically
none, for Congress has steadily refused

enough to give us control of the sea as
it would not have been had the war come
a few 3 ears earlier, or had our antagonist
been -a little stronger ; but it can deal no
final blow without an army to follow
where it strikes. Here was a case where
premature action meant the risk of dis
aster, while delay involved consequences
almost equally unpleasant. It was not

596

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

an easy .situation for the administration
to confront.

THK PRESIDENT AND HIS ADVISERS.

The creation of an army and the wag
ing of \varon sea and land are not simply

executive and legislative departments,
among those who are by training and in
stinct business men as well as politicians.
There is Alger, for instance, whose com
mercial experience has been of great
value to him as Secretary of War ; and

CUSHMAX K. DAVIS, VMTKD STATUS SEXATOK J- KU.M M1XXESOTA. AXO CHAIRMAX OF

THE SENATE COMMITTEE OX FOREIGX AFFAIRS.

From a pliotograph by Bell, Washington.

matters of military science ; the}- are also
vast business undertakings, involving
the raising and expenditure of many
millions of dollars, the organizing of
supply departments, and the placing of
great contracts with manufacturers. Be
sides and beyond all this, too, modern
politics is not unmindful of business
considerations in deciding the issues of
peace or war. It is not strange that the
President should have found some of his
foremost assistants and advisers, in the

there are Hanna and Elkins, two promi
nent Senators who stand very close to
the administration.

To these two Senators add the names
of Foraker, the other representative of
the President s State ; of Davis, chairman
of the committee on foreign affairs ; of
Gorman, a veteran leader of the Demo
crats, and we have a Senatorial quintet
whose influence upon the course of affairs
at Washington is of the first import
ance, and whose patriotic service in the

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

59;

STEPHEN B. ELKINS, UNITED STATES SENATOR FROM WEST VIRGINIA, AND ONE OF THE

FOREMOST CHAMPIONS OF THE ADMINISTRATION.

From a photograph by Sarony, New }~ork.

present emergency has been of the high
est value.

OUR AMBASSADORS IN KUROPE.

There is another group of men who
have a delicate and important part to play
in the present political complication our
representatives at the courts of the great
Ivxtropean powers.

During the Civil War, when foreign
jealousy was several times upon the
point of extending covert or open aid to
the enemies of the Union, our ministers,
especially those in London and Paris,
had vitally important work to do. Today,
most of the courts of Europe are far more
in S3-mpatli3* with Spain than with our
selves, and the republic of France, which

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

might have been expected to stand with
us, has been our most hostile critic. She
might grasp at an excuse for interference,
should one be given her. It is fortunate
that we deal with her government through
so capable and so tactful a personality as

disinclination to be photographed, with
the result that most of the newspaper
sketches have been little better than
caricatures. The portrait given here is
from a recent photograph, and it will be
seen that every feature is characteristic

BLACK, GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK, AND A "POSSIBILITY" IN

THE FIELD OF NATIONAL POLITICS.

From a photograph by the Albany Art Union, Albany.

General Horace Porter. General Porter
is adding the laurels of a successful
diplomat to those he has already won as a
soldier, a politician, a postprandial orator,
and an author.

THE GOVERNOR OP NEW YORK.

There are few men in the country of
equal prominence in official life with
whose actual appearance the public is so
little familiar as with that of Governor
Frank S. Black of New York. The
Governor has always shown a marked

of the man, every line delineating intel
lect and firmness.

Although Governor Black is personally
reserved and somewhat taciturn, few who
come in contact with him but are im
pressed with his honesty, straightforward
ness, and ability. It is also worthy of
comment that the public press and the
public generally are noting in his acts the
unfolding of a character heretofore pos
sibly unsuspected, in his independence of
restraint or coercion by his party leaders.

Governor Black is equipped for a

IX THE PUBLIC EVE.

599

JOSEPH HENSON FORAKER, UNITED STATES SEXATOR FROM OHIO, AND ONE OF
MOST INFLUENTIAL MEMBERS OF THE SENATE.
From a photogrnpli by Baker, Columbus.

political career by the fact that he is a
man of the people. Born about forty
four years ago in Maine, and passing his
early }-outh in his native place, his re
moval to Troy, a few years ago, was the
beginning of a hard struggle for advance
ment in his profession. He was handi
capped by very slender resources, and
also by pecuniary obligations of his
deceased father s family at home, which
his sense of personal honor prompted him
to take upon his own shoulders. Finally
came the recognition so well deserved,
and after breaking up the desperate gang
of ruffians then in political control of
Troy, one of whom expiated with death
the crime of murder in an election day

brawl, he was sent to Congress. From
there to the Governor s chair was but a
single step.

In stature tall, like one of the pines of
his native State, in features and character
as rugged and firm as the rock on which
it grows, Mr. Black, the unknown country
lawyer of a few years ago, is today one
of the possibilities in the broader field of
national politics.

A TYPICAL AMERICAN SAILOR.

Captain Charles Dwight Sigsbee, now
commanding the United States cruiser St.
Paul, long ago won a well deserved reputa
tion for courage and coolness qualities
that mark the ideal sailor which was only

6oo

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

GENERAL HOR,

IK, WHO AS AMERICAN AMBASSADOR IX PARIS HOLDS A POSITION

THAT IS JUST NOW AN IMPORTANT AND RATHER DELICATE ONE.
From a photograph by Prince, New York.

confirmed at the time of the destruction
of the Maine. New Yorkers have not
forgotten an incident that occurred last
summer, shortly after he took command
of the ill fated battleship. The Maine
was passing along the East River, and in
that narrow and crowded stream an ex
cursion steamer, full of women and chil

dren, got under her bows. Captain Sigs-
bee, who was on the bridge, saw that he
must either cut down the pleasure boat
or steer into a freight pier. A collision
with the frail wooden steamer would
scarcely scratch the Maine s paint, but
it would mean the loss of perhaps a hun
dred lives. Running into the pier would

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

Bo i

save them, but it might mean a serious
accident, possibly a court martial for
wrecking his ship. The choice was
made instantly.

" Hard a port ! "he .shouted. " Sound
the call to collision quarters ! "

The ship crashed into the pier, luckily
without injury to herself, and the ex
cursion boat passed in safety.

On another occasion Captain Sigsbee
deliberately sank his ship to save her
from a still worse fate. He was in com
mand of the coast survey steamer Blake,
and was anchored in a West Indian port,
when a hurricane came up, and in the
heavy sea the ship s anchors began to
drag. She was drifting to utter and in
evitable destruction on a reef. Where
she lay , there was a soft, sandy bottom.
The captain ordered her scuttled, and
down she went. Later, she was pumped
out and raised an expensive operation,
but far less costly than building a new
ship.

Richmond Pearson Hobson, who sank
a coal ship in the mouth of Santiago har
bor, is an instance of the way in which
war makes new heroes in a day. His
daring exploit brought out a crop of Stories
from those who knew him at Annapolis,
where he graduated only nine years ago.
He was a quiet, studious, and rather
eccentric boy, who was hazed a good deal
in his plebe year. An upper classman is
said to have labored for weeks all in vain
to make young Hobson declare that
white was black, "because I .say it is,
sir!" One day the boy of fifteen broke
out with : " I do not desire, neither will I
tolerate, any more of your scurrilous con
tumely ! "

His success in the examinations soon
won him the academy s respect, and
though he was the youngest man in his
class he graduated at its head.

* -k -*

One of Commodore Winfield Scott
Schley s early recollections is of a dinner
given by General Scott to all the young
men the old soldier could find who bore
his name. There were several scores of
guests at the banquet, which was given in
a New York hotel ; and there is no telling
how many more might not have been there
had they known of it. General Scott

made a speech during the evening, and
expressed his gratification at having his
name left to posterity in such promising
young hands.

* * * *
Commodore Schley is not related to the

conqueror of Mexico, who was merely a
friend of his parents. Nor is he of Teu
tonic birth or descent, as has been inferred
from the orthography of his surname.
Schley pronounced "Sly" is the name
of a family that has been settled in Mary
land since colonial days.

Of all our flag officers, the one who
boasts the most ancient lineage or could
boast it if he wished, which he probably
doesn t is Admiral Dewey. In that
wondrous and veracious book, "Amer
icans of Royal Descent," he appears
as a lineal descendant of the thirty
third generation from King Alfred the
Great.

An officer in our navy seldom reaches
the rank of admiral very long before he
is retired by the age limit, causing all
his subordinates to* move up one number
on the list. In war time, special pro
motions are given, changes of duty are
frequent, and new commands are con
stantly created. It is very possible that
while this number of MUNSKY S is on the
press, there may be changes of rank or
assignment among the sailors mentioned
in it.

Early in July Admiral Kirkland, now
the senior officer on the active list of the
navy, and the first Southerner to reach
that position since the Civil War, will be
retired. In the nat\iral course of promo
tion this will advance William T. Samp
son who, though acting as a rear admiral,
and commanding the most powerful
American fleet that ever sailed, is only a
captain to be junior commodore.

* * * *
When Queen Wilhelmina is crowned,

next month, among the jewels she Wears
there will probably be some that once lay
buried in Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn.
Part of the Dutch crown jewels were
stolen in 1829 from the palace of Laeken,
in Belgium then a part of the Nether
lands by an Italian named Polari, who
secreted some of his spoil in Brussels, and
escaped to New York with the rest. The

602

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

theft was a mystery for nearly two years,
and threatened to cause political compli
cations. The royal house of Orange was
very unpopular in Belgium, and it was
openly hinted that the real thief was one
of the Dutch princes. Finally Polari
was betrayed by an associate,, and nearly
all the jewels recovered, gems worth two
hundred thousand dollars being dug from
a hiding place in what is now Greenwood
Cemetery.

**.: #..

The name of Alexander Gollan, British
consul general at Havana, has often been
mentioned in the war despatches. Mr.
Gollan is a Scotchman, hailing from
Gollanfield, Inverness, and he has been
in Queen Victoria s consular service for
nearly forty years. He was long stationed
at Rio Grande, Brazil, where he married a
Brazilian lady, and subsequently at
Manila. He has announced his intention
of retiring as soon as the situation in
Cuba permits which looks as if he may
not have found service in the Spanish
colonies altogether to his liking,
x- * * *

A strange turn of fortune has come to
one of the four English socialists who, a
dozen years ago, were tried at the Old
Bailey on a charge of inciting public dis
order. The individual in question is H.
H. Champion, who began life as an artil
lery officer, saw active service in Afghan
istan, and left Queen Victoria s army to
become a vigorous and conspicuous as
sailant of existing social and political
conditions. Later he quarreled with his
fellow reformers, and went to Australia,
to found a newspaper, of which he is still
the editor. The other day his cousin,
Major Urquhart, fell in battle on the
upper Nile, leaving Mr. Champion heir
to a large estate and an annual income of
$35,ooo.

People are wondering what a professed
socialist will do with this considerable
slice of unearned increment.

* * * *

There is a new "Lord of Burleigh, " the
Marquis of Exeter, who owns "Burleigh
House by Stamford Town, " having died
and been succeeded bj r his son. The new
marquis is a young man who came of age
last year. He is a somewhat distant
cousin to Lord Salisbury, the family

name of both houses being Cecil, and
both tracing their descent to the great
Lord Burleigh of Queen Elizabeth s
reign.

He succeeds to an estate that has
dwindled since the days when "not a
lord in all the country was so great a
lord " as the romantic nobleman who dis
guised himself as a landscape painter to
win the heart of a village maiden. The
son of that poetic marriage, the second
Marquis of Exeter, stoutly opposed the
building of railroads through his paternal
acres, with the result that the great arte
ries of traffic went elsewhere and his land
sadly depreciated in value.

# * * #

It is probable that Paris will some day
possess a "Rue Sarah Bernhardt " but
not until after the famous actress death.
A Mme. Thiriay recently wrote to the
municipal council, suggesting that the
naming of a street after Mme. Bernhardt
would be a fitting tribute to the leading
Parisian exponent of an important branch
of art. The committee that considered the
letter report that "the great French
tragedienne deserves to have her name
given to a street, but it is the rule not to
use the name of a living person. The
idea is good, but not opportune."

Mme. Bernhardt will no doubt be grati
fied to know that she is thought worthy
of an honor bestowed upon Victor Hugo
and other great Frenchmen, but she will
be in no hurry to earn it by fulfilling the
neeessary condition.

* * * *

The Baroness Burdett-Coutts recently
offered to furnish sufficient money
about a quarter of a million dollars to
install a water suppty for the cit} r of
Jerusalem. The ancient capital of David
has doubled its population in the last
twenty years, and now contains sixty
thousand people, who are dependent for
drinking water upon cisterns filled by
the winter rains. The need was urgent,
but it was found that before the work
could be begun it would be necessary to
pay some fifty thousand dollars in bribes
to officials in Constantinople. This
characteristic exhibition of Turkish
methods killed the project, and defeated
the public spirited proposition of Lady
Bnrdett-Coutts.

BRITAIN AND AMERICA.

The remarkable development of sympathetic feeling between the English speaking races
How the saying that u blood is thicker than water " may prove to be the keynote of the
history of the coming century.

1~*HE recent expressions of friendly sym
pathy between the United States and
Great Britain have been too numerous, too
emphatic, and too evidently sincere to be
regarded as merely a passing phase of
mutable public opinion, or as a political
move brought about by the special circum
stances of the hour. We are making his
tory rapidly just now, and it looks as if, in
drawing closer to the kindred peoples of
England and her colonies, we were setting
the keynote of the story of the twentieth
century.

The rivalry of nations has made the his
tory of the world, but the coming century
may not see its grand issues settled by the
sword. There are other factors in working
out the fate of peoples. A mutual under
standing between Britain and America
would be more likely to assure the world s
tranquillity than to break it; but whether
the future be one of war or of peace, the
influence of such a rapprochement would
be tremendous. The old balance of power
would be utterly upset. The European con
cert would be obsolete. With all the Eng
lish speaking races standing together, there
would not be much doubt as to the hege
mony of the world.

Prophecy is always dangerous, but facts
and figures point morals, and intelligent
study of the past throws light upon the
future. The small states of ancient Greece
and of medieval Italy had their day as lead
ers of the civilized world; they fell before the
larger states that grew up around them.
Today, the political control of the earth
centers in the comparatively small continent
of Europe, which is divided among six so
called great powers and several minor ones.
Of the great powers, three Germany, Aus
tria, and Italy have practically no foothold
on the globe s surface beyond their own
limited and already crowded territory, les-s
in each case than the largest of our forty
five States. France is in the same case, for
she has no colonies in any true sense of the
word, and no foreign possessions that are
likely to be a source of strength rather than

of weakness. It is difficult to avoid the con
clusion that these states must, in the not
distant future, be dwarfed by the three that
control between them about half -of the
land surface of the world, and in numbers
are already the largest of the civilized na
tions and the most rapidly increasing. Ex
tent, of course, is not the sole index of
power, but any fair review of the situation
will indicate that the next century will see
three great world powers standing head and
shoulders above the rest, towering up on a
greater scale than any empire of the past
two of the European nations and one in the
new world Russia, the United States, and
Britain with her colonies.

That we should always continue to hold
aloof from the politics of the world is im
possible. For more than a hundred years
Washington s advice has been our golden
rule, and it is a notable tribute to his wis
dom that the principle he laid down should
have held good so long amid the changing
conditions of these latter days. It still has
its value, but we have outgrown it, as \ve
are outgrowing the Monroe Doctrine.
Formal alliances we may not expect to
make; they may be unnecessary. But we
have our place to take in the world, and our
part to play in the management of its great
politics.

If Russia, Britain, and ourselves are to be
the great world powers, a good understand
ing between two of the three would mani
festly be a guarantee of the peace of the
world. Towards Russia w^e have no pos
sible cause for hostility. Our diplomatic
intercourse with her has always been partic
ularly courteous. Beyond that, if her gov
ernment has ever shown any special readi
ness to serve us, as some think it has, there
can be no manner of doubt that its action
was dictated by regard for its own interests.
The one autocratic regime of Europe can
have no deep seated and disinterested love
for a democracy that once defied tyrants
and now ridicules and despises them. " It
is inconceivable," as a recent speaker said.
" that a nation which believes in human lib-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

erty, in the government of the people for
the people, can have any real sympathy with
that eastern despotism." Russia may have
a great transformation before her. When
that is accomplished, it will be time to think
of regarding her with any sentiment warmer
than that of diplomatic courtesy.

The obvious grounds for sympathy with
England have been recited so often that a
reiteration of them might be irksome. Com
munity of language, kinship in race, sim
ilarity of institutions, fellowship in religion
these hive been exploited until the speak
er or writer is almost afraid to mention them
lest he excite a yawn or a smile. Then there
is the commercial argument, scarcely less
familiar. She is by far our best customer.
The statistics of the last fiscal year show that
we exported a little more than a thousand
million dollars worth of American goods,
of which Great Britain and Ireland whose
ports are almost the only ones that admit
our products free of duties took nearly
half, or almost four times as much as our
next best customer, Germany. The exact
figures were these: total domestic exports,
$1,032,007,603 ; to the United Kingdom,
$478,444,592; to Canada, Australia, and oth
er colonies and dependencies of England,
$111,940,464; making a total for all British
countries of $590,385,056, or more than 57
per cent of the whole, while Germany, sec
ond in the list, took less than 12 per cent,
and France, which stood next, only 5 per
cent.

Contrast these figures with those that
show our relations with the Spanish Ameri
can countries, which a certain political school
has sought to cultivate at the expense of
our present commercial allies. During the
last statistical year the ten republics of
South America Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil,
Chili, Colombia, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru,
Uruguay, and Venezuela bought from us
goods worth, in all, a little more than thirty
million dollars just under three per cent of
the to.al we sold abroad. Business consid
erations do not decide everything in pol
itics, but they have their influence, and a
very weighty influence it properly is.

The number of English and American
families who are united by personal ties is
far greater than is the case with any other
two nations. We may jest about the mar
riages of American girls to the scions of
prominent English houses, but the fact re
mains that these alliances, and many others
that are not chronicled, have their effect.
Joseph Chamberlain. can influence the Eng
lish people, and cannot his American wife
influence Joseph Chamberlain?

The newspapers have perhaps made a
little too much of some recent utterances of

English public men. " Overtures for alli
ance," we have been told, were made by
Mr. Chamberlain aqd Lord Salisbury.
This is scarcely accurate, though the words
of the colonial secretary and the prime min
ister were interesting and significant. It is
not likely that any responsible move toward
a formal alliance will be made. As another
Englishman, Sir Edward Grey, said the
other day, it is not necessary to " take a
great friendly sentiment and think to make
it stronger by placing it within the four
corners of a piece of parchment."

The vast majority of British people have
always had a feeling of sympathy with the
United States. Our press, in the past, has
not as a rule either fully reciprocated or
fairly recognized the sentiment that has un
doubtedly existed across the Atlantic. Just
now, as if to make amends, it is perhaps
making a little too much of it. The official
world seems inclined to follow suit, as if to
salve the diplomatic buffet we dealt Eng
land in the Venezuela matter by a special
display of amity. It would be a mistake to
expect too rapid and definite developments
to follow. The statesman who does any
thing to bring the two nations nearer ac
complishes a service to his country and the
world, but great things move slowly.

The true bond between Britain and our
selves is unwritten, and likely to remain so,
yet it is palpable enough. The American
who lands in England does not feel himself
to be quite a foreigner, nor is he regarded
as such. Let him cross the Channel, and
in France, Italy, or Spain he will find him
self an absolute alien. To the continental
European the Englishman and the Ameri
can are indistinguishable, and it is no great
slander to say that the only interest he
takes in either of them is a financial one.

The rivalry of the Latin and the Anglo
Saxon is an ancient one. Their struggle
was fought out on many a bloody field in
the middle ages. It drove the Armada to
destruction on the shores of England, and
sent Drake and Hawkins to harry the Span
ish main. It was waged over three con
tinents in the great wars of Louis XIV. It
shattered the conquering legions of Napo
leon against the " thin red line " of Water
loo, and banished the French dictator to St.
Helena. Now again, after nearly a hundred
years slumber, it has awakened in a new
phase to a new drama of war our present
conflict with the Spaniards. It is not
strange that in that conflict we should have
the sympathy of British people the world
over, but it is gratifying that that sympathy
should have found such decided expression
and such prompt response.

Words, it may be said, are cheap; but

BRITAIN AND AMERICA.

6o.s

there is more in this than words. One re
sult is that no hostile combination of jealous
powers will attempt to interfere with our set
tlement of the future of the Spanish depend
encies. And as the president of the Ameri
can Society in London said at a recent gath
ering of six hundred representative Eng
lishmen and Americans, " As you have
stood by us in our day of trial, when your
day of trial comes count upon us."

We have seen no better statement of the
situation than that made by a member of the
Canadian parliament, Mr. Pattullo, of On
tario, in a speech recently delivered in New
York. " The dream and the policy of your
early statesmen," he told his hearers, " was
for isolation and peace. They were wise in
their day and generation. But fate may
have more in store for you than the wisest
of them foresaw, a destiny very different
from their visions. You may not be able to
control the forces now in motion. You are
already in material resources, in population,
and in the possibilities of material develop
ment the greatest nation of the earth. But
it looks as if you might be more than this.
The inevitable outcome of this war may be
that you will become one of the greatest
naval powers of the world.

" If you use your power for peace all will
be well; if for needless war it will be an un
mixed evil to you and the world. You have
the future now in your own hands. But I
may be permitted to express the hope, and
I for one believe, that if you plant your forts
for good in Cuba, in the Philippine Islands,
or in Hawaii, you will not do so in the spirit
of territorial aggrandizement. You have
now enough of territory and to spare. But
while you are seeking the means of protec
tion for your navy in cruising the oceans,
your new forts and coaling stations will
stand, as those of Britain always have, the
outposts of civilization, on which you will
keep burning for all time in the face of the
world the lamp of human liberty.

" Whether in accepting and achieving
your inspiring destiny you will act in alli
ance with the great motherland of Anglo
Saxon nations, the future alone can deter
mine. But if there be not an alliance be
tween Great Britain and the United States
in form, there ought at least to be for all
time a union of hearts among peoples of the
same race, of the same language, and with
mutual interests the world over. Every
great event in the world s history of late
seems to have shown the essential unity in
interest of Great Britain and of this greater
Britain beyond the seas. In Armenia a
couple of years ago, American interests,
through your missionaries, were affected
nore than those of some European powers.

The concert of the Anglo Saxon world at
that time might have settled the Armenian
question for civilization and Christianity.
Every event in the far east of late has shown
that the interests of this great industrial
and commercial nation of the future are
bound up with the interests of that great
trading nation which believes in open
ports."

In the many answers that have been given
to the question why there has been, in the
past, an unfriendly feeling toward England
among so large a part yet not a majority
of our countrymen, the two chief reasons as
signed have been the old grudge of our two
early wars, and the carrying across the At
lantic of the unappeased enmity of Irish im
migrants. Surely it is time to let the Rev
olution in which we won a signal triumph
and the somewhat purposeless struggle of
1812 of which we had decidedly the worst,
notwithstanding the popular impression to
the contrary become history, as they have
in England. Our struggle, as a matter of
fact, was with George III and his ministers,
not with his people; and the quarrel is too
remote to remain a live issue. As to the
grievances of Ireland, it is hard to see why
they cannot be safely intrusted to the Emer
ald Island itself, which has considerably
more than its share of representatives in the
British House of Commons, with a propor
tionate allowance of lung power.

A great theme may inspire a minor poet,
and if ever the present English laureate has
risen to the heights of song it was in his
recent greeting to America:

Answer them, sons of the selfsame race,

And blood of the selfsame clan,
I,et us speak with each other, face to face,

And answer as man to man,

And loyally love and trust each other as none but
free men can.

Now fling them out to the breeze,

Shamrock, thistle, and rose,
And the Star Spangled Banner unfurl witli

these,

A message to friends and foes,
Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wher
ever the war wind blows.

A message to bond and thrall to wake,

Kor wherever we come, we twain,
The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake

And his menace be void and vain ;
For you are lords of a strong young land and we
are lords of the main.

Yes, this is the voice on the bluff March gale:

"We severed have been too long ;
But now we have done with a wornout tale,

The tale of an ancient wrotig ;
May our friendship last long as love doth last and
be stronger than death is strong."

OUT OF HIS PAST.

BY H. L. HAWTHORNE.

The part pride played in the wrecking of three lives How a mystery at
the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis culminated in a tragedy in far
off Chili.

IN a little, curved street leading down to
the bay from the grounds of the capitol
at Annapolis, there lived, a few years ago, a
German tailor, who, starting as an indus
trious immigrant, with a very limited Eng
lish vocabulary and a still more limited
amount of capital, had grown, by strict at
tention to business, from next to nothing
to something slightly better in the course of
eighteen years. Here in his dingy shop,
which, during all this time, had retained its
unambitious interior, Adam Hetsch made
for his friends and neighbors their unobtru
sive Sunday bests, which met the social
demands of this ancient and somewhat con
tracted town with entire satisfaction.

Among the State Representatives was the
Horn Henry Beckman, a man of German
extraction, who, by some chance, opened
the door of Hetsch s dingy shop one after
noon, and put in motion a series of events
about which were eventually drawn this
obscure German family s fate lines. It so
happened that the Hon. Beckman, on some
visit of political significance, stood in imme
diate need of a pair of trousers, and on go
ing down hurriedly from the capitol had
noticed the tailor s display in Hetsch s win
dow. Its meagerness had deterred him at
first, but when he glanced at the name over
the door he mounted the wooden steps and
entered.

True to his past experience as a small
politician, the Hon. Beckman talked to
Hetsch of his business, the condition of the
tailor trade, and the rights and wrongs of
tailors generally. From that to politics
was but a step, and the duties of his own
position, now for the first time being as
sumed, enabled him to impress his impor
tance upon the obsequious Hetsch.

The trousers, by some accident, proved a
success, and when the honorable gentleman
dropped in to pay his bill, he expressed his
approval warmly.

" They are excellent," said he, viewing
Hetsch s handiwork. " Why don t you get
business among the midshipmen at the
naval academv? "

" Ach! dat iss not fer me," answered the
modest Hetsch, and then, his jealousy ris
ing, he added, " Dose fellers vass too prout
fer my shop. Dey must haf Noo York.
Det tink Annapolis vass too leetle fer dem.
Dey turn up der noses at us peeples." :

"Too proud for us, eh! I tell you, sir,
this false pride is eating away the very
foundation principles of our republican in
stitutions, and it is openly fostered and
nourished and emphasized in the national
academies. It should be checked. The
American people owe it to themselves and
to posterity to see that class distinctions are
blotted out of these schools of the people."

The Hon. Beckman, continuing, pointed
out the growing ascendancy of aristocracy
in our land, to all of which the little tailor
gave a cheerful assent. The statesman,
finding a willing listener, expanded on the
matter, in the course of which he found that
the Representatives themselves could gov
ern the class of boys who went to these
schools, and were, therefore, responsible in
a way for their social tone. He recalled,
too, a letter received a few days before from
the Secretary of the Navy, reminding him
that the representation from his district at
the naval academy was unfilled, and re
questing that the nomination of a candidate
for cadetship be made as promptly as pos
sible. Before the hour had passed the Hon.
Beckman had offered the cadetship to the
tailor s son Felix, a youth of good parts,
who had seemed well content to take up the
burden of his father s trade with stolid
acquiescence, and who now, with his father,
stood confounded by the contemplation of
the honors thus held out to them.

In the next few days, Mr. Beckman be
came more and more determined on the
boy s appointment; partly because no polit
ical creditor had asked for the place for
some henchman s son, partly by the sym
pathy of his German blood, and partly by
the impulse to leaven the aristocratic naval
loaf with a little of democratic commoner.

Young Hetsch s appearance was not
much against him, but it certainly was not

OUT OF HIS PAST.

607

in his favor. His education had been fairly
good, but special training would be neces
sary to get him past the opening test, and
Beckman, who had now entered strongly
into his design, finally induced the some
what awestruck father to draw forth from
its hiding place the scanty savings of years
to pay for the unfinished schooling of the
young candidate.

The boy Felix was not enthusiastic, but
he followed obediently in the lead of the
bustling Beckman. He went to his tasks
without ardor and without excitement, and
one day, at the end of three months, his
strict application to his books brought suc
cess. The official envelope of the Navy De
partment was broken under the light of the
oily lamp of the Hetsch home, and in it was
found the announcement of his successful
candidacy, with orders to report forthwith
to the superintendent.

Hetsch s career at the academy was as
quiet and as unobtrusive as his father s shop
windows. He studied industriously, and
made a few friends, but sought and acquired
no special prominence among his fellows.
During the first year, his Saturday after
noons were spent at his father s house. His
presence was an excuse for the little tailor
to uncoil his legs, and the somewhat frowzy
frcu to lay aside the kitchen spoon, and for
both to sit quietly while he told them of his
" marks," his room, his drills, and his other
occupations. The father and mother grew
gradually in awe of this young fellow in
blue, with his natty cap and its golden
anchor. It seemed to them that he hai en
tered into a new life in which they had no
concern, and into w-iich they had no wish
to pry. To the mother particularly he
seemed a new being, a feeling partly due to
her inability to understand the words he
used in telling them of the great school Dy
the Severn. When he came, she would
wash the marks of the kitchen from her
hard, knotty hands, steal softly into the
room where he sat talking, look gently at
him, and sit quietly down in her shabby
rocker with a half smile, in which awe and
motherly pride mingled, illumining her
placid German face. To the father, the
son s new and elevated surroundings were a
source of timid pleasure and respect. Thus
brought in contact with the imagined aris
tocratic atmosphere of the academy, his
peasant nature bowed before it, and his at
titude to the boy lost much of the fatherly,
though his heart was full of love and proud
satisfaction.

Into his son s life he intruded but once.
He sought out his room one afternoon,
after study hours, but his short visit was
confused bv the bustle of cadets about the

building, the sounds of bugles, and the air
of alert activity everywhere, from all of
which he escaped with relief to his tailor s
table, polished by years of unflagging toil.

As the years went by, the boy grew
absurdly out of proportion to the narrow
side street, the musty shop, and the unlet
tered parents. Just when the realization of
this came upon him, Felix could not have
told. He never entered the social circle of
his fellow cadets, so the gulf between his
early life and that toward which he grew
came to be seen but slowly. Toward the
end of his third year he became aware of an
effort in making his Saturday afternoon
visit at his home. He began to dread the weak
black eyes of his father, which never failed
to brighten when he opened the dingy door
with its jangling bell, and his mother s
greasy dress and lank hair grew unpleas
antly obtrusive. He found himself at a loss
in the disjointed talks during those weari
some hours. One Saturday, as he put on
his full dress preparatory to the usual visit,
his room mate burst in on him.

" Hello, Dutch!" cried he. " Out for
jour usual Saturday afternoon disappear
ance? Say, you mum old figurehead,
where do you hide yourself, any way? I
told Conant that I believed you went down
to the wharf and communed with your kin,
the oysters; but he insists that you go up
to the legislature to satisfy yourself on your
wisdom of keeping still. Conant has an
idea that his wit is simply excruciating. I ll
give you a pointer, old man; Squib Higgins
swears he ll follow in your wake today, to
find if this offishness about the girls doesn t
mean some particular girl. You keep your
eye on Squib."

Hetsch flushed and replied:

" Higgins had better attend to hunting a
two five in mechanics. I have friends in
town I go to see."

His room mate laughed. " That s one on
Squib. But I say, Dutch, you re the deep
est old oyster on the beach. Why, I don t
know the first thing about you. You re
from Maryland, aren t you? Of course,
saw it in the register. Baltimore, I suppose
though you re Dutch as sauerkraut, for
all that. By the way, there s a thin legged
little tailor out in town with your name.
Stumbled in there one day to see if I
couldn t underbid those New York robbers
on a cit suit for furlough. But the old
Dutchman seemed so flabbergasted at a
civilized person piping him up that he fell
into a Dutch calm, so I scuttled."

Just then the first call for the dinner
formation sounded, at which Hetsch s
room mate dashed to his bowl to begin a
hurried toilet, talking rapidly of a projected

6o8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

sail on the Severn after dinner, in one of
the cutters.

Hetsch s reticence on the subject of his
parents had at first been due to his uncom
municative nature, and latterly to an uncon-
fessed but increasing impulse to keep his
humble connections out of sight. In the
mind of the young cadet, at the beginning
of his academy life, there was no moral
cowardice in thus putting out of view that
which might tend to lose him the respect
or friendship of his fellows. It was the
wish of his people to separate from him in
his naval life, and as he had no social aspira
tions there was little or nothing to lose from
the general knowledge that he was the son
of a poor and ignorant German tailor. As
he grew older, however, with the added
dignity of an upper classman, on whom his
juniors must look with respect, and lie found
himself becoming more identified with the
great national naval establishment which
was to be the scene of his future career, his
ambition was roused, and by contrast, his
origin rose before him as a clog and a
menace. As the years had gone by he had
thought that he saw in his father s manner
a certain air of conscious pride, of owner
ship, of the well dressed and well appearing
cadet. On this afternoon he returned to
his quarters, when dinner was over, with
the uneasy feeling of being pursued by the
shabby, crooked figure of his father, and the
loose, peering face of his mother. Slowly
he took off his cap and button covered
jacket, lay down on his narrow iron bed,
and for the first time spent a free Saturday
afternoon away from the ill smelling sitting
room of his people.

Felix Hetsch had quite misunderstood
his father s state of mind. The old tailor
had willingly surrendered himself to sec
ond place in the family precedence, and
while in the privacy of his home his heart
glowed as he and the mother talked of the
greatness of their boy, he never boasted to
his humble customers of the relationship.
He felt, in an indistinct way, that his son s
standing would suffer from their acknowl
edged presence, and he was quite willing
to keep out of the way. To the mother it
was all a dream. She saw her son growing
great before her very eyes. He spoke a
language she could not understand, wore
the uniform and seemed especially under
the protecting eye of that wonderful gov
ernment to which she had come, from the
toil worn fields of Germany, for comfort
and freedom. He was being filled with that
mysterious force called knowledge, so over
powering to her dim conception. She all
but worshiped him.

During his last year at the academy, Felix

Hetsch gradually fell out of the habit of his
Saturday visits. It was easy to make ex
cuses to the poor innocents of the tailor
shop. Then the day of graduation came
and passed; and through the bustle and
confusion, the coming and going of crowds
of sightseers, the brilliant ceremonies and
the prolonged and wearisome speeches,
and diploma distribution, Hetsch caught
glimpses, now and then, of two worn and
frightened, yet very happy faces, so start-
linjly out of tone with the gaiety and
sprightliness of fashion which filled the
walks and lawns of the academy.

Contrary to custom, orders for sea met
some of the class, and among them, to
Hetsch s relief, were his own. In a week
he was on his ship, alone at last with his
career, the dust of the past shaken from his
shoes, and his classmates scattered, never,
as a body, to meet again.

The two years in the European squadron
passed but too quickly. He drank in his
new life with deepest pleasure. The great
nations of the old world became undying
impressions, with their wonders of palaces,
their fleets and armies, their elegancies,
riches, and art. The humble scenes of his
boyhood had gone from him, and not even
a letter bore to him the lost faces of the lit
tle old people in the crooked by street of
Annapolis.

The orders for his final examination
brought him again to the old haunts.
With a step almost of indifference, he
reached the door of the cottage, but the
jangling of the bell brought a rush of mem
ories. As he entered there rose about him
the suffocating sense of distasteful ties,
which he seemed destined never to shake
from him. To his eyes nothing had
changed. The contrast to the world in
which he had moved made it impossible to
him to note that there was an added touch of
poverty to the rooms before him, through
which there came slowly a shabby little
man with weak eyes and an untidy, dull
faced woman.

Their greeting was gentle and loving. He
was grateful for their lack of effusion. He
could not know how wonderful he had
grown to them. They were frightened, but
deeply thankful to look upon his face again.

" Felix," whispered the little man, " your
mutter and me vas glat you vas safe from
der sheep." The German was mindful of
that stormy passage in the steerage of
twenty years before.

Felix passed a month with the.m, and then
was assigned to sea service again, this time
to South America. During this period at
his old home, he bore with them decently
and with a pleasant spirit. He asked noth-

OUT OF HIS PAST.

609

ing of his father s affairs, for conditions
seemed not to have changed. And yet
there were signs, though he failed to notice
them, of a certain and steady decline in the
uninviting surroundings.

Emboldened, perhaps, by his son s absence
from the town, the little tailor, in a perfectly
human way, had indulged in gentle boasts
of his great son to his modest patrons. The
infrequent letters from abroad made texts
for him as he measured and sewed and bar
gained. Slowly jealousies were aroused, at
first decreasing his limited custom, finally
making for him enemies and competitors.
At the time of his son s return, he had
reached a low ebb in his affairs, and he
could barely keep matters going.

Hetsch s expenses in Europe had, of
course, absorbed most of his pay, but he
had felt no uneasiness about his people.
The conditions in the cottage were perfectly
congenial and satisfactory to them, and
when they were very old and wanted rest
he would be their sheet anchor. By that
time he would be well able to afford them
ample comfort.

Once he had said to his father:

" Father, wouldn t you like to live in a
larger house? "

No, mein sohn, dis house iss goot
nough. I like dis house. You vas a leetle
poy here; " and his eyes grew weaker than
usual as he turned slowly to his needle.

The shop seemed quiet in these days of
waiting, and once he asked in a tone of
mild interest:

" Father, where are your neighbors and
customers? Is business all right? "

" Yah, mein sohn," hastily answered the
father. " Business, he iss all right."

" Perhaps they re afraid of me," Felix
suggested, with a careless smile.

" Yah," the tailor answered eagerly, " dot
iss it; dey tink you iss a great man;" and
even the fear of being discovered could not
hide the proud glisten of his eyes.

Felix bade them a quiet good by one day
and boarded the train for New York. The
whirling wheels left farther and farther be
hind the unwholesome memories of a
pinched and sordid boyhood, of the ill
smelling back sitting room and the jangling
shop bell. They left behind, also, the little
bowed figure of the tailor, his weak eyes
running with tears, the frowzy wife bending
hesitatingly above him, and about them
both the knowledge and the evidences of
poverty run to earth.

The U. S. S. Wachusett moved lazily
along the Pacific coast of South America,
touching here and there at ports of no im
portance, and stopping for months at the
great seaboard cities. The process of

" showing the flag " was pleasantly but
thoroughly done, with tenders of fetes by
admiring friends, and adventurous trips
into the back country to lighten the monot
ony. Two years of easy voyaging passed,
and then came a long stretch to the west
ward, touching in at the Marquesas and
Tahiti, and after six months, a snug harbor
at Talcahuana, Chili.

The wardroom of the Wachusett was in
a state of lively excitement as the " mes
senger " dumped on the center table a
double armful of long accumulated mail.

" Are we forgotten when we re gone?
quoted the navigator, with a grin. " Well,
hardly."

" I think I ll draw out of the game," said
the paymaster drily, as he extracted a
handful of letters from the mass.

" I ve never known it to fail, in delayed
mails," quoth the marine officer, that the
letters I want never arrive, while those that
turn up are usually er surprises, and"-
examining a long tailor account " not
always pleasant."

Hetsch took up the few papers and letters
falling to his share, and with his usual re
served manner withdrew to his stateroom.
His mail was short and quickly read; a
chatty letter from his old room mate, a
communication from the superintendent of
the academy asking if he would accept an
assignment at Annapolis in the Department
of Languages, and lastly, a brief, scrawly
letter from his father. It was of old date,
some four months back, and told in his poor,
scratchy, ill spelled words that his humble
life was unchanged, but that the mother was
growing a little old; in fact, seldom left her
bed. The small pile of papers consisted
mainly of naval literature, but among them
he unfolded a Baltimore journal, in which
his eye caught at once the bold blue lines
of a marked column, topped by the usual
heavily printed heading.

His startled eyes grew dark and fierce as
he looked, then, with quivering pulse and
heavily beating heart, he read word by word
the fateful tale of his hidden life and the
consequences of his indifference and cold
neglect.

It read:

"A pitiful leaf from the record of two
lonely lives! A son s neglect, and a father s
broken heart! Adam Hetsch and his wife
died at the county home yesterday within an
hour of each other."

Then followed, in a column or more, the
humble annals of the little tailor from the
steerage of the great liner to his death bed
in the almshouse. The crooked by street of
Annapolis came into view, with the dark
little shop, the jangling door bell, the

6io

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

squalid surroundings, item by item, so
dreadfully familiar in his boyhood mem
ories. Then his own name flashed up
at him from the printed page, and with
shame crimsoning his cheeks, he saw
himself ignobly hiding away those two
shabby lives that he might be saved con
fusion, shaking from him one by one the
tendrils which those loving hearts had
woven about him, and finally, with no
thought of their fate or of their welfare,
abandoning them to the grudging pity of
public charity.

He learned that for years his father s
simple trade had languished largely, so the
article stated, through the humble tailor s
possession of an aristocratic son. It was
an offense to his lowly neighbors to hear
him in his innocent admiration of his great
boy. The struggle against poverty had
been long and grim. At length the shop
was closed, and in a shabby back room the
two toiled on with such intermittent work
as came their way. The mother soon be
came bedridden, while the little tailor, sal
low and wizen, hovered about the streets
seeking something for his weakening hands
to do. The end came slowly, for the little
man fought sturdily to the last. Perhaps
he was buoyed by the secret hope that his boy
would come back, and that then he could
tell him a little of his troubles. But he
would not tell him now. Oh, no! The boy
must live like a great man, perhaps dine
with governors and generals, and who was
he. to stand in the way?

But the weak little eyes drooped and glis
tened as he crept to the tumbled bed where

the frail lay pining and starving, thinking
only of her son.

The county took them in finally, but the
struggle had been too severe. Both grew
older and more feeble within the year, then
stolidly and without complaint they went
their way. At noon the mother died, and
an hour later the little tailor opened his
weak and wandering eyes, and with a gentle
nod to the nurse whispered:

" Mein sohn, he vill come back safe from
hiss sheep, so? He was a great man, mein
sohn;" and then he died.

So this was what the world thought of it
all! Ensign Felix Hetsch of the navy held
up to public scorn, jeered at, exposed!
Why were they so quiet out in the ward
room? Were they, too, reading this Balti
more paper with its shameful story and its
stinging comments? Wretchedness sat
upon his woful face, and doom burned in
his sunken eyes. So this was what the
world thought of it!

* . * * *

At the sharp crack of the pistol, the offi
cers sprang into the ward room, where the}
saw a hazy blue smoke creeping through
the lattice above Hetsch s door. In a mo
ment they were in his stateroom, or peering
in at the crowded entrance.

Hetsch lay on his bunk quite dead. On
the floor lay his revolver. In the air was
the mingled odor of smoke and burned
paper. A Baltimore journal, from which a
long clipping had been taken, was found on
the dresser. The clipping was never dis
covered, but nevertheless, in time they
heard the storv.

MASKS.

Wi-: see them here and there in many places,

Where life seems darkest and where fortune basks

Old, young, and middle aged, a host of faces
How many of them, think you, are but masks?

Behind the scenes, the coming and the going,
The old and new, the play times and the tasks,

Lie hidden depths that are beyond our knowing ;
We see the maskers, but who sees the masks?

The priest at shrine, the clown at courtly revel,
The pilgrim with his staff and water flasks,

The saint and sinner, devotee and devil,

Pass and repass, but not without their masks.

Could we have truth and put away beguiling
Nay, then, such truth no truthful seeker asks !

Come, baffled fate, and thou shall -find us smiling ;
Roses for thorns for men and women masks.

Ernest McCaffey.

WOMEN IN JOURNALISM.

BY ANNE O HAGAN.

Just what it means to be a woman reporter on a great daily newspaper A vivid picture
of the life, showing its struggles and humiliations as well as its rewards.

THE Association of Collegiate Alumnae,
an organization which has fo one of
its ends the issuing of statistics concerning
the college woman in the various occupa
tions she enters after graduation, sends me
annually a request for information on
" women in journalism."

" How many women journalists are
there?" the A. C. A. inquires. "What are
their incomes? What are the hours and
the seasons of their labor ? What dignities
have they attained? Are many of them
managing editors or city editors? And what
advice should be given to young women
ambitious to be journalists? "

The document which does not give room
for exhaustive answers set me to thinking
about " women in journalism." That is in
itself a somewhat unusual thing for a news
paper woman. Her profession, if one may
so designate her unlearned, helter skelter
calling, leaves her but little time for medi
tation upon its merits and demerits. She
is either in a state of cheer, born of the
proximity of pay day, the cloudlessness of
the weather, and. the fact that she has not
been assigned to interview the haughtiest
and most exclusive dame in New York, or
she is plunged into morose rebellion against
her trade and the universe by the opposites
of all these. In neither mental condition is
unhurried deliberation or impartial judg
ment easy and to that lack of thought upon
our business it is doubtless due that there
are many of us.

Going back to the pertinent question of
the A. C. A. (the ladies love to think their
organization famous enough to be recog
nizable by mere initals), how many women
journalists are there? They average, prob
ably, five to each of the large city dailies.
On some conservative sheets there are but
two or three, reserved for such dainty uses
as the reporting of women s club meetings
and writing weekly fashion and complexion
advices. On other, more progressive papers
there are eight or ten, scurrying breathlessly
through the town to see bankers or mur
derers, to report teas or trials, to interview

the latest strike leader or to ask the newest
divorcee questions which she will decline
to answer unless she needs advertising for
some post-matrimonial venture.

Neither of these classes is editorial. There
are, however, a few women in small execu
tive positions on daily papers. They have
charge of the " woman s page " sacred to
currant jam and current gossip concerning
subjects of no importance. Or they are in
charge of a section of a Sunday supplement.
They enjoy a certain measure of ease and
seclusion. If it is sometimes borne in upon
their minds that the management regards
their departments either as an abuse of ex
cellent space for the sake of a hypothetical
circulation among women, or as a joke
scarcely connected with real newspaper
work, they console themselves with their
undeniable dignity, their assured incomes,
and their power among those of their sisters
who need free advertising.

Even those whose lowly positions keep
them in the sour grape attitude toward the
editors of the " woman s departments " will
admit that it is pleasanter to sit before a roll
top desk and plan pages than it is to catch
trains for points in New Jersey where dis
agreeable things have just happened. It is
pleasanter to say unto trembling young wo
men. " Go and watch them depart," than it
is to be a trembling young woman and to
obey the curt command. But for all that,
the woman editor s position is not alto
gether desirable. She knows that her work
is not too seriously regarded by the men
whose vision must sweep the horizon from
Cuba to Cathay for news, and whose brains
are busy with the planning of policies which
shall give their papers power. It is humili
ating to do no work worth being taken seri
ously. It is stagnating and no one knows
this more keenly than the woman s page
editor to have no more vital subject for
thought, so far as her profession is con
cerned, than the presentation in new form
of an article on chafing dish suppers or on
Mile. Lightfoot s complexion regimen.

She knows, moreover, that it is worse

6l2

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

than stagnating that it is debasing to as
sume toward all things and beings feminine
the attitude which custom seems to demand
of her. No woman is ever mentioned on a
" woman s page " who is not, if not tran-
scendently beautiful, at least gifted with " a
charm of manner all her own." No actress
is there whose home life is not of a sort
to gladden every mother s heart. No wo
man lawyer or doctor is anything but " de-
liciously feminine "; no woman orator exists
on the woman s page who is not shy as
April anemones; there is no artist who is not
about to wrest the laurels from Rosa Bon-
heur s long threatened brows. There is no
reformer harshly haranguing the world on
unsavory subjects who is not herself a star
of saintliness and a rose of sweetness. No
Congressman ever had a wife whose bril
liancy as a hostess and whose personal fas
cination did not cause the enraptured wo
man s page editor and reporter to grovel
before her. She who orders and edits all
this occupies the highest executive position
yet obtained by women in journalism in
spite of the remarkable ability which dis
tinguishes them all on one another s wo
man s pages. She has drifted into doing
work either puerile or servile. She is gen
erally a woman of intelligence and skill.

I wonder if the good ladies of the Asso
ciation of Collegiate Alumnae will consider
her career quite worth while.

Then there are the reporters. They call
themselves " special writers " when they are
reserved for particularly sensational work,
but their business is reporting. Thos- whose
association with the news of the day is
through the women s clubs or the tailors
are intellectually in the same category with
the woman s page editors. So far as doing
any real work either for their sheets, their
times, or themselves is concerned, they might
as well be cutting paper dolls. Opening
the paper in the morning, they are gratified
if their section has not been omitted. It
has been, if there is any rush of actual news.
Their work is tolerated, not needed. They
are a meringue at a luncheon. If time is
plenty it may be eaten once or twice in the
week. Even then it palls. But in busy
seasons, busy folk skip the fluffy sweet.

Then there are the rest of the reporters
who "take their chances with the men"
and try to enjoy the proud equality. On
a morning paper they report for work be
tween eleven and twelve o clock. They go
to their desks. Men of all sorts and condi
tions, their attitudes of all degrees of ease,
lounge about at the work tables. They read
their papers and smoke. They laugh and
joke. They yawn and tell who won at poker
last night, or criticise So and So s story with

pungency. As is unavoidable in such a
gathering, there are some whose manners
are not all the caste of Vere de Vere de
mands, and many who see no good reason
for reserve and view dignity as unfriendly
stiffness.

To be sure, these offer no deeper offense
to their feminine associates than is con
veyed by a too easy manner and a tendency
to pay personal compliments. Undoubted
ly women mixing with men anywhere arc
subjected to somewhat similar trials; there
will always be familiar persons ready to
comment on their work, their neckties, and
their eyebrows. There are these in news
paper offices also. Sometimes the women
who begin by resenting it all frigidly grow
gradually to tolerate it.

They say and to an extent they define
the situation properly that they are more
philosophical. Their critics say that they
have grown callous. Smoke no longer sick
ens them which is a good and necessary
thing. They do not keenly object to the
easy, unkempt style of their associates. The
shirt sleeves and elevated feet of such men
as are addicted to negligee of dress and
manner are overlooked. The woman who
does not to some extent show an interest in
what is known as " the gossip of the shop "
is regarded, not without reason, as a prig.
But " the gossip of the shop " talk of the
city editor s palpable unfairness, the
" fakes " of the rival papers, the way that
Smith s wife always has to come to the
office on pay days to get even a tithe of his
earnings, the genuineness of Miss Jones
blonde hair, and so on, is not particularly
elevating. It is, however, the mental food
offered the woman reporter while she waits
in the office for her assignment. Some
times she waits a couple of hours, sometimes
a couple of days.

When assignments come they do not
always seem to her desirable. She is, in the
beginning, often a gentlewoman. She would
swoon, if she were not too athletically
reared, at the thought of speaking to a man
known to be a wife beater. She would be
come a pillar of ice at the suggestion that
she should ever approach a woman of evil
notoriety. Most of all, she would regard as
insulting a proposition that she should pry
into the private affairs of her neighbors.
The mere thought of addressing any one
to whom she was not properly introduced
would seem outrageous to her.

Having become a reporter of the class to
which I am now referring, what happens?
She is sent to the office of a broker; she
runs the gamut of his office boys and
clerks stare; she may gain admittance to
his sanctum. She is not introduced to him.

WOMEN IN JOURNALISM.

613

of course. She is to ask him, tactfully, if it
is true that he runs a bucket shop for women
up town, or if it is a fact that his daughter
eloped with her riding teacher, and if he
will kindly furnish a photograph of her to
accompany his denial of the rumor.

Or, as the woman reporter idly waits for
her assignment, the city editor summons
her and impressively bids her, take the one
o clock train for the scene of the coal mine
strike in Pennsylvania. He frowns with
busy annoyance at the suggestion that she
would like to go home for a hair brush.
Finally she compromises by sending a tele
gram requesting that a packed portmanteau
follow her. She adds another, telling the
hostess with whom she was to dine that she
cannot come. Then she goes to the coal
mines.

Here the good ladies of the A. C. A.,
doubtless, will see a chance for doing work
worthy a trained intelligence and a sympa
thetic heart. Here is a development of the
capital and labor problem. Here the re
porter may really help the cause of right and
progress. The good ladies of the A. C. A.
do not know of newspaper policies.

The reporter belongs, perhaps, to the
clever organ of the capitalists. She has not
been told what to find among the coal min
ers, but she knows. She is to find comfort
able homes owned by miners; flourishing
schools, attended by miners children; neatly
dressed wives of miners, holding the fat
babies of miners in their well developed
arms. She is to see mine superintendents
and owners greeted with friendly, though
perfectly self respectful, bows from the work
men as they drive along the road. She must
see their wives playing Lady Bountiful to
any sick families there may be among the
miners. Of course she is permitted to see
a few low browed malcontents of foreign
birth and un-American feeling. She may
also notice a little poverty and distress, but it
must be caused by drunkenness or wilful
neglect of opportunities a neglect due
mainly to a passion for attending socialistic
meetings. Such is the glorious opportunity
given for real " work " by the capitalistic
organ.

Or it may be that she is employed by the
rampant " people s " paper. She will find
a starving family in every block; hollow
eyed mothers, and babies too feeble even to
wail, will reveal themselves to her at every
step. And in each case her veracious re
ports will be the foundation for inspired edi
torial utterance. Neither reporter neither
the busy young woman from the " people s "
sheet nor the one from the brokers will be
guilty of absolute falsity. Each will find
instances of what she seeks. She will ac

centuate, not invent. But insincerity will
permeate her work and insincerity will warp
her mind. In time the women reporters
come to regard this lightly, but there is
probably not one who did not begin her
career with clearness of mental vision and
honesty of purpose. That these are inevit
ably lost is the greatest harm that the jour
nalistic life does women. It is infinitely
worse than the deterioration of manners,
which is also inevitable. It is as bad, though
more subtle, than the lapses in morals in
their narrower sense which some other occu
pations induce.

In case that it has not been the reporter s
privilege to dash, all unprepared, into
the wilds of Pennsylvania, she has probably
dawdled about the city room for an hour or
two. Then she has received her assign
ment. If it is the day of the Charity Ball, she
is to go to the houses of the women who
will, be its patronesses. She is told, if the
city editor is in a mood of expansive gener
osity, to " take a cab." The privilege of
taking a cab is one which, to the managerial
mind, seems to compensate for all indig
nities. When an editor wounds a woman s
pride by telling her that she must interview
butlers and ladies maids he applies the
balm of " a cab." On Charity Ball days
more newspaper women ride in carriages
than all the rest of the year.

In a cab, then, she drives, her pride pock
eted, but squirming restlessly in its hiding
place. She goes to the patronesses houses.
She requests descriptions of the frocks and
jewels with which they are to dazzle be
holders. Sometimes the description is wiil-
ingly, not to say eagerly, given; sometimes
it is refused with all the ungraciousness that
can be infused into a refusal. Sometimes
the reporter stands in the hallway the
butler eying her as a detective does a ticket
of leave man and there is borne through its
tapestried length a far carrying, crystal
clear utterance: "My gown? What im
pertinence! Tell the young person certainly
not! " And the " young person " is not al
ways philosopher enough to smile and tell
herself that it is not she, but the Morning
Clarion, that is being snubbed by an under
bred woman with a loud voice and a heavy
purse.

She returns to the office after a while and
the city editor asks confidently: " Well, how
many? What, only nine? Did you take a
carriage as I said you might? "

Then she explains wearily that not even
the sound of the hired wheels upon the
asphalt has proved an open sesame to all
fashionable dressing rooms, and begins to
write her vapid little paragraphs on Mrs.
A s brocade and Mrs. B s point lace.

614

MUNSKY S MAGAZINK.

While she is doing this, she is told to
" finish that up as soon as possible " and go
to the ball to assist the dapper youth who
does society for the paper. She eats when
ever the pause comes. She goes to the
ball; she assists the society reporter. She
comes back to the heated, hurried office a
little before midnight and dashes off pages
of copy as fast as her fingers will work. It
has long ceased to be a question of speed of
thought. Tired out, with tense nerves, she
goes home to such refreshing sleep as she
can snatch. The next morning half past
ten finds her traveling down to Park Row
again, ready for the new adventures.

She interviews murderers and makes close
analytical studies of murderesses. To do
this she visits jails and grows accustomed
to their murky atmosphere and to their
stolid keepers. She attends trials and tries
hard to keep from feeling keenly out of place
in scenes where men squabble and fight, and
where the lowest and the guiltiest thoughts
of human beings are laid bare.

Nothing is sacred from her. That is
doubtless because the inquisitive public de
clines to let anything be sacred from it.
She interviews the woman just appallingly
widowed; she interviews the woman whose
domestic infelicities are bruited abroad.
She pesters royalty within the city walls by
constant requests for bulletins of its move
ments, its tastes, and its intentions. She
hardens herself to be impertinent, and in
proportion as she succeeds in the womanly
process she counts herself improving in her
work.

She denies herself many physical luxuries,
as well as those of sensibility and refine
ment. " Abandon headaches, ye who enter
here," is the impalpable lettering over the
city room door. Headaches interfere with
the getting of news and with the writing of
it. Weather must also become the merest
trifle to the woman who essays reporting.
She must be willing to wade through snow,
to swim, if need be, overflowing gutters, to
face cutting winds, to tramp in dog day heat,
and at the end to write-as sparklingly as na
ture and education permit.

That such an occupation requires women
of strong physical and nervous constitution
is sufficiently apparent. It has passed into
an axiom on Newspaper Row that four years
of journalistic work mean an attack of nerv
ous prostration for a woman. Some es
cape this by the simple process of having
less momentous spells of illness, with their
enforced rests, at briefer intervals. Occa
sionally one works for years with no break
down and no sickness worthy of note. But
she is regarded almost with awe as one
slightly uncanny.

No woman reporter makes an engagement
which has not a proviso attached. She " ac
cepts with pleasure " unless she chances to
be writing her interview with the wife beat
er or with the captain of the Vizcaya at the
time when the dinner party is given that she
may meet the distinguished sculptor or the
man who might have been her fate. She
will go to the theater joyfully on Wednes
day unless she happens to be at Highland
Falls obtaining the statement of the last
woman who has become known to fame as
the heroine of an Enoch Arden story. She
will attend her sister s wedding if she isn t
stranded in a Connecticut town whence no
trains leave before morning, but where a
most interesting centenarian is celebrating
his birthday. And these things, though
trifles, doubtless, to the strong minds of
men, are trials to the sex that has an in
herited fondness for occasions that permit it
to wear its best clothes.

That from all these causes the newspaper
woman has her detractors is not a matter
to cause marveling. She is not, as a rule,
well dressed. She pins her ugly walking
hat on hair which she may have time to
keep neat, but which she never has time to
dress becomingly. She fastens up her sturdy
boots; she can t wear attractive frivolities in
shoes when she does not know whether she
will be climbing the Berkshire Hills- or
picking her way over Greenpoint cobbles by
nightfall. She is tailor made or ready made
as her income permits, but there is a painful
lack of individuality about her serges and
her shirt waists. Some are fresher than
others; some show the marks of last week s
wetting. Some still have the lines of the
tailors iron. But they are alike to a degree
that must be distressing to the esthetes she
meets sometimes.

Her manners are not always what the
editors of the etiquette columns and the
gifted composers of the advice to debutantes
would approve. The office life leads insen
sibly into tolerating a lack of punctilious
ness from men; it is only a step thence to
a lack of fastidiousness in herself. To look
upon talk with a shoplifter or a snub by a
servant as a natural feature of the day s
work necessarily destroys some of that deli
cacy which used to be considered a charm.
The restaurants where her haphazard meals
are taken, are not the nicest schools of
deportment. Out of town assignments,
traveling by train and carriage, staying at
country hotels, buying her own tickets,
and making her own bargains, rub the
bloom from a woman no matter how high
minded or sensitive she is.

This is the story of what the average news
paper demands of its women. It means all

WOMEN IN JOURNALISM.

615

of her time, all of her strength, the loss of
many things non essential to happiness and
goodness perhaps, but dear to women from
long association the loss of almost all
social life: the consequent drifting away
from all friends but those of her office and
her profession; loss of attentions, meaning
less enough, but dear to her since the time
of Eve, and loss of much that has consti
tuted her charm in times past.

What does it offer her in return ? She is
regarded as not an ill paid person among
women workers. Those who sit in state
and are responsible for the pages of soft
soap and sugar make from forty to fifty
dollars a week. Occasionally a woman who
has achieved a unique position, though it
may not happen to be an admirable one,
can command a higher salary than that. In
New York there are two women drawing
$100 a week. One of them earns hers by
her reputation for undertaking daring feats;
the other by her daring style.

The average salary for the woman who
does not occupy an executive position, and
who has not become identified with a dis
tinct and popular line of writing, is much
less. She earns from twenty to thirty
five dollars a week. If she works " on
space" that is, if she is paid not by the
week, but by the piece, to speak in jobbing
terms she may make more and she may
make less. The average rate a column is
about seven dollars. A column a day is an
unusually good allowance. Many days
sometimes whole weeks will pass without
the space writer s happening upon a " story"
worth half that allowance in the paper.

But even the twenty dollar a week salary
does not seem hopelessly small pay to the
woman who is earning her living in some
other way. The average teacher grumbles:
" We get less." She gasps with horror at
the thought that women whose renown must
be chiefly that of sensationalists have
salaries equal to a college president s.

She overlooks the important fact that
whereas she and the college president and
all pedagogues work nine months in the
year, the newspaper woman works eleven
and a half; that whereas the pedagogue
works five days in the week, the newspaper
woman works six; that whereas the peda
gogue works four or five hours a day, the
newspaper woman works ten, and very often
twelve or fifteen.

She works ten hours a day, six days a week,
and fifty weeks a year; that is 3,000 hours
a year. If she is paid what is a fair average
$30 a week she earns fifty cents an hour.
The teacher teaching from nine until two
for five days a week, and for thirty six
weeks, works 900 hours a year. If she gets

$1,000 she spends her time more than twice
as advantageously from a monetary point
of view as the journalist who earns $1,500 a
year. In the ordinary instances newspaper
work does not pay financially.

It does not offer advancement sufficient
to allure an ambitious and clever woman.
There are no managing editors among
women; there are no city editors; there are
no night editors. There is a rumor that on
one Chicago paper the Post, if I recall
aright a woman is employed as an edito
rial writer. With that the whole sisterhood
comforts itself. There is a remembrance
which it hugs to its heart that once a
woman was Sunday editor on a New York
paper. And it refuses to go on and admit
that her day of glory was brief, that she now
writes fashion articles for a syndicate, and
that the paper that made the experiment was
itself an experiment which failed.

It is not by what it holds out to ambition,
any more than by what it offers greed, that
the newspaper manages to compensate its
women for all that it forces them to give it.

To say that it has a fascination is to say
no more than may be said of opium by the
opium eater, or of the car of the great god
Juggernaut by its victims. It has such a
fascination, one that is inexplicable. It has
also its well defined rewards for such as can
obtain them. They are not handed through
the cashier s window on pay day. They are
not compliments, though these are smooth
ers, also, of the rough road newspaper wo
men must travel.

If a woman counts wide experience of life
as gain, it is hers. She knows the teeming
sweat shops of the East Side, and she sits
at banquets where clever men and women
make epigrams. She gauges the depth of
the visiting foreign poet s soul, and she
accurately reckons the length of his hair.
She visits sinners in their cells. She finds
saints in unexpected places. She meets
shams at every turn and gradually she
comes to recognize them. She is forced to
regard the world objectively, and that for a
woman is a blessing too great for easy
measuring. If she is made sometimes in
sincere in her work, at any rate she acquires
a certain sense of proportion which answers
for the sense of humor men tell her she must
forever lack.

If she is a woman of sterling sense and
if she is not she will not long find her ser
vices required bigotry will become impos
sible to her. She will find the uncouth man,
who at the end of her first fortnight arouses
her wrath by his personalities, doing her
the kindest services. She will learn that the
reporter with an ungovernable fondness for
a pipe and an ungraceful attitude is cleverest

6i6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

oi his tribe at difficult work. She will,
when she grows used to it, be not averse to
the transformation of men from flatterers
and cavaliers into friends and comrades.

The effect of her work depends so largely
on the handling of trifles that she will watch
for them and take pleasure in them. And
the woman who has learned to find joy in
trifles has the one rustless weapon against
ennui and disgust. The newspaper woman
is watchful for pussy willows silvering a
thicket on a late winter day in the country;
she listens to the tune the street piano

grinds, and she watches the tenement chil
dren dancing to it, when she climbs Avenue
B stairs in search of her " story." Her eyes
are open always for " local color," and so
sometimes they catch a glimpse of what the
godly might call divine radiance.

Do these compensations compensate?
Only the newspaper woman can tell and her
verdict will depend, alas, upon the weather
and her assignment on the day when her
decision is demanded. And the present
obscurity of the good ladies of the A. C. A.
will probably remain unenlightened.

THE IDEAL.

THKRE is a figure fairer far

Than Phidias ever wrought or feigned ;
At hand the stone and chisel are

O sculptor, free the vision veined !

There is a scene to Titian s dreams

Would ne er in its lost light arise ;
Thy childhood s mountains, fields, and streams

O painter, limn their splendid dyes !

There is a chord whose elfin tones

Beethoven s soul could never seize ;
Thine instrument before thee moans

O master, touch the yearning keys !

There is a song all but divine

That never rung through Sappho s brain ;
Its words are simple, few, and thine !

O poet, build the matchless strain !

Henry Jerome Stinkard.

THE STAGE

ALICE NIELSEN S DARING.

Undaunted by the notable wrecks that
strew the way Camille D Arville, Delia
Fox, Lillian Russell Alice Nielsen, late
leading soprano with the Bostonians, an
nounces that she will tempt "fate as a lone
star in October next. Her temerity seems
all the greater when we recall the fact that
she has been in the eye of the playgoing
public little more than a year, having
achieved the success which makes the
artist s name stand out from a bill as

though printed in letters of a different color,
only in March, 1897, when she appeared in
the New York production of " The Ser
enade." However, stage chronicles tell us
that length of service has little to do with
the possibility of " hits " in the realm of
stars.

Miss Nielsen has many things in her favor
a good voice, a pleasing presence, and
abounding vivacity. And, after all, to em
ploy a quotation we have had occasion to
use many times in this department,

ALICE NIELSEN AS " YVONNE " IN "THE SERENADE."
From a photograph l&lt;y the Rose Studio, Providence.

6i8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" the play s the thing." Miss Nielsen has
secured two good men to provide her with
the vehicle on which so much depends.
They are the makers of " The Serenade "
Victor Herbert and Harry B. Smith. And
the present name of the new \vork is " The

they had several other new operas of whose
merits they were confident, and yet, lo and
behold, during their spring season at
Wallack s, " Robin Hood " again bobbed up
serenely, and the only other work offered
during the four weeks engagement was

MARY HAMPTON, WHO CONTEMPLATES STARRING.
From a recent photograph by Chickering, Boston.

Fortune Teller." It is rumored, moreover,
that Eugene Cowles is to leave the Boston-
ians and become a member of Miss Nielsen s
company.

The Bostonians, by the way, are sadly in
need of freshening up. Last August they
announced for the final night of their season
at Manhattan Beach the " burial " of
" Robin Hood," intimating thereby that
that standby for so many seasons would
positively never again be revived. They de
clared that in addition to " The Serenade "

The Serenade." They played to good
houses, so we suppose it is all right. But
why does the management appear heartily
ashamed of clinging to this dear old friend
of Sherwood Forest, and periodically give
out that it has no further use for him?

MARY HAMPTON S FINE RECORD.
Nobody seems to understand why Charles
Frohman went to England for the leading
woman of the Empire stock conlpany to suc
ceed Viola Allen. Jessie Millward is un-

CARRIE PERKINS AS "MOTHER HUKBARD " IN "JACK AND THE BKANS I AL
Front a photograph by Checkering) Boston,

62O

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MARGARET MAYO, OF THE "SECRET SERVICE" COMPANY.
From a photograpli by Morrison, Chicago.

doubtedly a good actress, but with so many
well equipped women already in his own ser
vice to choose from, it seems a pity that an
American could not have been selected. In
Mary Hampton, who has played Miss
Allen s roles on tour for several seasons, he
would have found an admirable artist for
this important post. Her Rosamund was a
brilliant success, and her splendid work
with Sothern in "An Enemy to the King "
is still fresh in the mind of the playgoer.
During this past winter she has been enact
ing Rcnce in " Under the Red Robe."

It is announced that Miss Hampton has
resigned from the Frohman company and,
like Miss Nielsen, contemplates launching
out for herself. We trust that the rumor to
the effect that she is to use an Indian war

drama entitled " The General s Daughter "
is not authentic. Indians are proverbially
bad luck pennies to all who tamper with
them in the play line, " The Girl I Left
Behind Me " being the exception that
proves the rule.

At this writing Miss Hampton is engaged
as leading woman for Shenandoah," the
war inspired summer revival at McVicker s,
Chicago.

THE REVIVAL OF THE STOCK SYSTEM.

The great success of the Castle Square
Opera Company has incited managers all
over the country to inaugurate stock sys
tems on the same general basis good all
round productions at reasonable prices.
This is not only a good thing for the public,

THE STAGE

621

CARRIE RADCLIKKK, LKAUING WOMAN OF A PHILADELPHIA STUCK COMPANY.
Frftn a photograph by Baker, Columbus.

"but serves as an excellent training school
for actors as well, although it involves
a tremendous amount of work, as the bill is
changed once a week, calling for never
ending rehearsals. But there are some
theaters where the amount of labor involved
exceeds even that required in these organi
zations. We give a portrait of Carrie Rad-
cliffe, leading woman at Forepaugh s. Phila
delphia, where two performances a day are
given six days in the week, and a new play
is produced every Monday afternoon. One
of the New York critics who attended a
presentation of " The Wife " at this house
spoke in almost enthusiastic terms of the ex
cellent results obtained.

A good deal of rubbish, by the way, has

been written about stock companies during
the last few months. In fact, the critics
camp has been divided into two parties,
one on the side of the syndicate, and the
other against it, and the opinions of both
have been colored by their sympathies.
This is extremely unfair to the public, who
care not a whit whether the company pro
ducing a play belongs to a " trust " or is a
thoroughly independent organization. What
the people want are good plays, well pre
sented, and if the critics blindly ignore that
which is worthy simply because it may be
presented under the auspices of a manage
ment to which their paper is hostile, the
reader is cheated out of his rights.

" A fair field and no favor " seems to be

622

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

a needed motto for the play reviewer just
now.

SOCIETY AND THE VARIETY STAGE.

Nothing better illustrates the fickleness of
the dwellers in the modern Vanity Fair, and

such a place as Tony Pastor s, and every
body with any sort of pretense to social
standing believed that variety performances
of every sort were vulgar to the last degree.
Very early in the eighties, however, some
enterprising amusement seekers from the

KOLANDE DAVIS, OF THE MAY IKWIN COMPANY.

From a photograph by Schloss, New York.

their instability in matters of taste, than the
extraordinary degree of popularity achieved
of late years by the people now termed
" vaudeville artists," but formerly known as
" song and dance men."

It is not so very long ago that the variety
stage was voted distinctly "low" in the
august circles of Vanity Fair. Well bred
women shuddered at the idea of going to

regions of fashion discovered Harrigan &
Hart s, which for two or three seasons
had been one of the most popular and in
teresting playhouses in the town. Then it
became the fashion to go down to the little
bandbox across the way from the old St.
Nicholas Hotel, and enjoy an entertainment
furnished by a company composed entirely
of variety actors.

THE STAGE.

623

MAEBKLLK THOMPSON , OF THK DALY COMPANY.
From a plwtograph by Morrison, Chicago.

About the same time pieces like " The
Tourists" and "Fun on the Bristol" leaped
suddenly into favor with the better classes of
society. These so called farce comedies were
simply Yery bad variety shows, and were
heartily despised by bootblacks, policemen,
and other intelligent citizens who had been
brought up in the galleries of New York
variety houses; but the men and women of
fashion, who had never seen the really good
variety performers, declared that they were
bright, fresh, and original. They were sup
ported in this view by certain venerated
dramatic critics, who had never before
dreamed of crossing the threshold of Tony

Pastor s playhouse, and felt, when they
commended such ponderous fun making as
that of Salisbury s troubadours, that they
were " discovering " a new and character
istic phase of native dramatic art.

In due course of time the slaves of fash
ion learned that a really good variety show
was better than the inferior imitations that
they had previously thought so alluring.
They began to pay cautious visits to Tony
Pastor s, and even to Koster & Dial s, all
of which seems laughable to us when we
consider the modern music hall s popularity
with the most fashionable men and women
of New York.

MARIE STUDHOLME, OF THE ENGLISH " CIRCUS GIRL" COMPANY.

From a photograph l&gt;y The Carbon Studio, New Yi rk.

THE STAGE.

625

If Eph Horn or Nelse Seymour could
return to earth and see the way in which
vaudeville artists the variety man no longer
exists are patronized by the exclusives of
Vanity Fair, he would curse the ill luck
which put him on the earth a quarter of a
century too soon. The woman who enter
tains on a large scale knows that she can
offer her friends nothing that will please
them better than the " specialties " of some
well known performer. May Irwin recently
received six hundred dollars for singing
half a dozen songs in a swell drawingroom,
and it must have amused her to recall the
days when the same people would have
scorned to send for her on the ground that
Tony Pastor s people were " impossible."
Carmencita, Chevalier, and Weber &
Fields have also appeared with success in
many private houses.

It is an ill wind that blows no one good,
and the present craze not only affords the
rich and well to do a good deal of
amusement, but also brings to the most
popular form of entertainment known on
the American stage a degree of prosperity
and importance in the public mind that it
has never enjoyed before.

THE METROPOLITAN SEASON IN RETROSPECT.

One fact stands out with striking prom
inence in looking back over the New York
theatrical season of 1897-98. This is the
unusual number of flat failures dotting its
course. Many of these plays were such
obvious weaklings that their coming to per
formance at all must be set down to their
managers fixed determination to trust to
chance rather than judgment.

To offset this dismal side of the ledger
there has been one success not only greatly
overtopping every other hit of the season,
but smashing all receipt records of recent
years. We refer, of course, to " The Little
Minister," in which Maude Adams has been
playing steadily to packed houses from Sep
tember 27 to June 14. Is the play or the star
the magnet in the matter? Inanswerto those
who assert that it is Miss Adams, opponents
can point to the almost equally long run of
the piece at the Haymarket in London.
Some aver that the name is a great factor in
the problem, implying that those who would
not attend the playhouse on ordinary
occasions, will do so to see a piece dealing
with a clergyman who must be all that he
should be, as there is the novel to vouch for
him. Undoubtedly the book s great vogue
had a good deal to do with the success of the
play although there is a greater departure
from the story than has been the case with
most of the other dramas made from novels.
But aside from all accessory influence, " The

Little Minister " is constructed with rare
cleverness to enchain public interest. There
is a strong element of variety, the scene
shifting from outdoors to indoors and giv
ing opportunity for picturesque mounting,
while the incidental music adds another en
joyable feature, and the comedy element
dominates everything.

The other hits of the year in English plays
were Pinero s " The Princess and the But
terfly," and Carton s " The Tree of Know
ledge," both produced by the Lyceum stqck
company. The remainder of the eason s
successes were all American made, namely,
Goodwin s " An American Citizen," by Mrs.
Ryley; " A Virginia Courtship," by Eugene
Presbrey; " The Conquerors," by Paul Pot
ter; " The Moth and the Flame," of the
Kelcey-Shannon organization, by Clyde
Fitch, and Lottie Blair Parker s " Way
Down East."

In the comic opera field the star comedi
ans have contented themselves with works
carried over from previous seasons. With
the single exception of Frank Daniels with
" The Idol s Eye," the novelties were both
produced by stock companies DeKoven
and Smith s " The Highwayman," and
Sousa s " The Bride Elect." The success
of both these offerings should be a particu
lar source of pride to their devisers, as they
have won through intrinsic merit alone, and
have not been carried into the haven of hits
on the strength of a low comedian s high
reputation.

The music hall realm witnessed the con
tinued steady advance of w eber & Fields in
the favor of the best class of theater goers.
Housed in a hall of small dimensions and
no particular pretense to beauty, this enter
prise has secured an enormous clientage by
turning the profits of its early success back
into the business. Other shows advertising
" star casts " are put out of countenance by
the combination of talent one finds in the
burlesque bills here.

One more notable feature of the season
is the capture of the city by the Castle
Square Opera Company. Not only has it
crowded the American Theater from Christ
mas Day, but the quality of the audience has
been noticeable as well as its quantity. All
sorts and conditions of people are in
evidence there. Lovers of good music do
not hesitate to pay as little as seventy five
cents for their seats simply because they
can afford to ride to the theater in their own
carriages. The company has won a reputa
tion for far more than its low rates, and is
now an important element in the amusement
purveying of the city.

The theaters closed for the summer even
earlier than last year. The Casino will prob-

626

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ably be the only house to keep its doors
open straight along. Its production of an
annual review is set down for July 4, a
month later than usual.

A good deal has been said about the
effect of the war on theater going. As a mat
ter of fact, the political situation has had very
little influence one way or the other, unless
possibly the conflict has actually played into
managers hands by admitting of the revival
of dramas like " Shenandoah," for some
time laid on the shelf. Pretty quick work
was done by Oscar Hammerstein in his
" War Bubbles," produced May 16, and
containing matter relative to the battle of
Manila, fought just two weeks previous.
That the best thing in the conceit was a
travesty on a performance at the Metro
politan Opera House, having no earthly con
nection with the war, is a straw showing that
managers are evidently determined to entice
audiences with the bait of the topic of the
hour, no matter by how slight a thread

military titles are linked to performances.

* * * *

Apropos of the war, a Paris journal an
nounces that the Theater Royal, of Madrid,
now holds the record for the largest receipts
ever received at a single theatrical perform
ance. This is set down at a million and a
half of francs ($300,000), and was paid for
seats and boxes at a benefit performance
given late in April to raise a fund for the
purchase of a warship to fight against the

United States.

* * * *

Although the character that Carrie Per
kins impersonates in " Jack and the Bean
stalk " is not one naturally associated with
grace and beauty, she is clever enough to
make her Old Mother H-ubbard attractive, and
yet still keep the figure within the picture.
She hails from Massachusetts, and began
playing at the Boston Museum, in 1877.
Among the prominent companies of which
she has been a member was that of Dixey, in
" Adonis," and Rice s Surprise Party, which
produced " Evangeline." Miss Perkins al
most invariably designs her own costumes.

* * * *

Among our portraits this month are those
of three players who are recent acquisitions
to the stage. Rolande Davis is a cousin of
Caroline Miskel Hoyt. and has been playing
during the past season with May Irwin s
company in " The Swell Miss Fitzwcll."
Margaret Mayo is a Western girl, from Port
land, Oregon, and possesses musical and
literary talent, as well as a taste for acting.
She has been playing the part originated by
Odette Tyler in " Secret Service." Mae-
belle Thompson is a native of the national

capital, and joined Mr. Daly s company
some two years ago. Among her parts are
Winnie in " The Last Word," and Inis in
" The Wonder."

* * * *

In our notice of " The Master " a few
montV ago, we stated that we awaited the
English verdict with interest. This has now
been registered and agrees with that ex
pressed in this department which was at
direct variance with that of the critics on
the daily press. The London Stage declares
that the leading part is " only a lath painted
to look like iron," and wonders what John
Hare saw in the piece likely to draw the
public.

* * * *

We give a new portrait of Marie Stud-
holme, who is now enacting Dora in the
company producing " The Circus Girl " on
tour in England. She was last seen here
in the ill fated " In Town."

" The Circus Girl," by the way, was with
drawn from the London Gaiety on May 7
(after a run of 497 performances) giving
place to another maiden " A Runaway
Girl," a new musical comedy built on
the same lines and which promises to have
an equally successful career. Seymour
Hicks, the clever young actor and husband
of Ellaline Terriss, is one of the authors, and
Miss Terriss is the heroine, who runs away
from a convent and joins a band of wander
ing minstrels. Mr. Daly will undoubtedly
stage the piece in New York during the
autumn.

* * * *

American plays are just now dotting Lon
don so thickly that the fact is becoming a
byword of comment in the papers over
there. For instance, the Graphic recently
remarked: " When the entire London stage
is occupied by American companies it has
been pointed out that the new theaters,
which have sprung up of late with such pro
digious rapidity in the suburbs, may afford
to English companies a convenient refuge
at least till the fashion of the hour undergoes
a reaction." Last year we had " Secret Ser
vice " over there; this, we have had "The
Heart of Maryland," " Too Much Johnson,"
" The Conquerors," and " The Belle of
New York," with more to follow.

Now look out for a succession of failures.
This massing of hits will inspire a stampede
of managers across the ocean that sooner or
later will kill the goose that lays the golden
sovereigns. Of course it is but natural that
the craze should spread, but it would be a
pity to disturb good first impressions by an
indiscriminate rush of ill chosen " attrac
tions " to a market that must soon suspect
it is being " worked."

WAR EXTRA NO. 13.

THE air was thrilling with reiterant cries
of " Extra! Extra! Extra!" Through
every street rushed small boys eager to dis
pose of their bundles of glaring headlines,
but eager, too, to get back to headquarters
and obtain the next edition, now a mass of
cold metal and a chaotic confusion in the
worried brain of some prominent official,
but soon to be brought into conjunction in
war extra No. 18, 20, or 30, as the case
might be.

Washington was astir. The quiet serenity
of a nation at peace with all the world had
been disturbed, and, whatever the private
opinions of her servants, national pride and
glory were at stake and had to be upheld.
A call to arms had sounded from one end of
the land to the other. From all points of
the compass troops were steadily tramping
toward the South. Important assignments
were hourly made; leave takings and sudden
departures were the order of the day; mes
sengers hurried here and there, and vehicles
rushed from point to point.

The gossips of the capital who had no
personal concern in the tragic moment were
discussing pretty Katharine Duval and
Teddy Lawrence. Their affairs were all
well known. His adoration, her scornful
flouting of him; his twenty proposals, her
twenty refusals; these were public property.
The main point against her was that one
moment she cruelly laughed her suitor to
scorn and the next demanded his complete
submission to her will. In this capricious
behavior she had transgressed the limit of
endurance accorded to flirting and coquetry
even in Washington s liberal society.

Extra No. 13, issued at one o clock on this
particular day, announced that Lieutenant
Edward Lawrence would leave Washington
at four o clock, presumably to confer with
Gomez. That he would land in Cuba, etc.,
etc. To every one who read the announce
ment that this favorite of the winter s
gaieties was to be rushed into the midst of
dangers, perhaps to death on a battlefield or
in some plague ridden hospital, occurred the
questions: How will Katharine Duval feel ?
Will she regret her treatment of this persis
tent lover or not, now that he is to be taken
from her, perhaps forever ?

It was just two o clock. Miss Duval
stood in Senator Duval s library, while down
Senator Duval s front steps rushed tumultu-

ously a blue coaled messenger boy, one crisp
dollar bill in his hand and another in pros
pect, provided he accomplished his mission.

Miss Duval s appearance would probably
have seemed sufficient answer to the above
questions of the gossips if they could have
seen her. She was gowned apparently for
a reception, in filmiest gray chiffon and
white lace, while neither in her eyes nor
on her cheeks was there sign or symbol of
regret. Yet extra No. 13 lay on the library
table. There was no sign either of impa
tience or excitement. On the contrary, her
patience was warranted to last until half
past two, at which hour she expected her
messenger or

Lieutenant Lawrence read the tiny blue
note thrust into his hand by the panting
messenger:

I must see you before you go. Come at the
earliest possible moment.

iNE DUVAL.

Lawrence wasted three moments con
sidering the matter, and three more in writ
ing a note saying that he was extremely
sorry that duty prevented, and so on and so
forth.

But his divinity had been unusually un
kind the night before. The laugh with
which she had rejected his twenty first
avowal of adoration still rang in his ears.
He wanted a kinder, sweeter memory to take
with him; so he yielded and went.

He was six minutes late, and Miss Duval s
cheeks were pink, but perhaps impatience
was not the only cause of this unwonted
color.

" Oh, Teddy, you re so late ! And the
time is so short, any way. I can t let you
go this way positively can t. We we
must be married at once." One of Miss
Duval s hands was in his, the other rested
on his coat.

" But

" No," she waved aside his protesting
"but"; "there s no time for argument. I
couldn t do a thing until I saw whether you
came. You must rush and get the license
and the ring, and I ll get the bishop. It s
awfully irregular and queer, but he ll come.
I know. I shall be back with him at quarter
past three, and you must be here a little
before that to explain things to papa. He
will be here at three, sharp. I ve just tele
phoned to him."

If this conversation seems one sided it is

628

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

only because it is quite impossible to repro
duce Mr. Lawrence s part in it. This con
sisted of gasps, echoes of Miss Duval s
words, with a few interspersed adjectives.
When it came to a question of action, how
ever, he was ready. Perhaps he did waste
one minute, but to neither of them did it
seem sixty seconds, nor to either of them
did it seem wasted.

At precisely half past three o clock Mr.
and Mrs. Edward Lawrence were receiving
the bishop s congratulations and the paren
tal blessing. Then followed a momentary
silence. No one seemed quite ready to say
the obvious words, to speed the departing
bridegroom, to console the bereaved bride.

" I didn t intend to, Ted. I do assure you
I thought that all I wanted was to prove my
love to you and to be yours absolutely and

entirely, to belong to you until death "

Here the bride s voice broke. " I thought
I could let you go, but I cannot. I am
going with you just as far as I can."

Three masculine protests answered this
assertion, but Mrs. Lawrence heard none of
them. After her departure the maid found,
at intervals on the stairs, a varied collection
of hatpins and stickpins. A gray hat lay on
the first landing, a gray bodice on the upper
step, and a gray skirt just inside her bed
room door. But all this was in order that
precisely at three forty she might again enter
the library gowned in dark blue serge, a
traveling bag in her hand, ready to accom
pany her husband.

The three protests were repeated, but Mrs.
Lawrence deemed them unworthy an
answer. She kissed the bishop had he not
baptized her and confirmed her and, besi of
all, married her ? Then she drew her
father s head down. A flash of tears dimmed
the old blue and the violet eyes alike, but
she whispered in his ear, " You d do it your
self, you know you would, if you were in my
place," and the old Senator could not gain
say her.

At three fifty five they arrived at the sta
tion. .

" Extra! Extra! Extra!" rang the fa
miliar cry.

" Oh, Ted, do get me one! I haven t seen
an extra for over two hours."

The first words that met her eyes were
these:

Lieutenant Lawrence will not leave until to
morrow, or possibly the following day. The
messages to Gomez will have to be held back
until more definite arrangements have been
made for their transmission.

Lieutenant Lawrence s orderly was al
ready at the station with orders from head
quarters for the lieutenant to remain in
Washington and await further instructions.

" Oh, Ted ! " gasped Mrs. Lawrence;
then she added philosophically: " Well, it
can t be helped now, and, any way, you do
know now that I love you, don t you ? "
Kathrvn Jarboe.

MARRIAGE ON FRIENDSHIP.

" So you won t marry me? " I said in
differently.

" I didn t say quite that," said Miss Mor
ris, trailing one hand in the lake after the
fashion of young women when in a canoe.

I splashed water with my paddle and
waited.

" In the first place," continued Miss Mor
ris-, " you are not in love with me."

I said nothing. I was, awfully, but I am a
very reserved young man, and I think twice
before I speak. Leisure hour practice in
playing solitaire has taught me never to lay
down a card until I am absolutely forced to
part with it.

" In the second," added Miss Morris, " I
am not in love with you."

There was a note of injury in her voice.
She had. doubtless expected some denial of
her first proposition.

I grasped my paddle more firmly and
began to make for the dark shadows at the
other side of the lake. We had been drift
ing and were coming into too near a view
from the hotel. Moreover, Miss Morris
was watching me in order to judge the ef
fect of her last remark, and I did not wish to
give her any satisfaction. She is a college
young woman, of a psychological turn of
mind, and is collecting data for a paper on
the emotions.

" Well? " said she finally, in a tone which
meant, " What have you to say for your
self? "

Accordingly I spoke.

" I don t remember," said I, with dignity,
" that I mentioned anything, Kathleen, ex
cept to ask you to marry me."

No, that s just it," said Miss Morris,
with resentment. She was not getting so
many points on the emotions as she had ex
pected. She concealed her chagrin, how
ever, and resumed.

" Do you believe in marriage founded on
friendship? " said she.

" Why not? " said I. " Some people con
sider friendship on a higher plane than love.
There is a tranquillity about friendship which
love can never have. It is therefore more
lasting. The lilies are cooler than the roses,
but they live longer." I made this last state
ment somewhat rashly, I admit, but I hoped
that Kathleen had not yet taken up the
study of botany at college, or if she had that
she would mistake my words for some poetic

STORIETTES.

629

quotation. In this hope I was disappointed,
for she giggled.

When she was through giggling, she took
her hand out of the water. It must have
been just awfully cold, and my own hands
are very large and warm. I should have
liked but, as I have said, I am a very re
served young man.

Kathleen dried her wet hand on her hand
kerchief, laid it all pink upon her smooth
white one, and leaned forward confiden
tially I thought, but perhaps it was only to
obtain a closer survey of my face. " Do you
know," said she," I Lave often thought that
if I were desperately in love with a man, I
would not marry him if I could? "

I was startled, and my heart was really
very heavy, but I laughed in a trivial way
that I have.
. " Isn t that attitude unusual? " I asked.

" Not for me," replied Miss Morris coolly.
" Just imagine if you loved a person very
dearly and imagined yourself loved in re
turn, how it would be to discover some day
that the other s love was a thing of the past,
and all you had left to you was your own
love and a memory."

" Terrible! " said I. " But isn t there just
a chance that the other s love might remain
true? "

" Think for yourself," said Miss Morris.
" Among how many married people do you
find the lover and sweetheart? Why should
the expression of love change if the love re
mains the same?"

" Perhaps the expression doesn t change,"
I suggested. " Probably it is only con
cealed from the public and has full demon
stration in private."

" You know that isn t true," said Kath
leen, and as I have observed that nine times
out of ten Miss Morris is right, I was silent.

" Just think what it is like to be in love,"
said she.

"How can I?" I murmured, lifting my
eyebrows.

" Oh, come! " said Miss Morris, and for
some reason she appeared much ruffled.
That is the way with young women. They
are so inconsistent. Had not Miss Morris
but recently informed me that I was not at
all in love? And here she was requiring me
to know what it was like.

" Perhaps I could imagine," said I, and
Kathleen smiled.

" Tell me. then," said she, and with that
she shut her eyes and leaned provokingly
back in the cushions so that I couldn t see
her face very well. And yet, were it not
that Miss Morris never blushes, I could
have sworn that her left cheek was un
usually red.

" Well," said I. let s see. First of all

there is the falling in love. Sometimes it
comes suddenly and we call it love at first
sight. Personally I cannot understand that
kind."

" Nor I," said the cushions faintly.

" Then there is the love that grows grad
ually, almost imperceptibly, and takes pos
session of the person, as it were, all un
awares. Perhaps the person has been rather
unimpressionable on the whole, and has
never had a good idea of what love is has
sneered at it when he found it in novels, and
has scorned it in poetry. But one day he
meets a little girl with brown, soft hair which
has ruddy lights all through it, and deep
eyes that have a way of being violet at one
time and gray at another. And after he has
known her a while he notices these things.

" This girl has a fashion of half closing
her eyes when he corners her in argument,
and it delights him. He forgets all his
points for thinking of her eyelashes. And
there is an atmosphere about the girl that
makes his blood move swiftly and happily
when he is near her, so that just to be in her
presence is a joy, even though she treats
him abominably, and he thinks he is
wretched. When she lets him take her hand
the whole world changes, and he wonders
why in the creation he wasn t made to feel
that way all the time. He dreams a good
deal by day likes to do it, in fact and
makes up for it by sleeping very little at
night. He grows thin and

" That will do," said Miss Morris, emerg
ing very suddenly from the cushions. " You
have been reading Jerome, and you never
looked healthier in your life."

I stopped speaking with some slight em
barrassment. It is annoying to be pulled
up in that way when one is just warming up
to one s subject. I was not aware that I had
brought myself into the conversation at all.
Moreover it is a matter of comment between
myself and the scales that I have lost ten
pounds in the last three weeks.

Miss Morris resumed the conversation,
however.

" If love is what you imagine." said she
softly, " you must see for yourself that few
married people seem to be in love. If they
were so at first, and I suppose some of them
were, how much better it would have been
never to have married and to have been
forced to see the gradual cooling of affec
tion. It would have been better to have
separated at the time when they loved most
and to have given one another no oppor
tunity to discover personal faults."

" I cannot agree with you," said I wearily,
and I began to paddle towards the boat
house. " Of course, we all have our faults,
but when a man loves a woman with his

630

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

whole heart, her faults have a way of seem
ing lovable to him, too. I don t believe
true love ever dies."

" Do you think the person you were imag
ining would feel just the same as before
when he was near that girl two years after
marriage? "

" Yes," said I; " I feel sure of it."

" Yet, after all, the question has nothing
to do with us, because we are not in love."

" So you have said," said I.*

" Nevertheless, at the same time, you be
lieve thoroughly in a marriage upon friend
ship? "

" I would marry you upon friendship,"
said I, and therein I spoke truly, for I would
have married her on friendship if I could not
have her love, and on indifference if I could
not have her friendship. I would have taken
her any way.

" Very well," said Kathleen; " I will marry
you."

We had been drawing nearer and nearer
to the wharf, and now I silently drew up the
canoe and stepped out. I stooped over to
hold the canoe with one hand, while I
reached the other to Kathleen. She dis
dained it, however, and placed her own upon
my shoulder. At her touch my strength
suddenly left me so that I could scarcely
steady the canoe. I suppose I changed
countenance, for Kathleen looked at me
with open curiosity.

" Then, so you do love me? " she said
slowly.

" Yes," said I. I was mortified to have
let her find it out and at the same time I was
glad for what lover is there who is not
glad to have his lady know his love?

I hoisted the canoe to my shoulder and
carried it into the boat house. All my
strength had returned, and although I had
so little cause I felt as if I had triumphed.

I packed away the cushions and rugs, and
came back to the sunshine. And just at the
edge of the light, two hands, the touch of
which I should have known anywhere,
caught the front of my coat, and my love s
brown head was on my heart. She has such
dear ways, has Kathleen; but I put both
arms around her swiftly, for fear she might
run away.

Kathleen goes bac to college tomorrow
to begin her senior year, and, as I have said,
it is understood between us that in another
summer she will marry me on friendship.

L. B. Quirnby.

A BIT OF CLAY.

THE studio was hung with plaster casts.
A mask of the Venus de Milo smiled
vacantly at the opposite wall, while another

of S.t. Jerome frowned down upon the crowd
of girls chattering away like blackbirds be
neath it. Fantastic plaster arms, hands,
and feet sported themselves here and there
between the masks, and miniature anatom
ical figures added a certain grotesqueness to
the incongruous grouping.

A full length Hercules occupied a corner
of the studio, and near it a young man pre
pared to work in clay. He removed the
cloth from a half finished bust, and stood
waiting for the girls at the other end of the
room to settle down and quit their chatter
ing. He placed a screen about the bust,
hiding it from their view, and, taking up a
tool, held it poised, ready to begin.

The girls were supposed by the teacher to
be hard at work copying from the casts, but
instead they were idling away their time talk
ing about anything and everything but art,
standing together in their big painting
aprons which gave them the look of grown
up children.

" I m tired of these old casts," said Lu
cille, a little French Canadian. " I ve done
nothing but copy from them for two solid
years. Sit down there, Marie, and let us
draw you as we did yesterday. It s better
practice, any way, than these old things full
of finger prints."

Marie curtsied with mock gravity. " In
other words," said she," if I am not a Venus,
my face is clean. You do me too much
honor. But I decline to have myself cari
catured. Some of those things you sprung
on me yesterday were nightmares. Jennie
made my eyes so big they seemed about to
fall on the floor; and Susanne drew my face
so thin that I looked like a picked robin."

" There were others," murmured Susanne.

" Others? I should think so. Charlotte
made me look like a dime museum freak.
One would think, to look at her sketch, that
I had water on the brain, my head was so
abnormally large. It was all out of propor
tion."

" Well, sit down and let us try it again,"
entreated Lucille. " We will see if we can t
do better. Besides, Jean is waiting for us
to get quiet so he can go to work."

Charlotte closed her two hands over her
mouth. "Hello, Jean!" she cried, "can t
you work while people are talking? You
ought to be able to concentrate your mind
better than that. Go ahead. We ll be
quiet."

" What are you working on, Jean? " asked
Susanne her name was plain Susan, but the
girls had given it a French frill. " That old
negro? I should think you would be sick
and tired of him by now. To my certain
knowledge you have done him in every
known medium charcoal, crayon, red

STORIETTES.

631

chalk, pen and ink, oils, and clay. Why
don t you get you another model? "

" Jean is what you might call an indus
trious person," said Marie. " He stays by a
thing until he finishes it. He doesn t gyrate
from plaster casts to living models and back
again to plaster casts, like some people I
know. He sticks by his old clay."

" And a good deal of it sticks by him,"
said Lucille.

" The first thing we know," Marie went
on, " he will be like that sculptor what s his
name? "

" We give it up," cried the girls, in a
chorus.

" Well, any way, the fellow who was so
enamored of his art that he died for it. One
cold night he was afraid his clay would
freeze, so he got out of bed I suppose the
bed didn t have any other covers on it and
put his only coat around the statue. The
next morning they found the statue all right;
the clay hadn t frozen, but the sculptor had."

" You tell that so feelingly, Marie," re
marked Susanne, " you nearly make me
weep. Why don t you practice in private if
you ^vill tell touching stories like that? "

The others laughed, and Marie closed the
discussion, which threatened to become gen
eral. " Be quiet," said she. " I am going
to pose."

She took her seat in the center of the
group, the mark for a dozen pairs of eyes
more, for Jean glanced constantly in her
direction, working rapidly, modeling first
with his little sawlike tools, then pressing
the medium tenderly between his forefinger
and thumb. Under his manipulation the
plastic clay was fast fashioning itself into a
thing of beauty.

For a while there was stillness in the
studio. There could be heard only the
scratching of swift pencils over rough draw
ing paper. Once a girl uttered an annoyed
exclamation, then rose and ran about the
room in search of an eraser; then, resuming
her seat, she worked with energy, fearing
that Marie would tire and quit posing before
she could finish her sketch.

One sketched her in profile, another took
a three quarter view, and still another, back
of her, drew the mass of sunny braids coiled
about her head, with the merest suggestion
of a rounded cheek and a dimple.

Suddenly Marie yawned and stretched her
self.

" There," they exclaimed, you have
spoiled the pose! We ll never get it again
in the world."

" It s a terrible loss to art. I know," said
Marie; " but I m tired and I m going to
quit." She stood erect, clasped her hands
above her head, and yawned again. " An

other thing," she added, " this is the very
last time I am going to pose. As I remarked
before, I am tired of your old caricatures."

She started around the circle back of their
chairs, examining the sketches.

" Of all the horrible things! " she laughed.
" When ivill you girls learn to draw? See
this, Jean " raising her voice " see how
they have made me look. Is one of my
eyes half an inch lower than the other? "

But he did not answer her question,
though he looked straight at her in the mus
ing, dreamy way in which artists study their
models.

" He s in the clouds as usual," said Su
sanne, holding her sketch off at arm s length
and peering critically at it. " There s no
earthly use in trying to call him back. Say,
Marie " with a quick change of subject
" this isn t so bad, is it? It seems to me the
contour of the head is very good, and so is
the drawing of the eyes."

Marie bent over the back of the chair and
studied it a moment. " It s a fortunate
thing," she said meditatively, " that artists
see their own work through rose colored
glasses. Now the whole thing seems abom
inably out of drawing to me. If that face
looks like mine, let me crawl off somewhere
and die."

And they separated with a laugh, each
going to her work; some to the room in
which a class painted in oils from the living
model a crossing sweeper brought in from
the street others to the class in pen and
ink, where they prepared themselves for il
lustrating; and others home.

Marie stood in the little dark room where
the students took off their aprons and
washed their brushes. Hers lay in a heap,
unwashed. " Oh, these old brushes! " she
cried in dismay. " I forgot them, and now
look how dry and sticky they are! How
shall I ever get them clean? "

Clara Washburn, a girl of fifteen, stood at
the sink, rubbing her brushes on a great
cake of yellow soap, then nimbly back and
forth across the palm of her hand. " Leave
them," she said. " I will wash them for
you."

The same thing happened every day.
Marie forgot her brushes, and Clara washed
them for her. She threw her arms around
the child s neck and kissed her. " You are
the dearest girl in the world," she said.

And for Clara that was quite enough pay.
She left her own brushes and commenced to
wash Marie s, while the elder girl drew off
her apron, smoothed her hair, stuck t\vo
long hatpins in her hat, and went out into
the hall. The door of the studio where the
plaster casts hung was still open. She
glanced in.

632

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It was growing late. The subdued north
light falling on the casts gave them a soft
ened effect; the finger prints of the students
were no longer visible. The face of Venus
gleamed delicately in this tender light. Even
the frown of St. Jerome showed less severe.
A " Fighting Gladiator," thrusting out his
doubled up fist, appeared to menace her as
she stood in the doorway, while " Mercury,"
standing perilously on one toe upon a ball
the earth beckoned her to come in.

The studio was not peopled alone by
these dim plasters. Jean still worked there
on his clay. He worked swiftly and silently,
a smile lingering about his lips as he deftly
manipulated his tools the smile of the artist
satisfied at last with his own handiwork.

Marie tiptoed up behind him. So ab
sorbed was he that he did not notice her nor
hear her footsteps.

Before him was the bust of a girl. She
was shrouded in a great painting apron.
This apron, high at the neck, fell into simple
and graceful lines about her shoulders. In
a marvelously dexterous way he had given
the effect of checks the broad checks of her
own painting apron. She looked from the
apron to the face it was her own! No need
to complain here of the incorrectness of the
drawing, the poorness of the likeness; the
features were perfect. There was in them
the quizzical, half tired, sleepy look of a girl
sitting for her portrait, trying to keep awake
under the fire of a dozen eyes. The lips
were slightly parted, the eyes were pensive,
and there was a tiny, distracting dimple in
the rounded cheek.

Marie laughed, so pleased was she with
this charming likeness of herself, and Jean,
dropping his tool, turned his face to her. It
was suddenly ashen as the faces of the plas
ter casts on the walls.

" Why, Marie! " he exclaimed, " I thought
you had gone home long ago," and he at
tempted to cover the bust with a cloth.

" I came back to see what you were
doing," she explained. " Take that cloth off
and let me see it again. I like it."

Jean obediently removed the cloth, and
they stood looking at the face. It returned
their look, lifelike, with its parted lips and
speaking eyes.

" It is good," said Marie.

She flushed as she glanced questioningly
up and found his eyes upon her. What beau
tiful eyes he had, but how sad they were!
She looked away, disturbed by the vague
trouble in them; wondering if he did not
care for her, since he had done her so beau
tifully in clay. Jean was so silent, so re
served, she could never understand him.

The class in oils had broken up. The
sound of the girl s voices came down the

hall. They roused Jean from his reverie.
He sighed.

" It is beautiful, isn t it? " he asked. " I
have worked hard on it. While you were
sitting for those girls, you were also sitting
for me. Isn t it exquisite? Aren t the eyes
caressing, dreamy? Isn t the mouth ador
able? Isn t that little dimple in the cheek
the sweetest thing in the world? "

He appeared to have forgotten not only
her presence, but her very existence. He
half shut his eyes, he formed his two hands
into tubes, and looked through them. He
lost himself in a kind of ecstasy over the
beauty of his own creation. Marie watched
him, wondering why, since she stood there
so near him, a live girl, real flesh and blood,
with an adorable mouth and a dimple, he
should so rave over a bit of senseless clay.

Presently, with a last lingering look, he
started forward, and before she could pre
vent it he had crushed the face between his
hands; quickly kneading it down, down,
until nothing was left of its beauty, until
there remained on the working table only a
shapeless lump of clay. This he continued
to work as a woman works her bread; he
sprinkled water on it from a bowl, and when
it was sufficiently moist he spread the cloth
over the pitiful ruin and, turning from it,
faced her again.

" It was a beautiful dream," he said then;
" and it is ended as all dreams end in noth
ingness."

A tear quivered and fell from Marie s long
lashes. A sense of loss overwhelmed her.
That face had been so like hers. It was as
if a part of herself lay buried underneath
that cloth.

" Whichever pathway we choose in life,"
Jean went on, with a sob, " the opposite one
seems the best. That pathway was full of
flowers. I could almost smell them, they
were so sweet; but it was not for my feet.
They had already chosen another."

A swarm of girls passed the door. One of
them looked in.

" Is that you, Marie? " she asked. " Come
on and go home with us."

" Yes, go on," said Jean, " but first let
me show you something."

He drew a little photograph from his
pocket and held it up before her. The face
was sweet, the eyes all alight, softly radiant.

" Don t you think she is pretty, Marie? "
he asked. " She is my wife."

" Come on, come on! " cried the girls; and
Marie, followed by the smile of Venus,
which seemed suddenly to have changed
from vacancy to mockery, walked slowly
out and away toward home, like one in a
dream.

7,oe Anderson N orris.

LITERARY CHAT

A NEAR VIEW OP LABOR.

Mr. Walter A. Wyckoff is a lecturer on
sociology in Princeton University, according
to the testimony of the title page of his book,
" The Workers." It is to be presumed,
then, that he has made his living by talking
to undergraduates on such subjects as " The
labor problem that confronts us," " The
under strata of metropolitan society," or
" What shall the poor do during the winter
evenings? "

It was while engaged in wrestling with
these problems that Mr. Wyckoff conceived
the idea of studying the condition of un
skilled laborers in a practical fashion. With
this purpose, he set out for a tramp across
the country, taking no money in his purse,
and determined to earn his living entirely by
manual labor. He has described his adven
tures in a volume called " The Workers,"
which is not only thoroughly interesting, but
is also an important contribution to the
science of which its author has made a
special study.

Mr. Wyckoff tells us how he went from
house to house looking for something to do,
and sometimes for something to eat. He
tells us how it feels to work hard in the open
air all day long, and also how good hearty
food tastes to a ravenous man at the close of
the day s work. He enters into the details
of his nomadic life, describing the different
sorts of company which he encounters, and
the way in which he is received in the differ
ent houses where he asks for work or food.
In short, he gives us a clear insight into the
lives of the poorer laboring classes, whom,
as Ambrose Bierce says, " we honor and
avoid," and whom we have always with us.

Mr. Wyckoff has done his work without
the aid of statistics. He tells us nothing
about the percentage of starving men in the
world, nor does he figure out how much
each one would receive were the accumu
lated wealth of the planet to be divided
equally among us all. For all that, the qual
ity of accuracy underlies his pages, and we
should be thankful to him for presenting us
with the result of his investigations in an
interesting, rather than in a dry form.

The humanity of the book is perhaps its
strongest point. He has interested himself,
apparently, in the people with whom he has
been thrown in his journey, and in some of
these he interests us so well that we are loath
to have him leave one humble scene without
telling us more about the characters that he
has introduced to us there. This human

quality is well evidenced in the following
description of his boarding house in High
land Falls, where he was employed for a few
days on the work of demolishing a building
at West Point:

Mrs. Flaherty wears toward me now a motherly
air of possession ; and she wrinkles her brows in
perplexed protest when I tell her that I am going
away in the morning, with no knowledge of
where I shall find another place. She wipes her
month with the corner of her apron, and tells me,
with increasing emphasis, that I d better stay by
my .job and let her care for me decently, and not
go wandering about the country and, as likely as
not, come to harm.

Her husband is a painter, a little round man
with red hair and high spirits, who is a well pre
served veteran of the Civil War, and very fond of
telling you of his life as a " recruitie." Minnie
is their daughter. She inherits her father s hair
and gives promise of his rotundity, but just now
Minnie is fifteen, and the world is a very inter
esting and exciting place. She took her first
communion last Easter, still wears her confir
mation dress on Sunday, and is really pretty in
a blushing effort to look unconscious when
Charlie McCarthy calls.

Charles appears regularly on Sunday afternoons,
I gather. He is a driver for an ice dealer, is not
much older than Minnie, and is very proud of a
light gray suit and a pair of highly polished
brown boots.

Tom is Minnie s only brother. He is a stoker
on a river boat, and can spend only his Sundays
at home. Tom is a little past his majority, and
takes himself very seriously as a man. He tells
you frankly that he is earning "big money,"
and is anxious that you shall escape the knowl
edge that he is a libertine.

Mr. Wyckoff works successively as a day
laborer, a hotel porter, a man of all work in
an asylum, a farm hand, and a logger. The
best chapter of his experiences is perhaps
the one in which he describes his life in a
Pennsylvania logging camp, and makes us
familiar with Fitz Adams, the boss, Black
Bob, Sam, the bookkeeper, and, most inter
esting of all, Dick the Kid, the handsome
young logger with wages in his pocket that
he is burning to spend.

The final pages of this chapter and of the
book could well be omitted. They are de
voted to a description of a prayer meeting,
and somehow the words do not ring as they
do in the other portions of the volume. In
the other chapters there are occasional hor
rified references to the habit of blasphemous
speech, which is common enough in all
grades of society, and not wholly unknown
in the university which is the scene of Mr.

MUNSHY S MAGAZINE.

Wyckoff s professional labors. But the sort
of religion that is infused into the prayer
meeting scene does not serve to round out
the satisfaction which an intelligent reader
derives from the main part of the book, and
somehow suggests the fact that it was put in
as a sort of sop to those piously inclined, just
as a sensational newspaper always makes a
great spread with its Easter number.

There is one moral to be drawn from
" The Workers," namely, that there are
plenty of jobs waiting for the sober, indus
trious, decent, and reasonably intelligent
man. If Mr. Wyckoff had only been in
search of work he need not have traveled far.

A RED RAG TO THE RHYMESTRESS.

In reviewing a collection of college
poems, a contemporary says: " In the verses
from the women s colleges one unpleasant
spectacle presents itself more than once
that of a girl writing in the character of a
masculine lover. This is certainly less
what the world desires of rhymestresses
than lullabies." That gage was not thrown
down unconsciously. There is something
malicious in the very wording, especially
that of the last line. Nothing exasperates
the average college woman more than to be
treated as though her femininity were all
that mattered as though she were not a
human being as well as a daughter, wife, and
mother. Man, she protests, is the father of
children and the bread winner, yet the world
does not look at him merely in the light of
these two functions and reprove him for
thinking of anything else. Nor does he
neglect them because his horizon is un
limited. Nature will see to it that there are
plenty of lullabies, for the rhymestress is no
less a woman because she is also a reason
ing, learning, wondering human being.

As to her writing " in the character of a
masculine lover," why, nine women out of
ten are cleverer at love making than the man
who is giving them points. They are more
nimble, more wide awake to the importance
of trifles, more sensitive to the shades of
mood. They are given to saying in many
ways, with delicate variations, what a man
is satisfied to state once, baldly. They are
artists where he is a crude workman. A
woman seldom goes through a love scene
without realizing how much better she could
have done it, had the title role been given to
her. She must write, to show how she
would like to be loved. Let man read and
profit by it!

SILENCING THE CANNON S MOUTH.
Inventors, in their craze for mechanical
perfection, pay no more attention to what
they throw aside with the old imperfection

than a new railroad pays to the wild flowers
it must crush out of its path. At this very
moment some of our noblest poetry is in
peril of mortality, all because a youth in the
Middle West has invented, or is trying to
invent, a noiseless cannon.

A quiet battle may be pleasanter for those
who are in it, but they are a handful to those
who thrill at the echoes of war resounding
through our literature. And how can it
echo without any noise? Half of the grand
est war hymns and battle prayers of the
future will never be written if the inspiring
voice of war is stilled. Those of the past
will lose all their resounding glory, since
future readers will not know how to hear in
them the rattle and thunder they tell of, and
all their vivid phrases will have grown cold
and unmeaning.

And what will the story writers and \var
correspondents do, with half their vocabu
lary swept away? The dull roar of artillery,
the booming of cannon, the barking of guns,
the crackling of muskets how can any
writer of warlike scenes, from Kipling in
India to Richard Harding Davis in Cuba,
get along without these reverberating
phrases? The beauty and the picturesque-
ness of war were laid aside with plumed hel
mets and gleaming breastplates. Now its
impressive voice is to be smothered and
inarticulate, without glamour; it will become
simply businesslike murder a thing of no
literary value.

" HE WHO HATH WINGS."

The desire to fly has become a mania
among earth bound mortals, who continue
to kick off bravely from the housetops, in
spite of the wreckage in the streets below.
" He who hath wings, let him soar," Swin
burne flings back from the song heights to
which he has risen, but the young aspirant
on the roof devoutly believes that wings
can be made for any willing shoulders, and
that the longing to fly in itself marks him a
skylark.

And so every man who feels the stirring
of spring within him, every woman whose
heart can give more than the normal num
ber of beats to the minute, calls the feeling
inspiration and plunges into literature. " I
want to write a poem. What shall it be? "
is the literal expression of the modern
writer s attitude. When he creates, it is not
because some great idea came to him with
a force and a glory that sent every other
thought scudding out of sight, and set him
quivering with the need to give it form.
He first catches his mood, then, finding
himself duly exalted, hunts around for an
idea to which the mood may be applied.

One type of writer makes his selection

LITERARY CHAT.

635

with a keen eye to the salability of the com
ing product. When his little fire is kindled,
he looks about for something to fry. If he
can find nothing, rather than waste the heat,
he takes some very beautiful words and
molds them and pats them and marks them
and puts them in the oven, and sells them
as poetical pattycakes.

This literary baker represents the practi
cal side of modern letters, and is, on the
whole, more endurable than the housetop
fledgling who wants to spend his energies
in aimless flights, just because it s so lovely
to be away up in the air. This one pets
and enjoys his soul as a woman does old
lace. He longs to be up among the immor
tals, not that he may sit at their feet and
learn, but that mankind may see him there.
And so he binds on his futile wings much
as the Chinaman does his silken cue, that
there may be a convenient handle with
which to yank him into paradise.

THE FAME STALKERS.

The trembling schoolgirl author, with
her manuscript tied up in blue ribbons,
and her identity cloaked by a rhythmic and
flowery nom de plume, has faded into a gentle
memory. There are still plenty of school
girl authors, but they do not tremble at the
sanctum door, and their typed manuscripts
are held by brass headed fasteners, while
their chief ambition is to have their real
name known as far as a magazine can travel.
" Now, how soon can you let me have an
answer on that ? " they say with business
like severity, and the editor realizes that,
instead of being an autocrat in their eyes,
he is but a mechanical tool by means of
which they seek to carve their names on the
future. .

" Of course, you may not care for the
subject," says one of these, laying an offer
ing on the desk, " but I don t think you ll
find anything to criticise in the literary
style." " It is exactly what you want," an
other modestly asserts.

" Two magazines have been after me for
this, but I decided to give you the first
opportunity. I d so much rather you had
it," declares a third, so confidently that, if
the editor is not careful, he will find him
self buncoed into a twinge of gratitude.

And they will scold him, too, on occasion.
" Why, I could have sold that spring poem
in any number of places, and now you ve
kept it so long, it s too late. I think you
ought to pay me something even if you don t
take it," they declare, for, to drive a keen,
hard, money making bargain, there is no
one ahead of the minor poet.

There is no longer anything sacred about
the sanctum; it is nothing more than a retail

commission house. If this strenuous, as
sertive, bargain driving young race con
tinues to develop along the same lines, the
editor will become in time as timorous and
impotent as the schoolgirl author he bullied
in the. good old days.

THE WRITER AND THE PROOF READER.

The laity accepts the general fact that the
author swears at the proof reader much as it
recognizes that a dog barks at a cat, without
troubling itself about the source of the ani
mosity. It has little conception of the
stealthy malignity of the being who strews
red ink symbols down the galleys, or his
power to wound and humiliate the writer.

If he left the printed words simply and
honestly "pied," as the unsubtle printer pre
fers them, the writer would bear no grudge,
since a buried idea is less mortifying than a
mangled one. But the proof reader gives
conscientious attention to reversed letters,
syncopated syllables, and all the little blun
ders that could not possibly mislead the
reader. When he comes to a word that is
correctly spelled and perfectly aligned, and
yet, not being the word the author used,
throws the meaning completely off the track,
then he shows his disposition, and, slipping
by with an inward chuckle, leaves it to stare
the author in the face, knowing that his dis
may will be like that of the innocent starling
when from one of the eggs she has been
mothering flaunts a cuckoo.

For instance, when the writer refers to the
heavy swell upon the ocean, a sneaking
" m " is allowed to replace the " w," and all
the dignity of his storm scene is wrecked.
His allusion to the " purple cow " comes
out flat and pointless, since the printer, not
being well grounded in his Lark, reads
it "purple coin," and when the villain speaks
" with a sound like the snarl of a cur," it is
modulated into " the smile of a cow," and
the proof reader, grinning to himself, passes
by on the other side. A staid and respect
able women s club is written up as a "haven"
of delight, and comes out in bold black type
as a harem," bringing on the author. a
storm of indignant letters. He is made to
appear fool and blackguard, and suffers no
less keenly because everybody else is too
hurried to notice the fact. " Such a fuss
over one little word," the public would say.
But to the writer the least syllable is of
measureless consequence, and he blushes
and winces at his distorted work as a parent
would if his child came to him with pink
eyes and lavender hair.

CONCERNING LITERARY " FAKES."

At the close of a century which has seen
such an enormous development of the art

6 3 6

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

of writing as a means of livelihood, it is
worth while to stop and glance at some of
the literary " fakes " with which the help
less public has been inundated for so long
and with such insistence that many of us,
from mere force of reiteration, are beginning
to take some of their authors at their own
valuation.

About thirty years ago Mr. Dodgson,
under the pseudonym of Lewis Carroll, pro
duced " Alice in Wonderland." It was a
book of great cleverness and originality, and
like all thoroughly good literary work, it
will probably last as long as there are chil
dren to read it. Some years later Mr. Ed
ward Lear wrote a book of " Nonsense
Verses," with illustrations of the crudest
description, both in drawing and in color
ing; and this won also deserved success.
But since that time a host of imitators have
arisen, and the immortal verses, " Twas
brillig " and " There was an old man who
said how," have been copied and para
phrased ad nauseam.

A literary genius will produce a set of
verses like these:

A blue dog sat upon a tree,
With mien depressed and sad.

He held a dollar in his mouth,
Alas, twas all he had !

and every one is called upon to admire them.
As the average American is terribly afraid of
being considered " unappreciative," he has
not the moral courage to confess that they
sound like pointless nonsense, and joins in
the cry of " How clever!" especially as any
reference to impecuniosity is supposed to en
hance the original brilliancy of any theme.
And so the author gets a reputation for
" brightness " at a very small outlay of work
and none of originality, and people are
represented as going about the streets quot
ing his work.

Another scourge is the " pastel," which in
various forms and at different epochs has
devastated many of our leading magazines.
About the year 1878 Turgenieff wrote those
exquisite sketches which were translated into
German under the name of " Gedichte in
Prosa." Some similar bits of work were
also translated about 1890 from sundry
French authors, and published under the
title of " Pastels in Prose." Since that time
aspiring young writers have tried their hands
at the same form of composition, with some
such result as this:

The Poet stood upon the seashore. At his
feet stretched the ocean, wide, limitless, un
fathomable.

Far out upon the horizon gleamed the flame
of the lightship. And the Poet s soul went out
to the light, as he said : " Thus are the waters of
Circumstance ever placed between the soul that
yearns and the goal of her ultimate ambition."

And at his feet still stretched the ocean, wide,
limitless, unfathomable.

If the pastel happened to deal with two
mystical people, unknown except by hearsay
on this side of the Atlantic, and called Pierrot
and Columbine, its success was assured. It
was straightway pronounced " an exquisite
thing," and " so French," for, in a pastel, to
be French is everything.

The affectation of interlarding writing
with French words and phrases is an old
one, but a change is noticeable in the words
themselves. Fifteen years ago a writer vin
dicated his claim to culture by introducing
into his work such sentences as " Je ne sais
quoi," " qui vive," and " au revoir" ; but now
adays no such simple phrases are considered
any proof of knowledge of the world. To
give the impression of a protracted residence
in Paris (a sure sign of ability in any direc
tion) it is now necessary to call the region
about South Washington Square " the quar-
tier," to allude casually to finishing dinner
with a " demitasse " or a " mcsagrin," and to
indulge in longer phrases, such as, " cet
artiste a perdu sa prise sur nous," or " c est
bien fait; vous voila citfin arrive " none of
which would suffer in the least by a literal
translation.

An easy way of " forming a style " is to
hunt up a few obsolete words, and by using
them with sufficient frequency create an im
pression of great familiarity with English
writers of say the Elizabethan era. The
prolonged and widespread use of the word
"vagrom" is a case in point, and shows what
may be done by a combination of ignorance
and a desire for " style." It has a Chau-
ceresque sound, and, unaware of its special
connection with Dogberry, numberless liter
ary frauds have used it as a synonym for
" vagrant."

A recent and trying form of " fake " is the
" authors reading," which is now given on
the smallest pretense for the benefit of any
thing and everything. It always commends
itself to the managers of benevolent enter
prises by the fact that it costs nothing to get
up except the rent of a hall. Human nature
is so constructed that it likes to hear itself
talk, so an invitation to read from his own
"works" heaven save the mark! is eagerly
accepted by the young man who tells you he
has " five hundred dollars worth of manu
script on hand," and by the young woman
who writes for the " Quips and Wiles " de
partment of some enterprising periodical.
Surely the men who gave the first authors
readings in aid of the Copyright League
never dreamed what disastrous results would
ensue in future years.

Why is it that in the domain of art alone
the poseur meets with success? Should- we

LITERARY CHAT.

637

feel any more sure of the quality of our gro
ceries if the proprietor of the shop where we
buy them arrayed himself in weird garments
and attempted to write poetry? Would the
solidity of our furniture be improved if the
vendor thereof played on the violin or gave
" studio teas " ? Not at all. Any success
which a business man meets with is apt to
be the result of supplying a good article of
the kind desired. Why should not literary
success be based on the same principles?

What we need is a little independence of
judgment. A thing is not necessarily clever
because it is printed on brown paper. Let
us pray that we may be given the grace to
perceive this, and the courage to assert it.

Rudyard Kipling received a graceful com
pliment from Australia, the other day. It
seems that a certain Dr. Nicholls, who was
an enthusiastic admirer of the works of the
Anglo Indian writer, recently died at Port
Germain, South Australia. Remembering
his love for his favorite author, his friends
inscribed on the stone that marked his rest
ing place the last verse of Kipling s " L En-
voi." A photograph was sent to Mr. Kip
ling, who immediately wrote the following
characteristic letter of acknowledgment :

DEAR SIR :

I cannot tell you how touched and proud I am
to think that you found any verses of mine
worthy to put on a good man s grave. You must
be a brotherly set of folk at Port Germain to do
what you have done for the doctor s memory,
and here in England I take off my hat to the lot
of you. There is nothing a man s people value
more than the knowledge that one of their kin
lias been decently buried when he has gone un
der in a far country, and some day or other Port
Germain will get its reward. Will you send me
a copy of a local paper so that I may know some
thing more about your part of the world ? What
do you do ? What do you expect ? What back
country do you serve ? And how many are there
of you? I want to learn " further particulars,"
as the papers say.

* * * *

As soon as a man does something suffi
ciently great an inquisitive horde starts up to
discover what he can t do. One of these has
just triumphantly held up the fact that Kip
ling does not show himself heart to heart
with nature in his writings; that his soul is
not linked to her fair works; that he is never
contemplative in her presence. Moreover,
he has dealt little with love, comparing very
unfavorably with Keats in that matter.

It would be about as reasonable to com
pare a skylark with a war horse. When a
man has done great things, why should the
earth be ransacked for the great things he
has not done? It is no discredit to the war
horse that he does not build nests in the tree

tops. We can blame him only when he fails
as a charger.

There are plenty to write about nature and
love. Kipling has written about men. When
we have deep, solemn chords, such as " Je
hovah of the Thunders, Lord God of Battles,
aid! " what does it matter if the man who
struck them deals but little in trills and grace

notes?

* * * *

If the public is tired of hearing the author
rail against the grasping publisher, ever
playing vampire to a helpless brotherhood,
it will find another side to the matter in
" Authors and Publishers," of which the sev
enth edition, revised and enlarged, has re
cently appeared. The book is written by
G. H. and J. B. Putnam, who have good
reason to know the publisher s side of the
quarrel, and can tell harrowing tales of
authors who did not keep their agreements
and books that would not sell.

The authors, having the public ear already
turned up to them, have poured into it all
their troubles, and the literary temperament
is not one to underestimate the size of the
pea under the twenty mattresses, being
supersensitive and not without vanity. The
publisher, meanwhile, has had to endure in
silence, except when at long intervals a
book of this nature has given him a chance
to slip in a chapter in defense of his kind.
And then it dawns upon us that he is per
haps a trifle less black than he is painted.

* * * *

A number of prominent critics have come
forward lately and held out a friendly hand
to certain vagabond phrases that have long
passed freely among the people, but have
never been recognized between covers.
Now, the tramp " had rather " is being es
corted into a circle of authority by a college
professor, and receiving thumps of welcome
and approval from writers and editors not
given to promiscuous hospitality. " His
origin may be a trifle irregular, but he s a
good fellow, after all," they say. " Every
body likes him. Let s have him up."

Yet it was only a little while ago that those
in authority were impressing on us the fact
that this waif had neither father nor mother,
nor ancestors of any kind to give it a right
of existence. Even the chance to slip in as
an idiom was denied it, since the legitimate
phrase, " would rather," lay in plain sight,
ready to do all the work of that department.
Now the writers are showing an increasing
leniency to words and phrases of dubious
origin. With the new element come fresh
force and originality, while a certain ele
gance and purity are inevitably lost. If
more blood, less fineness, is the need of to
day, they have done well to unbar the doors.

ic&lt;&gt;M^i.^ix.,ic?M^i^i ^i^i^i-^t-^i^-i^^^iiry^iJ
^V^B^jf

ETCHINGS

HUMAN PINWHEELS.
SOMK minds are like Fourth of July pin-
wheels : they run rapidly enough, but go no
where ; their light is sufficiently bright, but
it cannot be utilized ; their heat serves only
to consume themselves.

BETSY vS BATTLE FLAG.

FROM dusk til dawn the livelong night
She kept the tallow dips alight,
And fast her nimble fingers flew
To sew the stars upon the blue.
With weary eyes and aching head
She stitched the stripes of white and red,
And when the day came up the stair
Complete across a carve n chair
Hung Betsy s battle flag.

Like shadows in the evening gray
The Continentals filed away,
With broken boots and ragged coats,
But hoarse defiance in their throats ;
They bore the marks of want and cold,
And some were lame and some were old,
And some with wounds untended bled,
But floating bravely overhead
Was Betsy s battle flag.

When fell the battle s leaden rain,
The soldier hushed his moans of pain
And raised his dying head to see
King George s troopers turn and flee.
Their charging column reeled and broke,
And vanished in the rolling smoke,
Before the glory of the stars,
The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars
Of Betsy s battle flag.

The simple stone of Betsy Ross
Is covered now with mold and moss,
But still her deathless banner flies,
And keeps the color of the skies.
A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,
A nation follows where it leads,
And every man is proud to yield
His life upon a crimson field
For Betsy s battle flag !

Minna Irving.

Whither bound or what her errand,

Or the port from which she came,
Is a mystery of the waters,

Like her captain and her name.
But with all her cannon loaded

And her decks for action clear,
And her colors at the masthead,

Sank the Spanish privateer.

Was she wrecked without surrender,

Was she scuttled by her crew,
When the smoke of battle drifted

And the leaden bullets flew ?
History s pages all are silent

As the seaweed on her bier,
Or the ghostly shadows hiding

In the Spanish privateer.

In an iron banded locker

In the hold beneath the brine
Divers found a rusty cutlas

And a flask of golden wine ;
But her sailors bones are coral

In the deep for many a year,
And the fish are crew and captain

Of the Spanish privateer.

Time has stripped her of her glory

Since they steered her by the stars,
Gone is all her spreading canvas,

Gone are all her slender spars ;
But the hulk that soon will crumble

In the tides and disappear
Will forever keep the secret

Of the Spanish privateer.

Minna Irving.

THE SPANISH PRIVATEER.
IN the blue of Newport harbor,

Where the cruisers come and go,
And the yachts are rocked at anchor

With their folded sails of snow,
And the guns of old Fort Adams

From the frowning ramparts peer,
Lie the dark decaying timbers

Of a Spanish privateer.

LIPS AND EYES.

As I passed her house I thought I would call

and take her by surprise.
" Why, how do you do?" said her lovely lips.

"What kept you away?" asked her

eyes.

" I doubted my welcome," I sadly said, and
spoke without disguise ;

" Are you sure of it now? " asked her laugh
ing lips. "You know you are sure,"
said the eyes.

" I have tried my utmost and more," I said,
" to stifle my heart s vain cries ; "

"It s a serious case," said the careless lips.
" It is for us," said the eyes.

" Your cruel words dug the grave of hope,
and in hope s grave love lies."

" White lies or black?" asked the scoffing lips.
" Oh, piteous sight ! " said the eyes.

ETCHINGS.

639

" But now I must go, for I sail tonight, and

time unpitying flies ; "
" Don t let me keep you," exclaimed the lips ;

" Do let us keep you," the eyes.

She gave me a cold, cold hand to take, and

we said our last good bys ;
And then, as I feared to kiss her lips, I kissed

her on the eyes.

A man can hear two languages at once if he

only tries :
" I don t see how you dare ! " said the lips ;

" But we see," said the eyes.

E. W.

"ONE KILLED."

A BRILLIANT victory ! Hear the shout

Ringing through all the land !
Enemy utterly put to rout

Vainly essayed a stand.
The streets are crowded, men hurry across ;

A nation with joy is thrilled
Because twas achieved with a trifling loss ;

But Jim our Jim was killed !

The flags are flaunting exultingly,

Proud in their arrogant scorn.
Thanks arise for a victory

With naught almost to mourn.
Yet in my heart, like a cut from a knife,

A pain that won t be stilled
An insignificant loss of life

When Jim our Jim was killed ?

" A marvelous thing that in such a fight,"

Come comments over the wire,
" The list of casualties should be ligHt

In the face of a venomous fire.
One dead is the sum, from a bursting shell "

O God, that Your wisdom willed,
When otherwise all would have been so well,

That Jim our Jim was killed !

Edivin L. ^Sa

The merry reapers seek the fields

Where the wheat and barley stand,
And just beyond the broken stile
I see them cross the land ;
And one is there
With chestnut hair,
Who waves his strong brown hand.

The wild white morning glory loops

The bridge s beams adorn ;
Beneath its edge the windflowers pale
And the cuckoo buds are born.
The land hath not
A sweeter spot
Than the forest bridge at morn.

Hattic Whitney.

NATURES BABE.

WHEN Mother Nature bore the world

She clasped it to her breast ;
She bathed it where a brooklet purled,

Then in white clouds twas dressed.

Again she clasped it to her breast,

Sang to it soothingly,
And whispered : "I love you the best ;

You re all the world to me !"

Tom Hall.

THE EAST.

THE pious oriental, be it morn or vespei

bell,
Turns toward the east for life and hope ; but

I, love s infidel,
Toward east or west, or north or south,

wheiever thou may st be,
That way T turn for life and hope, for that
is easl t&lt;; me.

Clarence Urmy.

THE FOREST BRIDGE.

As I go over the forest bridge

In the amber lights of dawn,
The fresh leaves whisper silkily
Like the tread of a fleeting fawn.
And mists appear
Like genii queer,
Where the ^.eep, wet hollows yawn.

Under the bridge, witii a soothing lisp,

The soft dark waters flow ;
The maples curve their shapely tops
And ripple the dusk below.
Mosses and reeds
And river weeds
On the motet, wide margin grow.

THE SEA S SONG.

SONG of the summer sea
Splashing the sandy shore,
Telling of ocean lore

In mystic minstrelsy,

Sing you our promised ships
That never reach their port,
While we their coming court,

Tear eyed, with quivering lips?

Sing you of distant wrecks
Broken on coral reef,
While, in the cottage, grief

Ever the soul must vex ?

Sing you the storm king s rage
Rolling on high the main,
Mocking at human pain

Till death s cold hand assuage ?

640

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Or of fruit laden isies

Far from the path of ships,
Where time unreckoned slips

And summer ever smiles?

Sing you the mermaid s song
Echoed in shells faint croon,
As it was sung the moon

In the fair nights gone long ?

Song of the summer sea,
Though we incline the ear,
None can tell joy from fear,
None may know smile from tear,

In your strange melody.

Wood Levette Wilson.

MY KLONDIKE.

WHY should I join the Klondike quest
For wealth, and brave the weary miles?

At beauty s fireside will I rest,

Where pearls are found when Mabel
smiles.

And oil those lips, whose Cupid s bow

Appeals by its enticing hue
No other lips attract me so

I see the blushing ruby, too.

In rubies nor in pearls alone

The limit of the riches lies ;
A chance there is for me to own

Those diamonds in Mabel s eyes.

The gold that glints within her hair,

The ivory of neck and arms
What treasure trove ! Yet I declare

I ve not exhausted half her charms.

But why in terms of sordid pelf

Describe what priceless is? Know, then,
Fair Mabel I ll possess herself

Will make me wealthiest of men.

Edwin L. Sabin.

COACHING SONG.

WHEN a clear blue sky and a cooling breeze

Have driven the grime of the fog away,
When the air asparkle with mirth and life
Thrills with the joy of the cloudless day ;
When the savor of forest and field and sea
Have somehow strayed to the smoky

street,

When a restless pulsing leaps in the veins,
Then a singing voice in the heart repeats,
" Up and away ! Up and away !
Welcome the gift of the glorious day !"

Just out of the bounds of the busy square
The coach is waiting, and up we spring ;

The guard s clear horn sounds a rollicking

air ;
The galloping hoofs of the horses ring ;

The crack of the whip it is good to hear,

The coachman s face is ruddy and brown.
And the merriest day of all the year

Is our coaching day out of London town,
Fooling along, speeding along,
"Twickenham Ferry" our coaching
song !

What matters it whither our journey tends?
The sway and the swing of the coach is

best,
Perhaps at the Court of the Roystering

King

We willingly loiter a while and rest,
But the tarnished splendor of days gone by

Is not so fair as a wayside flower,
And the radiant blue of an English sky,
And the sunshine s gold, are a royal dower.
So up and away ! Up and away !
Welcome the gift of the glorious day !
Grace H. Boutelle.

A SPECIAL SALE.
WHEN Nancy bought her wedding gown

Cupid played clerk the while.
I saw the rascal mark it down

A sixpence for each smile.

And, when the bargain was complete,
He bowed down to his knee ;

" The usual discount for a sweet
And merry heart," quoth he.

Theodosia Pickering Garrison.

AFTER THE QUARREL.

WK will not quarrel, dear, today,
While skies are softly blending

Their mingled hues of gold and gray,
And peace seems never ending.

So let s reserve our little spat

Till morrow dawns or after that !

The birds, the happy little birds,
Are harping in the tree tops ;

Along the beach, as white as curds,
Its shining spray the sea drops ;

We have eternities to fill

With incivilities at will.

But for today this azure day

Was made for something kinder ;

The merry notes of birds at play
Shall be our heart s reminder,

.And we the birds shall emulate,

And let our little quarrel wait.

Couie, love, forget the hasty speech,
The thoughtless word remember

The year that has for all and each
Its spring and its December.

And love is like the year so sing

With all the heart, and keep it spring.
Joseph Dana Miller

The battle of San Jacinto was fought on the San Jacinto River, seventeen miles from the present city of Houston,
-between 783 Texans under Houston and sixteen hundred .Mexican troops under Santa Anna. Hie Mexicans were routed,
Saata Anna was taken prisoner, and the independence of Texas was assured by Houston s brilliant victory.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

VOL.. XIX.

AUGUST, 1898.

No. 5.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

A GROUP OF TYPICAI, AMERICAN SOLDIERS THE COMMANDERS OF THE GREAT ARMY

THAT THE UNITED STATES HAS PUT INTO THE FIELD TO FIGHT FOR

THE STARS AND STRIPES.

T TNSKILLED and halting leadership
^ promises to play 110 part in the con
duct of the American army in the present
war with Spain. Himself a soldier,

President McKinley has seen to it that
the men selected to plan our campaigns
and fight our battles in Cuba, Porto Rico,
and the east are officers of long ex-

MAJOR GENERAL JOSEPH WHEELER, A FAMOUS SOUTHERN VETERAN, NOW COM
MANDING THE CAVALRY DIVISION OF GENERAL SHAFTER S ARMY.
From a photograph by Prince, Washington.

644

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

BRIGADIER GENERAL CHARLES P. EAGAX.

From a pliotograpJi by Prince, Washington,

BRIGADIER GENERAL ADNA R. CHAFFEE.

From a photograph by Schumacher, Los Angeles.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN C. BATES.
From a photograph by Strauss, St. Louis.

BRIGADIER GENERAL DANIEL \V. FLAGLER.

From a photograph ly Prince, Washington.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

645

BRIGADIER GENERAL FREDERICK DENT GRANT, ULYSSES S. GRANT S ELDEST SON.

From a fliotograph by See & Epler, New York.

perience and proved capacity as dis
ciplinarians and strategists. That each
member of the group has the essential
quality of braver} r goes without saying.
No event of the future could be more
certain than that the arm}- is to be well
drilled, well fought, and well handled by
men whose trade is war, and who are
masters of their calling.

Miles, Merritt, and Brooke, the rank
ing generals of the permanent establish
ment, are typical American soldiers ; so,
too, is each one of the twelve men named
as major generals of volunteers. Of the
latter group seven are officers in the

regular army, while five have generally
been called "civilians, though three
of them are graduates of West Point,
and all of them performed distinguished
service in the war between the States.

William Montrose Graham, commander
of the Second Corps, has been forty three
years in the service. "Light Battery
Bill} " was the nickname by which he
was known in the old Arm} T of the Poto
mac, and nowhere is there his superior
as an officer of artillery. James F. Wade,
commander of the Third Corps, served in
the Civil War as a colonel of volunteers,
and now holds the rank of brigadier

646

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MAJOR GENERAL WILLIAM R. SHAFTKR, COMMANDING THE FIFTH CORPS, THE FIRST
ORDERED TO THE INVASION OF CUBA.

From a photograph by Taber, San Francisco.

general in the regular arm} . He is known
in the service as "Sheridan s double,"
and is, like Little Phil, a cavalryman oi
the finest type. Joseph C. Breckinridge, a
member of the famous Kentucky family
of that name, fought in the Civil War as
an officer of the Second Artillery, and for
the past decade has been inspector general
of the army.

John J. Coppinger, commander of the

Fourth Corps, is an Irish soldier of
fortune in whom Lever would have found
an ideal hero for one of his rattling
romances. In his youth he wandered
from the Emerald Isle to Italy, and as
a member of the Papal Guards fought
against Victor Emmanuel. Then he came
to America, and, in 1861, was made
captain of New York volunteers. During
the next four years he took part in thirty

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

647

BRIGADIER GENERAL FRANCIS VINTON GREEXE.
From a photograph by Anderson, Neiv York.

BRIGADIER GENERAL GUIDO N. LIBBER.
From a photcgraph by Prince, II ashington.

BRIGADIER GENERAL GEORGE M. STERNBEKG, BRIGADIER GENERAL WILLIAM LUDLOW, OF THE

SURGEON GENERAL OF THE ARMY. CORPS OF ENGINEERS.

From a photograph l&gt;y Prince, U askii. gtoii. From a photograph by Prince, U ashii:ston.

648

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MAJOR GENERAL JAMES H. WILSON, DISTINGUISHED IN THE CIVIL WAR AS ,A FEDERAL

CAVALRY LEADER, NOW COMMANDING THE SIXTH CORPS.

From a photograph by Bucher, Wilmington, Delaware.

one battles, and was twice wounded, the
last time on the day that Lee surrendered.
His service on the frontier since 1865 has
again and again proved him a dashing
soldier, fully capable of high command.
When the present war opened he com
manded the department of the Platte.

William R. Shafter, whose corps, the
Fifth, was the first to invade Cuba, and
Henry C. Merriam and El well S. Otis,
who have gone with Merritt to Manila,

all served as officers of volunteers in the
Civil War, entering the permanent estab
lishment upon its reorganization in 1866.
Shafter is gruff, sturdy, and warm hearted.
Those serving tinder him will have plenty
of hard fighting to do, but they will also
know that their commander is a man
who wages battles in order to win them,
and who would not needlessly risk the
life of a single soldier. Merriam is a man
of brains, resolute of will and purpose,

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

and Otis is an accomplished soldier,
specially fitted for the delicate and peril
ous work ahead of him.

soldiers of wide experience, two of them
having made a brilliant record in the
Federal service, and the others having

BRIGADIER GENERAL GUY V. HENRY, NICKNAMED "FIGHTING GUY," A WELL
KNOWN CIVIL WAR VETERAN.

The five civilians named for major
generals James H. Wilson, commander
of the Sixth Corps ; Fitzhngh Lee, com
mander of the Seventh Corps ; Joseph
Wheeler, chief of the cavalry division
operating with Shafter ; Matthew C.
Butler, and J. Warren Keifer are all
2

been eminent Confederate commanders.
Wilson won his double star within three
years from leaving West Point, and there
was no incident of the Civil War better
worth remembering than the great raid in
1865 of his cavalry corps of twelve
thousand sabers, which formed a brilliant

BRIGADIER GENERAL JACOB FORD KENT, RECENTLY PROMOTED FROM THE COLONELCY OF
THE TWENTY FOURTH REGIMENT OK INFANTRY.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

651

ending to the Union operations in the
West. General Wilson left the regular
army in 1870, and has since been engaged

his State " when the Civil War broke
out, and rose swiftly to the rank of major
general, with command, when his famous

MAJOR GENERAL ELWEI.L S. OTIS, NOW SERVING WITH THE MANILA EXPEDITION.
From a photograph by Hofstetter, Vancouver.

in railroad and engineering operations.
He is still in full physical and mental
vigor, and has lost none of the spirit and
enthusiasm of his youth.

Fitzhugh L,ee, like Wilson, was a dash
ing leader of cavalry. A lieutenant of
dragoons in the old army, he " went with

kinsman surrendered to Grant, of the
cavalry corps of the Arm}* of Northern
Virginia. He was under thirty years
of age when the war ended, andTias since
served in Congress, as Governor of Vir
ginia, and as consul general at Havana.
General Lee is white haired, blunt, and

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

BRIGADIER GENERAL FRANCIS L. GUEXTHER.
From a photograpJi by Sarony, A ev 3 ~ork.

BRIGADIER GENERAL HENRY C. HASBROUCK.

From a photograph by Chcyne, Hampton, Virginia.

BRIGADIER GENERAL M. V. SHERIDAN, BROTHER BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN M. WILSON. CHIEf 1
OF THE LATE GENERAL PHILIP H. SHERIDAN. OF" THE CORPS OF ENGINEERS.

From a photograph by Bell, Washington. From a pliotograpJi by Pach, Netu York.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

653

BRIGADIER GENERAL JACOB KLINE, RECENTLY PROMOTED FROM THE COLONELCY OF THE
TWENTY FIRST REGIMENT OF INFANTRY.

Front a plwtogrupli by tJie Electro Photograpliic Company, Tuiiipa..

kindly, with a fullness of habit which
betokens a man on good terms with him
self and with the world.

Joseph Wheeler, on the other hand, is
a first class brand of fighting material
done up in a small sized package. He is
short of stature, does not weigh more than
a hundred pounds, and looks more like a
country schoolmaster than the splendid
soldier he proved himself to be a genera
tion ago. Wheeler entered the Confeder
ate service in 1861, as colonel, and when
the war ended held the rank of lieuten
ant general, with command of all the
cavalry under Johnston. For a dozen
years past he has been a member of the
popular branch of Congress.

Matthew C. Butler, the former South
Carolina Senator, is not a graduate of
West Point, but he lost a leg in the
Civil War, during which he rose from
captain to major general, with com
mand, at its close, of a division of cav
alry Under Johnston ; and as he has since
maintained his interest in military affairs
by active connection with the National
Guard of his State, his soldierly qualities
are not merely a reminiscence.

General Keifer was long a member of
the House of Representatives from Ohio,
and served as speaker of the Forty
Seventh Congress. He has a notable
Civil War record, having gone to the
front as a major of Ohio volunteers, and

654

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

having risen to a brevet major general
ship. He saw plenty of hard fighting,
and was severely wounded at the battle of
the Wilderness.

Guenther, Pennington, and Rodgers have
more than forty j ears service apiece to
their credit. Prior to his present com
mission, General Frank was for ten years

Forty of the three score officers named commandant of the artillery school at

MAJOR GENERAL MATTHEW C. BUTLER, FORMERLY A CONFEDERATE MAJOR GENERAL
AND UNITED STATES SENATOR FROM SOUTH CAROLINA.

From a photograph by Bell, Washington.

as brigadier generals of volunteers have
been chosen from among the fighting
veterans of the regular arm} , and nine of
this number Ro3 al T. Frank, Francis
L. Guenther, Alexander C. M. Penning
ton, John I. Rodgers, Edward B. Willis-
ton, Marcus P. Miller, Henry C. Has-
brouck, Wallace F. Randolph, and Joseph
P. Sanger belong now, or have been
identified in the past, with the artillery
arm of the service. Generals Frank,

Fort Monroe. General Guenther took
part in the suppression of John Brown s
raid, and served with distinction from the
opening to the close of the Civil War.
General Pennington, an officer of ex
ceptional ability, rose to the command of
a brigade between 1861 and 1865 ; while
General Rodgers has a notable war record,
and has been selected as chief of artiller}-
on the staff of General Miles.

General Williston entered the army

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

655

MAJOR GKXERAL JOSEPH C. BRECKINRIUGK, A CIVIL WAR VETERAN, WHO HAS BEEN FOR

TEN YEARS INSPECTOR GENERAL OF THE ARMY.

From a photograph by Gilbert, Washington.

from civil life in 1861, was continuously
in service during- the Civil War, and
ranks among- the foremost artillerymen
of the time. General Marcus P. Miller is
another sturdy and clear headed veteran,
with a record as an artillerist which dates
from 1858. General Hasbrouck has served
with the Fourth Artillery ever since he
was graduated at West Point in 1861.
General Randolph entered the Fifth
Artillery as a second lieutenant in the
opening months of the Civil War, made a
record as a hard fighter before it was

over, and is one of the surviving heroes
of the tunnel escape from Ljbby. Gen
eral S anger served with the First Artil
lery from 1 86 1 to 1888, and is an honor
graduate of the artillery school. Since
1889 he has served as assistant inspector
general.

Twelve of the brigadier generals of vol
unteers Abraham K. Arnold, Guy V.
Henry, Samuel S. and Edwin V. Sumner,
Charles E. Compton, Louis H. Carpenter,
Samuel M. B. Young, Henry W. Lawton,
Adna R. Chaffee, John M. Bacon, Alfred

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

BRIGADIER GENERAL ROYAL T. FRANK.

From a photograph by Prince, Washington.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN I. RODGERS.

From a photograph by Pack, New York.

BRIGADIER GENERAL H. \V. LAWTON.

From a photograph by Havens, Jacksonville.

MAJOR GENERAL WILLIAM MONTROSE GRAHAM,
COMMANDER OF THE SECOND CORPS.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

657

BRIGADIER GENERAL EDWARD
15. WILLISTON.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JAMES
RUSH LINCOLN.

BRIGADIER GENERAL J. I . S.
GOB IN.

E. Bates, and Michael V. Sheridan won
their spurs as captains of cavalry. Gen
eral Arnold served with the Fifth Cavalry
during- the Civil War, and has been
colonel of the First since 1891. He is
an officer of wide experience and signally
skilled in the handling of troops. Gen
eral Henry " Fighting Guy, " as he well
deserves to be called is perhaps the best
known officer of his rank in the army.
He commanded a brigade in the Civil War,
and has since had a hundred hard knocks
i n active service. Both Arnold and Henry
hold the medal of honor given by Con
gress for bravery in battle.

The two Sumners are brothers, sons of
the Major General Sumner who won dis
tinction in the Mexican and Civil Wars.
During the latter struggle General
Samuel S. Sumner served with the Fifth
Cavalry, receiving three brevets for

gallantry, and lie has been colonel of
the Sixth Cavalry since 1896. Gen
eral Edwin V. Sumner got his train
ing as a trooper nnder the dashing
Stoneman, and since 1865 has had a hand
in half a dozen hard fought Indian cam
paigns. He attained his colonelc} , with
command of the Seventh Cavalry, Glister s
old regiment, four years ago. Generals
Compton, Carpenter, and Young each
fought their way from the ranks to a col
onelcy of volunteers in the Civil War, and
Young, before it was ended, commanded
a brigade. All three are capable and active
minded officers.

General Lawton went to the front in
1861 as a sergeant of Indiana volunteers.
The close of the war found him command
ing a regiment. Between 1871 and 1888,
while lieutenant and captain in the Fourth
Cavalsy, he made a record as a redoubt-

COLONEL ALFRED T. SMITH.

COLONEL EVAN MILKS.

COLONEL WILLIAM H. POWELL.

6 5 8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

BRIGADIER GENERAL CHARLES KING.

From a photograph by Gilbert, Philadelphia.

BRIGADIER GENERAL LOUIS H. CARPENTER.
From a photograph by fennel!. Junction City, Kansas.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN A. WILEY. BRIGADIER GENERAL ABRAHAM K. ARNOLD.

From a photograph by Jackson, Franklin, Pennsylvania. From a photograph by Pennell, Junction City, Kansas.

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

659

able Indian fighter a record
which fills man} pages in the
annual reports of the war depart
ment. Since 1889 he has served as
assistant inspector general. Gen
eral Lawton, unless all signs fail,
will be one of the heroes of the
present war.

General ChafFee may be another.
This officer served through the
Civil War in the Sixth Cavalry,
and by stout fighting before and
since 1865 made his way from the
ranks to a colonel s uniform. He
is a born soldier, in love with his
calling, and master of its every
detail. The same may be said of
Generals Bacon and Bates, both of
whom are commanders of proven
bravery and capability. General
Bacon has been an officer of cav
alry since 1862, and General Bates
made a brilliant reputation as an
Indian fighter before his transfer
to the pay department in 1875.

General Sheridan is a younger
brother of " Little Phil," whose
aide he was during the Civil War,
and is known in the service as a
thorough soldier.
! The infantry arm and the staff

BRIGADIER GENERAL SIMON SNYDER, PROMOTED FROM THE

COLONELCY OF THE NINETEENTH INFANTRY.
From a photograph by Huffman, Miles City, Montana.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN C. GILMORE, ASSISTANT ADJU
TANT GENERAL ON THE STAFF OF GENERAL MILES.
From a photograph by Rice, Washington.

of the permanent establish
ment have furnished no less
than fifteen brigadier generals
of volunteers John S. Poland,
Simon Snyder, Jacob F. Kent,
Thomas S. Anderson, Hamil
ton S. Hawkins, John C.
Bates, Andrew S. Burt, George
M. Randall, George W. Davis,
Theodore Schwan, Robert H.
Hall, Jacob Kline, Loyd Whea-
ton, Arthur Mac Arthur, and
John C. Gilmore. Only four
members of this group, Gen
erals Poland, Kent, Hawkins,
and Hall, are graduates of
West Point, but the others had
effective training in the Civil
War, and Generals Wheaton,
MacArthur, and Gilmore wear
the medal of honor as token
of the part they played in that
great conflict.

Generals Snyder, Bates,

66o

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

COLONEL ALFRED S. FROST, FIRST
SOUTH DAKOTA VOLUNTEERS.

BRIGADIER GENERAL OSWALD
H. ERNST.

COLONEL J. H. WHOLLEY, FIRST
WASHINGTON VOLUNTEERS.

Burt, Randall, Schwan, and Kline have
since seen much and hard frontier service,
and the first named holds a brevet for gal
lantry at Bear Paw Mountain, Montana,
in 1877. General Anderson, leader of the
advance guard of the army sent to Manila,
has been colonel of the Fourteenth In
fantry since 1886, and is an admirable
mixture of brains and braver} , while
General Davis is a firm, vigilant officer,
well equipped for important command.

as literary men than as soldiers by hav
ing them assigned to service under him in
the Philippines.

Among the other civilian brigadiers,
Generals Harrison Gray Otis, John A.
Wiley, and Joseph K. Hudson are fight
ing veterans of 61 Otis served with
President McKinley in the Twenty Third
Ohio volunteers and Generals William
C. Gates and James Rush Lincoln are
Confederate soldiers. Oates, who lost

COLONEL C. R. GREENLEAF, CHIEF
SURGEON OF TROOPS IN FIELD.

COLONEL G. G. HUNTT, SECOND
UNITED STATES CAVALRY.

COLONEL E. P. PEARSON, TENTH
UNITED STATES INFANTRY.

Four of the remaining brigadier generals
of volunteers William Ludlow, Peter C.
Hains, George L. Gillespie, and Oswald
H. Ernst have records as brilliant and
efficient members of the corps of engineers,
dating back to 1861. Three of the bri
gade commanders named from civil life
Frederick D. Grant, Francis V. Greene,
and Charles King are graduates of West
Point, each of whom has served a dozen
years or more in the regular army. Those
best fitted to judge have entire confidence
in General Grant s soldierly qualities, and
General Merritt, who knows a good officer
if ever a man did, has borne speaking
testimony to the ability of Generals Greene
and King both better known, hitherto,

an arm at the siege of Richmond, won a
colonel s commission by. his gallantry on
the field of battle.

Moreover, among the colonels and junior
line officers of the regular army are any
number of men of natural aptitude and
thorough training, who for years have
been making read} for the work that now
confronts them. Officers, to name but a
few of them, like John H. Page, Evan
Miles, Daniel W. Benham, William H.
Powell, Edward P. Pearson, Alfred T.
Smith, Charles A. Wikoff, and George
G. Huntt, the career of each of whom
shows a steady advance from the lowest
grade in some cases from the ranks to
a colonel s commission, onlv wait an

THE LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

66 1

BRIGADIER GENERAL CHARLES F. ROE, LATE COMMANDER OK Till: NATIONAL GUARD OF

NEW YORK STATE.
Froi a photograph by A ndersoii, New ] "ork.

emergency to prove themselves equal to
its demands.

As in 1861, so in 1898, the younger
officers of the permanent establishment
have found in the making and conduct of
a volunteer army a rare and welcome
opportunity for advancement and quick
promotion. Captain Edward E. Hardin,
Seventh Infantn-, has been made colonel
of the Second New York volunteers ;
Captain Cornelius Gardener, Nineteenth
Infantry, of the Thirty First Michigan ;

First Lieutenant Alfred S. Frost, Twenty
Fifth Infantry, who has risen from the
ranks since he entered the army in iSSi,
of the First South Dakota ; First Lieu
tenant Charles W. Abbot, Twelfth In
fantry, of the First Rhode Island ; First
Lieutenant Elias Chandler, Sixteenth In
fantry, of the First Arkansas, and First
Lieutenant John E. McDonald, Tenth
Cavalry, of the First Alabama, while
command of the First Washington, now
in the Philippines, has fallen to Lieutenant

662

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

BRIGADIER GENERAL S. B. M. YOUNG.

! rom a photograph by Gilbert, Washington.

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOHN S. POLAND.

From a pJiotograph by Walker, Cheyenne.

BRIGADIER GENERAL LOYD WHEATON.
From a photograph by Henry, Leavemvorth, Kansas.

BRIGADIER GENERAL A. C. M. PENNINGTON.
From a photograph by Prince, Washington.

THB LEADERS OF OUR ARMY.

663

MAJOR GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE, CONFEDERATE MAJOR GENERAL, GOVERNOR OF VIRGINIA,

AND CONSUL AT HAVANA.
From a photograph Copyriglit, iSgS, by C. Parker, Washington.

John H. Wholley, Twenty Fourth Infantry,
who was graduated at West Point less
than ten years ago, and who is one of the
youngest colonels, if not quite the young
est, in the volunteer service.

The recruiting, movement, equipment,
feeding, payment, and medical care of an
army of a quarter of a million men is a
task calling for abilities of a highl}
trained and very special order, and it is
reassuring in a time like this to study the
names of the several chiefs of staff of the
war department, and to learn the sort of

service for which those names stand.
Quartermaster General Marshall I. L,ud-
ington served during the Civil War as
chief quartern! aster of various divisions
of the Army of the Potomac, and has since
been attached in the same capacity to al
most every department of the permanent
establishment. During actual hostilities
between 1861 and 1865 General Ludington
was active!}- engaged as a volunteer
officer, and made a record of which any
fighter might well be proud.

So did General John M. Wilson, chief

664

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MAJOR GENERAL J. WARREN KEIFER, A CIVIL WAR VETERAN AND FORMER SPEAKER OF
THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES.

From ti photograph by Baunigardner, Springfield, Ohio.

of engineers, who won the medal of honor
by his gallantry at Malvern Hill. General
Daniel W. Flagler, chief of ordnance, re
ceived three brevets for gallant and meri
torious services under Sherman. General
Charles P. Eagan, chief of the sub
sistence department, is one of the heroes
of the war against the Modocs. General
George M. Sternberg, head of the medical
department, was continuously in service
from beginning to end of the Civil War,
and so was Colonel George R. Greenleaf,

now chief surgeon of the army in the
field, while General G. N. Lieber, judge
advocate general, has served in his branch
of the army for more than a generation.
And finally there is Adjutant General
Henry Clark Corbin, whose duties make
him practically chief of staff to the Presi
dent. Entering the volunteer service as a
private in 1861, General Corbin rose to be
a colonel of the line. He knows the army
from top to bottom, and is, moreover, a
natural organizer and leader of men.

Ritfus Rockwell Wilson.

THE WEALTH OF THE PHILIPPINES.

BY JOHN ALDEN ADAMS.

THE RICH OPPORTUNITIES THAT WILL BE OFFERED TO FORTUNE SEEKERS WHEN THE
GREAT TROPICAL ISLAND GROUP, WHOSE PROGRESS HAS SO LONG BEEN RETARDED
IIV THE MILLSTONE OF SPANISH MISRULE, SHALL BE OPENED AS A NEW
FIELD FOR AMERICAN ENTERPRISE WITH A SERIES OF ENGRAV
INGS OF TYPICAL SCENES IN THE PHILIPPINES.

HpHE great island group named after
King Philip II of Spain the Philip
of the Armada seems likely to have
more history in the next few years than
it has had in the last three centuries.
Nowhere else on the earth s surface, per
haps, have the forces of civilization moved
so slowly as in this remote Spanish col
ony.. Nowhere else, probably, is there so
rich a storehouse of undeveloped wealth,
waiting to yield its treasures to the grasp
of the strong hand of modern enterprise.

To see how extraordinarily slow the
development of these islands has been, it
is worth while to recall a little history.
It was in 1519 that Fernao de Magalhaes,
better known as Magellan, sailed from
Spain on his last and most famous voy
age. For him that voyage ended with

the discovery of the Philippines, and his
death in battle with hostile natives ; only
one of his five ships was to return to
Spain, bringing back eighteen of the
two hundred and sixty five men who
started with the expedition, and winning
the historical renown of the first circum
navigation of the globe. In 1565, Span
iards crossed the Pacific from Mexico to
settle in the eastern islands. Six years
later Manila was founded, to be for more
than three hundred years a capital of
Spain s colonial empire.

A HISTORICAL COMPARISON.

In other words, though the Philippines
were first sighted by Europeans twenty
four years later than the mainland of
North America, the earliest permanent

MANILA HARBOR, AND THK LIGHTHOUSE AT THE MOUTH OF THE PASIG RIVER. THIS DRAWING,
MADE FROM A PHOTOGRAPH, GIVES A GOOD IDEA OF THE LOW LYING SHORE OF MANILA BAY.

668

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

settlement was made in the same year in
both, and Manila was nearly fifty years
old when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth
Rock. If the comparison thus suggested
be rejected as an unfair one, compare
what the Spaniards have done in the
Philippines with the advance of the Anglo
Saxon race in Australia, whose coloniza
tion began in 1788, or in South Africa,
British only since 1806 ; or with the de-

much of them remains, as it does today,
almost a terra incognita.

PHILIPPINE HKMP AND SUGAR.

All observers testify that the soil of the
islands is of extraordinary fertility, and
that almost every tropical tree or plant,
fruit or vegetable, will flourish there.
There is at least one valuable product
peculiar to the Philippines Manila hemp,

A MODERN SPANISH CHURCH AT CAVITK. THE ROMAN CATHOLIC IS THE ONLY CHURCH IN THE

PHILIPPINES ; IT POSSESSES MANY CHURCH BUILDINGS AND MONASTERIES, AND EXERCISES

GREAT INFLUENCE AMONG THE NATIVES.

velopment of India under its present
rulers, whose power dates from dive s
victory at Plassey in 1757.

While civilization has fought its bat
tles and won its triumphs in America, in
Asia, in Africa, and in the islands of the
sea, the Philippines are little changed
from the days when the King of Cebu
came down to meet Magellan and to be
baptized into the Christian church.
Among the many discreditable facts of
Spain s history as an imperial power, this
is one of the least creditable.

She cannot make the excuse that the
islands are not worth developing. Their
natural resources are undoubtedly great
probably are scarcely equaled by those of
any other territory of the same size. It
is only through the paralyzing influence
of the Spanish colonial policy that so

the fiber of a species of banana. Of this
about a hundred thousand tons are ex
ported annually, the United States alone
taking nearly half of that quantity, to
make it into ropes and cables. The
present methods of cultivating and pre
paring the hemp are described as exceed-
ingl} primitive. It sells for about sixty
dollars a ton, and its use might be greatly
extended if its production could be
cheapened. There is a chance here for
some enterprising and inventive Ameri
can ; and when the chance arises, the
enterprising and inventive American is
pretty sure to be on the spot.

Besides hemp, the products that have
made the export trade of the three Philip
pine commercial ports Manila, Ilo Ilo,
and Cebu are sugar and tobacco. The
sugar cane industry, all over the world,

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672

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

now seems to be seriously threatened by
the development of beet sugar ; but in
the Philippines, where the cane grows in
phenomenal richness, immense profits
have been made by Spanish planters, and
may still be made. "On the islands of
Luzon and Samar, " says Manley R. Sher
man, a former American resident of
Manila, who has narrated his experiences
in the New York Sun, "I have known
plantations that cleared three hundred
dollars per acre in one year. Negrito
laborers get from five to ten cents a day
for cultivation, and nature does the rest. "
Here, too, there is abundant room for
improvement in methods and machinery.
"Philippine agriculture," Mr. Sherman
adds, " is three hundred years behind
the times. Ox carts are used for trans
portation, and oxen for plowing. I have
seen planters using a bent stick or a prod
with an iron point for a plow. Think of
having the cane crushed by several hun
dred men with clubs, when simple ma
chinery would do it better, more cheaply,
and a hundred times quicker ! "

.MANILA TOBACCO.

For the Philippine tobacco it is claimed
that its excellence has not hitherto been
full} 7 realized by the world at large. It is
most widely known in the form of the
Manila cheroot, which is made from the
cheaper grades of leaf of the first thing
that comes handy, " one traveler de
clares chiefly for the sailors of foreign
ships. Cigars and cigarettes are every
where in the Philippines, in the mouths
of men and women alike and of children,
when they can get them. They are phe
nomenally cheap ; a couple of tiny copper
coins will buy a package of thirty cigar
ettes, and the ordinary cigars cost from
thirty cents to about $1.30 a hundred. A
five cent cigar is a rare and expensive
luxury, indulged in only by the very rich,
and never seen outside of the capital.

The manufacture of cigars and cigarettes
is the chief industry of Manila, and here
again the methods in vogue are said to be
very imperfect. The Spaniards have kept
the business entirely in their own hands,
allowing no one to embark in it except
those who have the political influence to
secure the necessary licenses. About
eight years ago, when Weyler was cap

tain general of the Philippines, his two
brothers came out from Spain, and, under
a special concession, established a large
cigar factory in the suburb of Binondo.
It is said to have made them millionaires.

POSSIBLE FORTUNES IN COFFEE, RICE,
INDIGO, AND COCOANUTS.

While hemp, sugar, and tobacco have
hitherto been the staples of Philippine
trade, it is probable that almost every
commercial product of the tropics can be
raised advantageously in one or other of
the islands. Experiments have been
made that indicate some of these possi
bilities. For instance, there was a coffee
plantation, a good many years ago, at the
northern end of the island of Luzon. A
few of the seeds were scattered over the
surrounding hills by birds or animals, and
the soil proved so congenial that the
plants have gradually spread all over that
part of Luzon. The natives gather thou
sands of pounds of berries from these self
sown bushes ; but comparatively little is
being done in the way of systematically
cultivating coffee for the market al
though it is a product for which there is
a constantly increasing demand through
out the civilized world.

Rice is a crop that yields with ex
traordinary abundance in the Philippines,
where it has been introduced again in a
primitive way and on a small scale by
the Chinese. Indigo is another very
profitable product, and cocoa another, but
in both of these the islands are far out
done, as producers, by competitors whose
natural advantages are less.

The cocoanut tree is the native s most
valued possession, almost his staff of life,
furnishing him with food, wine, oil, vine
gar, fuel, vessels, ropes, and fishing lines,
as well as with fiber to be woven into
cloth. But it takes several years for the
trees to come into bearing, and though a
properly planted grove will yield two or
even three hundred dollars an acre, there
has been a marked lack of enterprise in
raising cocoanuts commercially. Other
fruits the orange, lemon, the guava, the
pineapple, the banana grow wild in the
Philippine woods ; so, too, do vanilla and
pepper, laboriously cultivated in countries
where nature is less profuse in her gifts.

Mindanao, the southernmost of the

THK WEALTH OF THK PHILIPPINES.

673

larger Philippine islands Luzon being
the northernmost is precisely in the lati
tude of Ceylon, and it is just as far north
of the equator as Java is south of it.
British capital and enterprise have made
Ceylon a tropical garden, prosperous and
peaceful, thickly dotted with profitable
plantations of tea, coffee, quinine, cocoa,
and cinnamon. The Dutch have been

These alone, could the problems of trans
portation be solved, would represent tens
of millions of dollars. There is also a
great abundance of cedar and other
cheaper woods, suitable for building, or
for use in railway construction and min
ing factors that may soon begin to figure
in the commercial prospects of the Philip
pines.

r ittr* y---i--n=i. .

THE OLD CATHEDRAL AT CAVITE, A CHARACTERISTIC SPECIMEN OK THE ECCLESIASTICAL ARCHI
TECTURE OK THE PHILIPPINES.

equally successful in developing the com
mercial wealth of Java, which produces,
besides tea, coffee, sugar, and tobacco,
valuable crops of indigo, rice, and spices.
With a far better climate than that of
Java, and with a soil much more fertile
than Ceylon s, the Philippines ought to
surpass both those islands as a field for
tropical agriculture.

WEALTH IN PHILJPl INK U .MBER AND
M IN INC,.

But agriculture is by no means the
only source of possible wealth in these
eastern islands. There are vast areas of
almost virgin forest, full of thousands of
trees of the most valuable species ebony,
mahogany, logwood, and ironwood.

As for mining, its possible future
development is an interesting subject for
speculation. Gold, copper, and coal are
certainly to be found in the islands, and
probably there are other metals and min
erals there. We are still making strikes
in the Rocky Mountains, and are only
just beginning to discover the riches
hidden in the rocks of Alaska ; it may be
generations before the forest clad peaks
of the Philippines have been thoroughly
explored.

"GOLD is THE WORLD S DESIRE."

Meanwhile, though the Spaniards, in

the three centuries of their rule, have

done nothing to develop the mineral

wealth of the islands, it is undoubtedly

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

TYPES OF THE PHILIPPINE XA

PORTRAITS OF A TAGAL GIRL, A NATIVE OF THE ISLAND
OF LUZON.

From photographs ly Huniss, Manila.

great. It is known that gold was found
in Luzon, and exported to China, long
before Magellan landed. Frank Karuth,
a fellow of the Ro} r al Geographical
Society, says that " there is not a brook
that finds its way into the Pacific Ocean
whose sand and gravel do not pan the
color of gold." An English company,
the Philippines Mineral Syndicate, has
been at work, more or less experiment
ally, on the eastern coast of Luzon during
the last few years, and has found quan
tities of alluvial gold and large deposits
of low grade ore ; but Mr. Karuth reports
that " only the fringe of the auriferous
formation has been touched." In a
country where roads are practically un
known, it has been regarded as useless to
prospect for the veins that probably crop
out in the mountains from which the gold
bearing streams flow.

Along these streams the Malayan na
tives and the Chinese have been washing
out the yellow dust for centuries. The
extent of this primitive production of gold
is quite unknown ; indeed, it has gener
ally been concealed by the workers, for
obvious reasons. Most of it has srone in

trade fo Chinese merchants and peddlers,
who have sent it to Hong Kong and
Amoy. Luzon has not been the only
source of this traffic ; alluvial gold is ex
ported from Cebu, from Mindoro, and
from Mindanao. Specimens brought from
the last named island the least settled
and least known in the group are said
to prove that somewhere in its mountain
ranges there must be rich veins of
quartz.

COAL MINING IN THE PHILIPPINES.

Coal is a less romantic and attractive
mineral than gold, but as a means of
wealth it is less risky and scarcely less
potent. In Japan, whose geological
formation is similar to that of the Philip
pines, coal mining has been developed, in
recent years, into an important industry;
and it may very possibly become so in
the other island group. Up to the pres
ent time, work has been done only in
two or three places where the mineral
crops out upon the surface ; and mineral
ogists assert that these surface beds are
not true coal, but a superior grade of
lignite. At any rate, the3^ have furnished

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE IRON SUSPENSION BRIDGE OVER THE PASIG RIVER, MANILA. THE STREET LIGHTS SHOWN IN

THIS AND OTHER VIEWS OF MANILA ARE OIL LAMPS. ELECTRIC LIGHTS HAVE RECENTLY

BEEN PUT UP IN SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL STREETS AND BUSINESS HOUSES.

fuel of commercial value. In Masbate,
one of the smaller islands, a local steam
ship owner discovered coal or lignite, and
set native laborers to break it out with
crowbars. As long as his men could
reach the vein, he supplied his boats with
it ; then, presumably, rather than install
mining machinery, he went elsewhere for
fuel. An Englishman who visited the
place reported that there were six hun
dred thousand tons of available coal left
in the deposit, and probably very much
more than that in the immediate neigh
borhood.

Great beds of copper ore are known to
exist in L,uzon, but they have not been
worked because they are in a spot not
readily accessible. There is also lead
ore, which Mr. Karuth examined and
found to contain zinc blends and traces of
both silver and gold. Here our knowl
edge of the Philippine s mineral re
sources ends, but it is very unlikely
that those resources end at the same
point.

THE PHILIPPINE CLIMATE AND HEALTH.
It may naturally be asked why, if this
eastern archipelago offers such a variety
of opportunities for the creation of wealth,
so little has been done to develop it.
With the earth so thoroughly exploited
as it is today, how is it that in a group
of islands known to Europeans for nearly

four centuries nature s invitation to the
fortune seeker has been so strangely dis
regarded ? Is there no dark side to the
picture dark enough to neutralize its
bright spots and spoil its attractiveness ?
The explanation does not lie in the
climate. Some tropical islands are fair
to look itpon, and rich in resources, but
deadly to the .stranger who pitches his
tent upon them. Not so the Philippines ;
they are not one of the spots that nature
has marked as a white man s grave.
They have their fierce suns and their
drenching rains, like other lands near the
equator ; but they are not unhealthy
indeed, there are few healthier places be
tween the tropics. No exact figures of
the death rate are obtainable, but the tes
timony of travelers as to the general
salubrity of the islands is unanimous,
though some of them complain rather
loudly of such almost inevitable discom
forts of tropical life as the bloodthirsty
mosquito and the intrusive ant. There
is malaria in some districts but less se
vere, apparently, than in many low lying
places in the United States. Beri-beri is
the only disease endemic in the islands,
and it is one of the least formidable of
tropical fevers. The plague that has
wrought such havoc along the Asiatic
coast from Canton to Bombay during the
last few years has not been reported from
Manila. Yellow fever, the scourge of

THE WEALTH OF THE PHILIPPINES.

68 1

TYPES OF THE PHILIPPINE NATIVES A MESTIZO (HALF BREED) GIRL IN SPANISH DRESS, AND

ANOTHER IN A NATIVE COSTUME OF PINA CLOTH.

Froi photographs l&lt;y Honiss, Manila.

South America and the West Indies, is
iinknown there.

MANILA S TROPICAL SUMMER.

Detailed descriptions of the Philippine
climate are apt to be misleading, as there
is a great diversity of weather conditions
in an archipelago stretching north and
south for nearly a thousand miles. Re
gions that face the southwest monsoon,
which blows from August to December,
have their wet season during those
months, while on the other side of the
mountain ranges the dry season prevails.
In Manila, there are five months of pleas
ant temperature from November to
March. April is hot, May and June still
hotter, the mercury rising above ninety
degrees every day ; but in the evening
the atmosphere is almost always tem
pered by a sea breeze, which makes sleep
possible. In August begin the rains,
which are not as heavy as in many trop
ical countries, the total fall for the year
being from eighty to a hundred and ten
inches.

It is probably true that the long hot
season in Manila causes less discomfort

than the brief and fiery summer of New
York or Chicago, because the Filipinos
know their climate and adapt their daily
lives to it, as the Americans of the tem
perate zone cannot, or at any rate do not.
The day begins at four o clock in the
morning, and most of its work is done
before eight. From noon to four or five
o clock the town is like a city of the dead,
nobody stirring abroad except under ab
solute compulsion. At six it reawakens ;
the principal meal of the day is served,
and then the whole population drives or
walks in the cool of the evening, throng
ing the Luneta, the fashionable prome
nade along the Pasig River.

THE PIRATE STRONGHOLD OF THE SULUS.
If the Philippine climate is not such as
to repel Americans or Europeans, neither
is the character of the inhabitants. All
authorities except the Spanish officials
agree that of the several tribes of the
archipelago all are peaceable and tracta
ble, with one exception, the people of
the Sulu islands, at the southwestern
extremity of the group. TheSulus, whose
native Mahometan sultan still maintains

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

TYl KS OF THE PHILIPPINE NATIVES TWO TAGALS FROM A BACK DISTRICT
LUZON, AND A MESTIZO GIRL OF MANILA.
from photographs by Hotiiss, Alanila.

OF THE ISLAND OF

liis barbaric court, with a merely nominal
submission to a vague Spanish suzerainty,
were the orang laut ("men of the sea ")
whose pirate ships were for centuries the
terror of navigators of the China Sea.
They made a desperate resistance to the
punitive raids of Spanish gunboats, the
struggle in this most eastern stronghold
of Islam being a curious reminder of a
long past chapter of history the battle
for Mahomet s westernmost province,
when the ancient gates of Granada opened
to the conquering banners of Castile in
the great days of Ferdinand and Isabella.
Nominally, at least, Sulu piracy is now
finally suppressed, and there is no doubt
that it will never attempt to raise its
black flag again when a strong and stable
government shall be established at
Manila.

TAGALS, VISAYAS, AND CHINESE.

It is characteristic of the scarcity of ac
curate information about the Philippines
that their population should be estimated
at figures so far apart as seven millions
and seventeen millions. The natives are
of mixed blood and of several tribes, the
principal ones being the Tagals of Luzon

and the northern islands, and the Bisaj as
or Visayas of Mindanao and the southern
part of the group. They are classified as
belonging to the Malay division of the
great human family, their near kinsmen
being the people of the Malay Peninsula,
Sumatra, and Java, and their more dis
tant relatives the Siamese, Chinese, and
Japanese.

The principal foreign element in the
islands is due to the immigration of
Chinamen, of whom of pure or mixed
blood there are more than sixty thou
sand in Manila alone. The Chinese are
not a universally popular people, but they
do much more than their share of the
work in the Philippines, and would be
invaluable as a labor supply in any
industrial development. The native
islanders are less apt, perhaps, but teach
able and willing, and have more energy
than most dwellers in the tropics.

EARTHQUAKES AND VOLCANOES.

Much has been said of earthquakes and
volcanoes in the Philippines, and some
alarming pictures have been painted of
the terrors of the earth s subterranean
fires in that quarter of the globe, but upon

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

a calm consideration of the facts they do
not seem to constitute a menace to would
be immigrants. Far more damage has
been done, in the last ten or twenty years,
by the tornadoes of our Western plains
than by the Philippine earthquakes. The
Johnstown flood wrought greater destruc
tion of life and property than the worst
of them. We were warned that California
was an earthquake country, when we an
nexed it ; yet it has become a great State.

kept in their primitive darkness and bar
barism by the power that should have
lifted them into the light of civilization
and set them in the flowing stream of
modern life. Her treatment of them is
but one count in the long and terrible in
dictment that history brings against Spain
for the opportunities she has neglected
and the trusts she has betrayed. She has
regarded her subject peoples in no other
light than as sources of revenue for her

We have heard all the more of volcanic
action in the Philippines, no doubt, for
the reason that Manila seems to be the
center of its greatest energy. There is a
volcano one of the few active ones in
the islands within sight of the city, and
slight quakes are frequent. The finest
edifice in the town, the cathedral, stands
with a ruined tower shattered in the
earthquake of 1884, and never repaired.
This may be enough to alarm the newly
arrived traveler just as a stranger in St.
Louis might be unfavorably impressed if
the buildings injured by the great torn ado
of May, 1896, still stood as the storm left
them.

THE TYRANNY OF THE TAX COLLECTOR.
It is no natural or physical disadvantage
that accounts for the waste and neglect of
the rich resources of the Philippines.
These richly endowed islands have been

THIC CATHEDRAL, MANILA. FOUNDED IN 1578,
THE CATHEDRAL HAS SUFFERED SEVERELY
FROM EARTHQUAKES. THE TOWER WAS
RUINED IN THE DESTRUCTIVE "QUAKE" OF
JULY, 1884, AND HAS NOT BEEN REBUILT.

government and her officials ; and for that
criminal error, with all its cruel conse
quences, she is paying the penalty today.
In the Philippines, the representative
of Spanish rule has been the tax collec
tor. The system that ruined the Roman
Empire was revived there, a gobernador-
cillo being appointed for each district,
and held personally responsible for the
taxes. If the receipts fell below the esti
mate, he had to make up the deficiency;
if they exceeded it, he pocketed the sur
plus the result being that the last peseta
was relentlessly wrung from the luckless
inhabitants. There were poll taxes,
taxes on every form of property, taxes on
all mercantile transactions, taxes on
everj- kind of amusement. There were
taxes on marriages and taxes on funerals.
In some provinces the native must carry
his tax receipts constantly with him ; if
found without them, he was liable to ar
rest and punishment. For non payment,
the penalties after confiscation of prop
erty were whipping and imprisonment.

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It is no wonder that a peaceable and
inoffensive people were driven to despera
tion, and that rebellion has been smolder
ing or blazing in the Philippines almost
constantly. The result has always been
disastrous to the natives, who have lacked
arms, organization, and leadership. The
Spaniards have kept them down or tried

all commerce other than their own. Mr.
Sherman, who has been quoted already,
tells of " a young Englishman who spent
five thousand dollars in starting a cocoa-
mit grove near Cavite. The Spanish
were so much afraid that he would induce
other enterprising foreigners to come
and do likewise, that they ruined him by

A SPANISH CHURCH AND MONASTERY AT ANTIPOL, FIFTEEN MILES FROM MANILA. THE SMALLER
PHILIPPINE TOWNS USUALLY HAVE A CHURCH FOR THEIR MOST PROMINENT BUILDING.

to do so with merciless severity.
Thousands have been arrested and shot
on suspicion. An American resident in
Manila at the time testifies that in the
month of November, 1896, there were
eight hundred executions in the city.
And the cost of all military operations is
charged upon the colonial treasury, mak
ing the taxes continually heavier and
harder to bear.

NO FOREIGNERS WANTED.

With this outrageous fiscal system,
which has rendered peace and public or
der an impossibility, the Spaniards have
pretty well excluded from the Philippines

all manner of imposts and exactions. For
instance, he had to pay a hundred dollars
before he picked his first crop, and he
had to pay an export ditty of ten per
cent extra because he was not a native. "
In the same way, he says, attempts at
coffee raising have been prevented by the
requisition of heavy licenses for planting
the beans and by prohibitive duties on
the machinery necessary to prepare them
for market.

A story is told of two Americans who
attempted to sell some improved machin
ery, made in the United States, to one of
the tobacco factories. In spite of several
anonymous missives warning them to

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leave Manila, they erected their machin
ery for a semi public trial ; but it had not
been running for many minutes when the
delicate mechanism mysteriously broke
in several places at once, and was hope
lessly wrecked. It had evidently been
tampered with.

Another characteristic story vouched
for by the same authority, Mr. Joseph
Earle Stevens, another former American
resident, whose reminiscences have been
published in the New York Evening Post
tells of a ship captain who brought
some thousands of paving stones from
China. The eagle eyes of the Manila port
officials discovered that the cargo con
tained seven rrtore stones than the precise
number given in the manifest, and a fine
of seven hundred dollars was promptly
levied on the ship.

To this Mr. Stevens adds the experi
ence of the skipper with whom he himself
sailed from Hong Kong to Manila. Among
his fellow passengers were some sheep,
and one of them died as the steamer came
to her dock, leaving the captain to choose
between a fifty dollar fine for not burying
the dead animal at once, and a hundred

dollar fine for being one sheep short at
the custom house next morning.

THE DAWNING OF A NEW ERA.

The regime of stupid red tape, of the
deliberate repression of enterprise, and of
greed, oppression, and corruption, will
die with the death of Spanish rule at
Manila ; and under the auspices of a free
and enlightened government a new field
will be open to fortune seekers in the
Philippines. It is certain that the spirit
of adventure which has contributed so
much to the rapid development of our
Western States, which led the argonauts
of 49 to California and has sent thou
sands of gold hunters to the snowy val
leys of the Yukon, will impel not a few
Americans to these rich islands of the
tropic seas. And just as Claus Spreckels
reaped his millions from the cane fields of
Hawaii, or as John North turned the
nitrate beds of Peru to gold, so will the
next decade see great fortunes made in
the archipelago for which a new chapter
of history began with Admiral Dewey s
victory in the bay of Manila on the ist of
last May.

WAR.

I AM that ancient one called War,

A liege insatiate and lone ;
O er conquered and o er conqueror

Is reared my sanguine throne.

Mine are the tumults deep and dire
That shake the earth with thunderous sway

And mine the cordons of red fire
That gird the gory fray.

The heights and depths of soul are mine,
Base cowardice in brave disguise,

And that which touches the divine
Sublime self sacrifice.

Mine are the roadways to renown,

The paths of peril and of pain,
Mine is the victor s laurel crown,

And mine the myriads slain.

I am a tyrant hoar as time,

And though men pray to win release,
Long years must lapse before shall chime

The silvery bells of peace !

Clinton Scollard.

THE PENSION PROBLEM.

BY HENRY CLAY EVANS,

United Slates Commissioner of Pensions.

How the cost of the pension system has grown to more than a hundred and forty two
million dollars a year, with the prospect of a still further increase Interesting facts about the
pension rolls, and a plea for their publication.

""THERE are now more war pensioners
on the rolls than ever before, and it
is probable that the number may be
slightly increased during the present
year. But high water mark has been
nearly attained, and it can be predicted
with safety that we shall never have a
million pensioners on the rolls of the
Pension Bureau.

In this statement I am in no sense
endeavoring to prophesy what future
legislation regarding pensions may be.
We have practically a service pension
law now on the statute books in the Act
of Congress passed in 1890; almost any
one under the provisions of that Act can
obtain a pension by proving service in
the Federal forces during the Civil War,
so that the bars could not be let down
much lower by future legislation. If I
were to hazard an opinion on the subject, it
would be that future legislation by Con
gress would restrict, rather than facili
tate, the granting of pensions.

It is apparent that we are approaching
the beginning of the decline in numbers
of pensioners. And when this decreas
ing process starts, it will be very rapid.

During the fiscal year 1897, an army
of nearly thirty five thousand pensioners
passed from life s battle to the bourn
that knows no returning. Three fourths
of these, approximately speaking, were
veterans of the army and navy. It is
estimated that fifty thousand more will
pass away this year, and that the number
of deaths will steadily increase for sev
eral years to come. There will also con
tinue to be a diminution of the pension
list from other causes, such as remar
riages of widows, expiration of minori

ties, and failures to claim pensions within
stated periods.

Notwithstanding a reduction of the
pension rolls in 1897, which amounted in
the aggregate to 41,122 names, there
was no actual declension in the total
number of pensioners. There were enough
new pensions, reissues of certificates, and
restorations of names previously dropped,
to make a net increase of 5,336, bringing
the total up to 976,014, the largest re
corded.

The inquiry is often made whether our
annual pension appropriations have yet
reached their maximum figure. Presi
dent Gar field, while a Member of Con
gress, more than twenty years ag.o, de
clared that at that time, when we were
paying something like thirty millions
annually in pensions, they had already
nearly attained their highest total. But
this was long before the passage of the
Act of 1890, under which more than forty
five millions of dollars were paid during
the last fiscal year to half a million pen
sioners. The total expenditure for the
year, for pensions and expenses of the
department, was a few thousand dollars
less than one hundred and forty two
millions.

From the operation of the pension laws
and the work of the Bureau of Pensions
since they came within my closer obser
vation, I am inclined to the belief that
while the number of pensioners has
nearly reached the highest possible limit,
considerably larger appropriations will
yet be made before the maximum of
annual expenditTire will be attained.
This will be due to the heavy arrearages
carried with many of the new claims

6 9 8

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

allowed. The depletion of the rolls by
death, or by dropping of names for other
causes, only carries with it a stoppage of
annual pensions, while new claims often
carry many years arrears. In fact, we
may for two or three years witness the
apparently anomalous condition of steady
reductions in the number of pensioners,
and increases in the annual expenditures
for pensions. And yet it is improbable
that the total annual appropriations will
rise above one hundred and fifty million
in their highest year.

This estimate, of course, does not con
sider the possibility of future legislation
dealing with the veterans of the Civil
War, or possibly with the soldiers of the
present war with Spain. Speculation on
that subject is not profitable. Some of
the estimates that have been made by
experts indicate that some of the ad
ditional legislation that has been pro
posed would swell the appropriations
beyond the two hundred million point.
It has been estimated that it would take
sixty million dollars a }-ear to meet the
lowest of the service pensions which have
been projected and discussed.

Of the pensioners now living, 733, 527
are war veterans. The remainder are
widows, minor children, and other de
pendents. Among the veterans are six
soldier patriarchs who are now the only
survivors of the quarter of a million men
who were engaged on land and sea in the
young republic s second war with Great
Britain.

Three of these aged warriors are more
than a hundred years old. The vener
able Hosea Brown, of Oregon, who is the
eldest of these antique heroes, was of
age when the war began, and was able to
cast his first vote for President James
Madison during the very dawning of the
struggle. One of the younger of the six
is James Hooper,* of Baltimore, the last
survivor of the brave sailor lads who
humbled the mistress of the seas on the
very waters over which she claimed

* James Hooper, a soldier of the War of 1812, made
an application for pension on February 21, 1874, a t
which time he was 69 years of age and residing at
Baltimore, Maryland, and his pension was allowed
for 63 days actual service as a hoy on board the
United States Ship Comet, under the command of
Captain Boyle. He enlisted at Baltimore, Maryland,
on July 4, 1813, and was discharged at the same place
September 4, 1813.

dominion. Senator George F. Hoar in a
recent speech called attention to the fact
that, except for the brilliant exploit at
New Orleans achieved after the conclu
sion of peace the land operations of the
American army in the war of 1812 were
generally characterized by failure, while
the naval engagements in which Ameri
can vessels were victorious were so bril
liant that eighteen of them are still
considered to be worthy of appearing in
standard British books on naval warfare
as examples of tactics in battle on the
high seas that British sailors can well
afford to study.

The last sailor of the war of 1812 and
the five surviving soldiers of that struggle
draw from the Treasury, altogether, only
$1,080 a year. There are about eleven
thousand survivors of the war with Mexico
on the rolls, and 2,373 survivors of the
old Indian wars.

It is an interesting fact that there are
pensioners of the United States living
under nearly every foreign flag, and in
the most unfrequented byways of the
earth. It will surprise no one to learn
that Canada, Germany, and Ireland, in
the order named, lead in the number of
foreign pensioners. But some of the six
hundred and twenty thousand dollars
which we pay to pensioners abroad finds
its way to the very ends of the earth.
Vouchers go alike to the Land of the
White Elephant and the lone rock of
Saint Helena ; to the plains of the Trans
vaal and the steppes of Siberia ; to every
continent as well as to the isles of the
sea. There are pensioners of the United
States in Malta and Cyprus, Madeira and
Mauritius, New Zealand and Tahiti, and
many other remote islands. Although so
widely scattered, the pensioners who re
side abroad are not numerous. There are
something like four thousand in all, one
half of them in Canada.

It has been noted by some of my pred
ecessors, and it has also come to 1113^
attention, that the longevity of these
self expatriated pensioners is quite re
markable. The difficulties attending
access to information from some of these
distant places may be responsible for
some of this persistent adherence to life
on their part. I shall at an early date
take steps to have the foreign pension

THE PENSION PROBLEM.

699

rolls overhauled and verified. This can
be done, I think, through our consular
agents.

There are still living and drawing
pensions seven aged ladies who are the
widows of soldiers of the Revolution.
These draw pensions under the general
act covering all Revolutionary soldiers
and widows. The oldest of these ladies
is Nancy Aldrich,* long a resident of
Michigan, but now of Los Angeles, Cali
fornia. She is the relict of Caleb Aldrich,
who saw service in the New Hampshire
and Rhode Island line in the Revolution.
She is of even age with the nineteenth
century, and may live to see the early
twilight of the twentieth. The youngest
Revolutionary war widow is Mary Snead,
of Parksley, Virginia, whose husband
served in the Old Dominion s troops
under Washington. She is now eighty
one years old. If she were to live to the
present age of Mrs. Aldrich, the United
States will still be paying Revolutionary
pensions one hundred and thirty four
years after the surrender of Cornwallis.

If women are to be pensioned who
marry soldiers of the Civil War forty or
sixty years after that struggle closed, as
these venerable ladies married their hus
bands many years after the Revolution,
the United States may be paying Civil War
pensions well into the distant twenty
first century. It was with no wish to
disturb aged widows who now draw pen
sions that I oflicially recommended the
passage of a law to the end that no pen
sion shall be granted to the widow of any
soldier who shall marry hereafter. As I
said in that recommendation, there should
be no discrimination, and a woman that
marries a soldier now (nearly thirty three
years after peace was declared) takes him
for better or for worse. She was not his
wife during the war ; she experienced
none of the hardships, deprivations, and
anxieties incident to the life of the wife
of a soldier, and should not be placed on

the roll as such. If there should in the
far future arise specially needful cases of
such widows who have reached extreme
old age, their pensions could well be left
to special acts of Congress in individual
cases, as has been done with the several
daughters of Revolutionary soldiers whose
names now appear on the pension rolls.

As for the venerable survivors of the old
wars themselves, Hands off these best
beloved of our household ! " It is these
we should most delight to care for and
honor. The last survivor of the Revolu
tion, Daniel F. Bakeman,-)- of New York,
died on the 5th of April, 1869, eighty
eight years after York town, aged one
hundred and nine years. The survivors
of the war of 1812 now borne on the rolls
have only to live five years longer to
have survived the battle of New Orleans
for the same period. If the same relative
longevity can be counted on in the cases
of the venerable men who will be the last
survivors of the Boys in Blue, there will
be a handful of the lads who followed the
Stars and Stripes into the great American
conflict still on the pension rolls in 1953.

It is an interesting fact that at least one
pension for actual service in the Revolu
tionary War was drawn by a woman. J

As to my recent suggestion that the
names on the pension rolls should be pub
lished to the world, I believe their publi-

* Nancy Aldrich, widow of Nathan Aldrich, who was
a soldier in the War of 1812, made an application for
pension on July 9, 1874, at which time she was 84
years of age and residing in Williamson County,
Tennessee. Her pension was allowed for the actual
service of her husband as a private in Captain Gault s
Company, Tennessee Militia, War of 1812, for a period
of 182 days. He enlisted November 13, 1814, and was
discharged May 13, 1815. The widow s maiden name
was Nancy Plummer.

t Daniel Frederick Bakeman, a soldier of the Revo
lutionary War, made an application for pension on the
I7th day of June, 1867, at which time he was 107 years
of age and residing at Freedom, Cattaraugus County,
New York. In his application for pension he alleged
that he enlisted and served in the Revolutionary War
in a company commanded by Captain Varnum, in
the regiment commanded by Colonel Willett ; but
owing to impaired memory he was not positive as to
length of service, though knew he served at least
four years. His pension was granted, under a special
act of Congress, at the rate of $500 per annum. This
soldier has the distinction of being the last survivor
of the Revolutionary War. He died April 5, 1869,
aged 109 years.

J Deborah Gannett, a woman who served as a soldier
in the Revolutionary War under the name of Robert
Shurtleff, made an application for pension on Sep
tember 14, 1818, at which time she was 59 years of age
and residing at Sharon, Massachusetts, and her pen
sion was allowed for two years actual service as a
private in the Massachusetts troops, Revolutionary
War. It appears that she enlisted in the month of
April, 1781, and served in Captain George Webb s
company, in the Massachusetts regiment commanded
by Colonel Shepherd, afterwards by Colonel Jackso^
until about the month of November, 1783, when she
was honorably discharged. During the time of her
service she was wounded at Tarrytown (probably in
the second battle of that place), and was also present
at the surrender of l,ord Cornwallis.

700 MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

cation would lead to the dropping of a Personally I do not sympathize with

number of pensioners from the rolls, this sentiment. The pension roll ought

Whether the saving by this means would to be a roll of honor. No man need be

be sufficient to offset the expense of the ashamed to have his name on it if he is

publication of the lists is not easy to entitled to have it there. It is highly

estimate. important to eliminate the frauds, if there

Sentiment has in the past figured be any, from the pension rolls, but it is

largely in preventing the publication of equally important, if not more so, to pre-

the names of pensioners. It has been as- vent the dropping of worthy and deserv-

sumed that the worthy pensioner would ing men who are actually dependent on

object to having the fact that he was their pensions for their sustenance. Let

drawing a pension from the government us all wish long life still lengthened to

paraded before the world. the veterans.

THE

I M the shell, the thirteen inch,
Of the kind that never flinch,
Never slacken, never sway,
When the quarry blocks the way.

Silent in the belted breech,
Peering thro the rifled reach,
Waiting, while I scan the sea,
For a word to set me free.

As my eager eyes I strain,
Heaves in view a ship of Spain.
Hark ! the wild alarums ring,
As the men to quarters spring;

Then the word of sharp command,
On the lanyard rests a hand.
" Fire !" From out the rifled core,
On the cannon s breath I soar.

Twice five hundred pounds of steel,
Where on high the eagles reel,
For my mark the nearing foe,
Messenger of death I go !

Hark ! the* shriek of unleashed hell !
Tis the speech of shell to shell :
Brother, shall I kill or spare?
" Mark the faces blanching there ! "

Brother, shall I strike or swerve?
" Death to them that death deserve !
Mark the vessel onward come ! "
Mark the thirteen inch strike home.

Crash ! I feel the steel clad ship
Split and stagger, rend and rip ;
Then a shriek and then a hush,
As the dark ning waters rush

Thro the torn and gaping side
Of the foeman s hope and pride.
To the bottom of the sea
Go a thousand lives with me !

I m the shell, the thirteen inch,
Of the kind that never flinch,
Never slacken, never sway,
When the quarry blocks the way.

AN INTERNATIONAL MARRIAGE.

BY ANNA LEACH.

The American marriage that her aunt the duchess arranged for Mile. Berthe
de Berneville, and the American marriage that she arranged for herself.

/CULBERTSON saw her first at a garden
^-* party near Paris.

It was at one of those charming old places
into which the tourist never peeps of
which, indeed, he never so much as hears
except in the vaguest way. The American
of the " colony " knows that there is a
society in Paris into vhich he or she never
penetrates, but that class is rather inclined
to consider the old ntblesse stupid. Com
placent French counts and princes, who
accept invitations to the tents of the
" colony " to meet American heiresses, tell
the residents there that they admire Ameri
can so much more than French ways; that
there is a lack of conventionality, a domes
ticity, about the American menage which is
quite unknown to the French. " It can be
expressed," one of these said, " by the way
in whicl the chairs are placed. In the old
houses here they are in a row against the
wall. In the American houses they stand
about anywhere." He added, " It is de
lightful."

When by chance by the rarest chance
an American found herself near one of these
exclusives whose chairs were formally
placed, she was chilled, and not much in
clined to seek the privilege a second time.

But Culbertson was different. He went
everywhere. It began with his father, who
went to Europe at the time of the American
Civil War. He vas a delightful gentleman,
who saw no earthly reason why he should
stay at home and fight on either side. He
was a man from the western part of Vir
ginia, whose own father had had an idea
that slave holding was degrading to the
owner, and who had freed all the blacks he
owned. His son considered that the family
had c one their part before the war, settled
their attitude toward the question forever,
and might leave the rest of the world to
fight over what they had given up for
reasons of taste. It had left the Culbertsons
with a hampered income, for lavish living
Southerners, and Europe was the place in
which most could be obtained for the money
that was left. So to Europe he went with

his own son, still in the nursery governess
stage.

When Culbertson, Jr., was fifteen he per
formed the feat of going blindfolded
through the Pitti Gallery in Florence and
putting his hand on every picture he was
asked to touch. For seven years he had
passed through it four times a day on his
way to and from his school.

His father died when he was twenty two,
and left him with a crowd of good acquaint
ances, a Latin education, and, fortunately,
some of the economical habits of the Latins
he had grown up among; for the income
had become even smaller. However, Cul
bertson knew princes who were not so well
off.

He was thirty eight now, and he knew
everything and went everywhere. His
manners were the most beautiful in the
wor 1 d, having the frank sweetness of the
American gentleman grafted upon all that
is best to know in the ways of a diplomatic
and punctilious society.

It was nothing strange to him to find
himself in the ancient walled estate where
the marchioness was entertaining her
friends in the beautiful spring weather of
France.

He had been talking to his hostess when
he saw that beautiful girl. His eyes lighted
and dwelt lovingly upon her with the same
expression he gave to the Mona Lisa in the
Louvre, although she was not at all like
that inscrutable lady. When Culbertson
looked at her he felt something stir in him
which he must have inherited from the old
Virginia patriarchs heads of great families
of children and dependents who were his
forebears. She was so tall and lilylike and
young. He felt his knowledge of every
thing ; that she was embodied innocence
i.nd to be protected.

" She is lovely," his aostess said, in an
swer to his unspoken admiration. " A pity,
isn t it? "

" A pity? A pity to be the most ex
quisite human being on earth?" He lifted
his brows, but his voice (Culbertson s gentle

yoa

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

baritone voice had been called " liquid
velvet " by one of the young American heir
esses) was still full of deference to the
opinion of his hostess.

But the de Bernevilles haven t a sou."
The marchioness threw out her hands.
" Nobody in our class has any money. She
certainly cannot marry out of it. There is
nothing left for her but the convent. She is
no longer a child. It is inevitable."

" May I be presented?" Culbertson asked,
after a moment.

She lost some of the tender look of early
youth when he came closer. She was a
white rose, not a bud. Culbertson had a
fancy that she was a rose which kept its
freshness from refrigeration, like those blos
soms which the florists keep in the ice box.

She was quiet and had a delightful man
ner, but she was not shy. She could talk
if she chose, he was sure. She did not
recognize that he was an America". She
was evidently accustomed to the cosmo
politan, and the man whose taste was that of
a connoisseur found her interesting as welt
as beautiful. All the conversational straws
swayed gently in the right direction.

" She has tremendous reserve," he said to
himself admiringly. " She has the temper
of her race."

He thought of her in a convent, and then
he thought of other things. All the
American spirit was not out of Culbertson.
He was inventive, and, having been brought
up without his American birthright of an
occupation, he was still like that captive
baby beaver which dammed a leak in a
bucket, having never seen a stream.

He looked about for the girl s mother
presently, and he found that she had only
an aunt, who looked as though she was
breaking under the burden of her chaper-
onage.

"A beautiful idea!" Culbertson said softly
to himself, as he sat by the window of his
little apartment that night and smoked his
cigar. He could only afford one a day, but
that was exquisite of flavor and blended
perfectly with the perfume of the linden
bloom which came from the garden across
the street.

A long residence out of Anglo Saxon
atmosphere is not to be desired for a man
who is not of Latin blood and nerves. It
plays some queer tricks with the conscience.
The Latin has his standard, and the Eng
lishman or American has his. When the
boundaries of either are lost there is a wide
field to play in.

The next day saw Culbertson at the most
fashionable hotel in Paris, making a call
upon a man whose name had been in every
American paper every day for six months,

and who had left his native land slapped on
the back by his whole country. The far
mers in Nebraska and Wyoming knew him
by his Christian name. He was " Bob "
Massey to everybody, the man who at
twenty seven had gone into the speculative
field with the shrewdest heads in the nation,
and had bested them at their own game.
He had bought, actually bought and stored,
all the wheat in the country until he had
brought the price up step by step, letting a
little go to foreign countries now and then,
then holding tight again, until wheat had
" gone out of sight," and he had made s
many millions that it made the head dizzy
to think of it. The farmers called him a
" smart fellow," and laughed. They had
sold their wheat at a good price. It was
nothing to them (they thought) if flour was
higher. The brokers said, " Clever chap! "
and the American lovers of shrewdness told
each other anecdotes about him.

Culbertson had met Massey s sister in
Rome one year, but it was only today that
he thought of calling upon him. When -he
came into the room the expatriated Amer
ican was most agreeably surprised, and he
put forth more of that subtle charm of his,
which he himself thought of as a part of his
earthly capital, than he had expected. Bob
Massey was a handsome, fresh faced, manly
young fellow, with a hand clasp in which
you could feel the red blood under his
skin. He was frankly glad to see Culbert
son, of whom all Americans with social
aspirations had heard. Here was the one
man in Europe who could show him around,
and Massey wanted to see the best of every
thing. He wanted to buy some good
pictures, to know where they were, to meet
some of the men who made history in
Europe as the men he knew made it in
America. He thought it uncommonly kind
of Culbertson to look him up, and he told
him so.

It was two weeks later that Culbertson
gave a dinner. It was the height of the
Paris spring season, and he always gave
a dinner every year at this time. This year
it was a little smaller than usual, and one of
the guests was an American which was
unusual. Whenever Culbertson looked
back on that year (and as years went by he
often went lingeringly back to some of its
incidents while to some he went back to
be sure they were buried forever out of
sight) he thought that the fortnight between
the garden party of the marchioness and
that dinner was the busiest of his life. It
was the fullest of diplomacy, and it was
crammed with a factor in diplomacy which
is often ignored boldness.

He had made his way into the very

AN INTERNATIONAL MARRIAGE.

703

sanctum of a great French family, and he
had passed the portals of the mind of a
French girl of the old regime, and his heart
beat with exultation at his daring when he
thought of it.

There had been letters from the arch
bishop in Rome, who had been his father s
friend, to the old Duchesse de Berneville.
He had told the story frankly to the arch
bishop at least, the gist of it and the
archbishop had agreed with him that there
were many nuns in the church, but few wives
of gjjpat millionaires.

He had even been asked to dine in the
dilapidated de Berneville hotel, where raisins
and nuts made the dessert. But afterward,
he had heard Mile. Berthe sing, and had
seen her sitting before the piano in her thin,
white gown, the candle light making an
aureole around her flaxen head. And then
after her voice ceased and her hands began
playing tender, broken chords they two had
talked.

It had not been sentimental conversation
either. Her voice was low and sweet, and
his was tender, but what she had said was:
" I hate the thought of the church. That
unspeakable slavery! It may have been all
very well a hundred years ago, when there
was iaith; but who has faith nowadays? A
vocation? I have more of a vocation for
death. You can at least pass the time in the
grave with less ennui."

" I wonder sometimes," Culbertson had
said he was past fear now that he had
brought her so far; he saw possibilities
looming which he had so little expected that
they were like the substantiation of air
castles " I wonder," he said, " why you
Frenchwomen do not follow the example
of your men and marry fortunes American
fortunes."

"An excellent reason: we have not the
opportunity."

" But suppose you had? "

She turned her lovely face, and some of
the mask of ingenuousness had fallen away.
She looked into his eyes with a glance in
hers which was almost shrewd, and there
was humor, too, in the turned up corners of
her flowerlike mouth, which parted to show
sharp, even teeth.

" You are the only American I ever met;
the only one I am likely to meet. You have
no fortune. You have been inquired about."

Culbertson laughed back at her in sym
pathy. He thought that she was the one
woman whom he had ever met who alto
gether delighted him. " Human nature,
you are still alive in France, then! " he said
inside his brain.

" But if you were to meet one? A man
richer than many kings in Europe have

been ; a man with a great, generous heart ; a
man who would give you the world, who
would be glad that you came to him without
a penny, who would be anxious to gratify
every taste, every whim; who would leave
you with your position and add to it; who
would make you a queen indeed

" Where is he?"

" I know him."

And when she gave him her hand that
night they exchanged a look of camaraderie,
of understanding, which made the old
duchess look startled, and then settle again
into her knowledge of her niece and what
the wily archbishop had written of the
American.

Culbertson s task with Massey had been
child s play to this. He had told him of a
lovely French girl, " good family, but very
poor, tremendously pretty, clever and well
educated." Massey was in the state of
social formation when he liked to hear that
a pretty woman was well educated. He
had known those who were not, and he was
young enough, healthy enough, to be
unable to hear of a pretty girl of whom
another man spoke with gentle respect with
out being more than a little interested.

And when Culbertson had casually men
tioned his annual dinner and asked him to
come, he had found the information that
Mile, de Berneville was to be there the chief
event in his near future.

Culbertson was almost frightened at the
success of his plan. He had known it
would succeed, he told himself. He had
known, he said, that when fire and tow were
brought together a conflagration was the
inevitable result. But as he saw Massey s
face when he was presented to Mile, de
Berneville,hehadthefeeling of one who had
started an avalanche, and to save his life he
could not rid himself of the vague idea that
he was under it.

" It is a beautiful plan," he said over and
over again. " She will be the veritable
queen of American society. She will make
him the happiest man on earth, and he will
make her the happiest woman, for he is
as good as gold according to his lights,"
he could but add.

By this time he and the archbishop to
gether had primed the duchess. She had
been in an agony for days. She had des
pised and spurned the thought to begin with,
and then an old friend, a distant cousin,
whose son had married a rich American, had
come to see her, and they had wept over past
glories and concluded that nothing could
be done but make the best of the evil times.

" These Americans are not really like the
vulgar rich of other countries," the mother
in law of the American millions had said.

704

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" They are very docile. They take advice
and follow your leading quite blindly, and
they become presentable presently. And I
understand this M. Massey has billions.
Does Berthe rebel?"

" She knows nothing," her aunt said,
quite scandalized. " It is the thought of the
archbishop. One of the Americans, a man
who has been brought up quite like a gentle
man, is the the means."

" My son rebelled," the other sighed.

For a moment only, Culbertson saw
Berthe before she left his dinner. He had
taken a suite in which to give it, and there
was a balcony which overlooked the Champs
Elysees, banked tonight with roses.

All the evening, Massey had been beside
her, looking at her, speaking to her with
his heart in his eyes and trembling on his
tongue. He was full of the poetry of an
unspoiled American boy for all his wheat;
and she was like every ideal which had ever
been precious to him.

But for an instant she eluded him and
passed through the draped window on to
the balcony, and Culbertson followed her.
The rows of lights with the dark lines of
trees between led up to the Arc de
Triomphe, which loomed high against the
sky in that city of low houses. FisTcres,
carriages, people who laughed, went by. It
was gay Paris. Even in the dim light Cul
bertson could see that her cheeks were red,
that there was a something in her face which
does not belong in the face of a young
French girl. He started to speak, and then
he put his hand on the railing near hers,
and they stood facing each other. The rose
trees were around, behind her. Her beauty,
and the spiritual vibration of her exquisite
femininity struck his senses almost like a
pain. The perfume of the roses seemed to
be part of her. She laughed.

" Have you come to see if I think he will
do? " she said.

Culbertson turned his head and looked
away to where the moon hung over a distant
towered mount.

" You are singular for a French girl, after
all," he said.

" You must have realized that when you
came to me with your proposition."

" Yes, I think I did. If you had not been
singular, if I had not felt that you were one
to seize an opportunity, one to whom great
things should come, one who would under
stand, who could use tools, I should never
have come to you."

" Do you think it a great thing for me to
marry that boy?"

" He is a man. Men have found him a
man."

" I believe he is all you say. I can see

that he is good. But do you know how old
I am? I am not a girl ; I am twenty seven
years old."

" I must have known that too," Cul
bertson said slowly. All at once he had a
sensation that he had been asleep and was
waking up to vague trouble.

That night Massey wrung his hand hard
when he said good night. Then he hesi
tated, and clipped the end of a cigar, as
though he would like to stay and smoke.
He was the last, and Culbertson was
anxious for him to go, but he was as charm
ingly interested as though he were welcom
ing his first guest instead of speeding his
last.

" I think," Massey said deliberately,
" that the French way of bringing up girls
is right. It is it must be delightful for a
man to know that the woman he marries has
never been alone with another man; that
she has read no bad books, has seen no
vulgar plays, that her mind is white and
sweet, and that it is his task to keep it so.
I think it ought to make better men."

" Yes," Culbertson said.

" I suppose you wouldn t like to walk
about a bit? It s a fine night."

" Not tonight," Culbertson said again.
But after Massey had gone he did walk,
away up to the top of that towered mount
over which the moon hung.

He did not see her again for several days,
and then it was at a great function. All the
relatives had accepted Massey almost at
once, and his wooing sped. The story of it
^vas not yet in the American papers. The
Paris Herald had not heard of it. Mile, de
Berneville belonged to the class of French
women whose friends do not advertise them.

The season was almost over, and people
were flying out of Paris as the tourist came
in, when one day Culbertson went to the de
Berneville hotel to call.

He did not know why. He went because
he could not help it. Massey had called
twice at his apartment that day, and both
times he had sent word he was out.

He was not particularly surprised when
Berthe came in to see him alone. She
looked very girlish, very young, with her
shirt waist and white collar like an American
girl.

" Have you come to congratulate me? To
make the final arrangements?" she said
lightly.

" Has it come to that?"

" Have you not heard? It was yesterday.
It is to be announced immediately after we
go to the country. M. Massey has not yet
spoken to me. It has all been arranged
with my aunt. I am to be spoken to in the
country. He think he will like that."

SURRENDER.

705

There was little sunshine in the dingy old
room, with its heavy, tarnished gilding, faded
silk, and records of past splendors. Culbert-
son thought she looked white in the gloom.

" That is why I am allowed to see you
alone. I am in my aunt s eyes betrothed,
and you are the friend."

" I am glad I am that."

" Mr. Massey has been most generous.
He and my aunt spoke of settlements at
once. They were the important thing and
must be finished before I am spoken to."
There was a faint little smile on her lips, but
none in her eyes. " His settlements will
quite restore the family. They are splendid."

She spoke quite rapidly, with some hesita
tion now and then; and then, still not
looking at him, " My aunt has been without
a fortune so long that that I am afraid she
will be a little peculiar just at first." Cul-
bertson wondered why she was telling him
this.

" She will, of course, speak to you and
perhaps she will not be so generous. But I
want you to know that Mr. Massey is going
to give me a great income. I myself, after
ward, will make any arrangement you
think proper." She was breathless when she
stopped, and Culbertson was on his feet
his eyes blazing and his face as white as
death.

" Berthe! " he said. " Berthe! " and there
was anger and agony in his tone. He had
never dared to speak her name aloud before,

but he knew now that he must have said it
over to himself thousands of times.

The girl stood, too, and her face also was
white, and her teeth held a trembling lower
lip.

" Did you think " He had to stop and

swallow that the words might find a way
through his dry throat. " Did you think
that I was arranging a marriage for the
woman I loved for money ? " The last
word echoed with scorn.

" Why not? " she said wildly. " Why
should I think better of you than you
thought of me? What else could I think?
You are all selling me. What is it for ex
cept for money? Do you love Mr. Massey
so much that you "

Their eyes were clinging to each other
while they spoke. What did words mean?
The meaning was there in each other s eyes
for each to read. The training of a lifetime
fell from Culbertson in his supreme emotion,
and he was just a simple American man, with
the absolute certainty that he had a right to
the woman he loved so long as she loved
him and was not the wife of another man.
The primal instincts were strong in him,
and as for her a woman is always a woman,
and she finished that sentence in an unin
telligible murmur in Culbertson s neck. It
was not fair to Massey, but it is not always
the good whom fortune favors, nor the vil
lain who is disappointed; for life is always
life.

SURRENDER.

" AH, sweet, sweet heart, pray give me a rose

To carry with me today,
A white, white rose, like your own pure heart,

A talisman in the fray."

" I give you a red, red rose, dear heart,
For my heart s true love, deep red ;

Not the white rose for surrender, dear ;
Farewell ! " she softly said.

On a bloody battlefield he lies

With his face turned to his foes,
And the withered rose is stained and dark

Where the life blood ebbs and flows.

And a maiden murmurs sad and lone
Where the summer roses bloom,

Filling the air with the spicy scent
Of their subtle, sweet perfume :

" The red rose blooms for the noble heart,

Pulseless beneath the sod,
But the white is mine for surrender

Of him I loved best to God ! "

Mary F. Nixon.

OUR NATIVE ARISTOCRACY.

BY JAMES L. FORD.

The American millionaire, the " club man," and the " society woman/ as pictured in the
popjlar literature of the day, and how these familiar types of fiction differ from those of real life.

IF I could have this country made over to
suit myself, I would fit it out with a com
plete set of titled aristocrats, not because I
think that they would be of any public
benefit, but simply because I could vise them
in my business. Whatever we may think
about hereditary legislators and noblemen
and caste and laws of precedence, there is no
doubt that they are of enormous value to the
writer of books or plays. Take those ele
ments out of the fiction and dramatic litera
ture of England, and see how much would
remain. Then consider the condition of the
Israelites who were compelled to make bricks
without straw, and you will have an idea of
the disadvantages under which American
writers have been laboring since colonial
days.

Having no recognized aristocracy of our
own, we have been compelled to create one ;
or, to speak more accurately, a sort of
nobility has grown up in the popular mind,
and now, with the unanimous indorsement of
all the society columns, actually seems to
stand for something. This nobility consists
chiefly of millionaires, club men, and the
females of their species who are termed
"society " women and belles.

Perhaps the most important of all these
personages is the millionaire, who may be
said to hold a place in the popular esteem not
unlike that enjoyed by dukes and earls in
Great Britain, while those within reach of the
vast Vanderbilt or Astor inheritances may
safely be compared to princes or dukes of the
blood royal. A society woman is a woman
who rides in a carriage with two men on the
box, and does nothing except amuse herself ;
while a club man is one who is seldom with
out a silk hat, always has his trousers well
creased, is never seen after six except in
evening dress, and spends most of his waking
hours in the window of his club, conversing
with others of his kind. The " society belle "
is, according to the popular estimate, always
beautiful, generally frivolous, and invariably
the possessor of gorgeous apparel and splen
did jewels, which she wears at every hour of
the day and night.

My objection to our aristocracy is that its
different grades are not sufficiently distinct
for literary or dramatic use, and that it is
difficult for the writer to draw a picture of a
man worth two millions that is in any essen
tial particular different from that oi the supe
rior aristocrat who is worth t-.ve .ity millions.
This is strange, when we thi.ik of the vast-
gulf that lies between the millionaire and the
unfortunate who has been able to accumulate
only a paltry hundred thousand dollars or
so, and especially when we recall the pi .:ful
attempts that have been made from time to
time to create a sort of brummagem aris
tocracy of "quarter millionaires," "half
millionaires," and other equally contemptible
persons.

But the lines are becoming more and more
strongly marked with each succeeding year
and, thanks to the efforts of the society re
porter, information concerning our native
nobility is so freely disseminated nowadays
that it may not be long before native writers
will have something tangible to work on in
the way of American caste. About half a
century ago, according to the chronicles of
Mr. Charles Astor Bristed, himself a member
of one of the most illustrious families in our
plutocracy, there was an "upper ten thous
and" in New York. A decade ago Mr.
McAllister put the number at four hundred,
and of late there have been certain abortive
attempts to limit the peerage to thirty five.
But the term " Four Hundred" has taken
such a strong hold on the popular fancy that
it will be many a year before any other nu
merical limitation of social supremacy will
be generally accepted.

In the serial fiction which found place in
story papers like the New York Ledger a
quarter of a century ago, Congressmen, Gov
ernors of States, judges, and bankers, with
their immediate families, were put forward as
embodiments of exalted rank. Bronson
Howard was thus enabled to bestow upon one
of his early dramas of American society the
convincing and readily understood title of
"The Banker s Daughter." But nowadays
statesmen seem to have fallen into disrepute,

OUR NATIVE ARISTOCRACY.

707

and the writer who desires to enchain the
fancy of story readers must give them a hero
who is either a millionaire three or four times
over or else a member of the "Four Hun
dred." In view of the fact that these mil
lionaires, club men, and "society" women
and belles enjoy a distinct place in ephemeral
American literature, it is perhaps worth our
while to say a few words concerning their
counterparts in real life, and to show how
these differ in certain essentials from their
representatives in fiction.

One of the strangest superstitions about
the millionaire is one that is fostered not so
much by story writers as by word of mouth.
This relates to his prodigality in money mat
ters. How often do people exclaim, " That
man must be a millionaire twice over ! I saw
him pay for four bottles of wine in a Broad
way saloon the other night without turning
a hair " when, of course, as a matter of fact,
it practically never happens that a veritable
plutocrat drinks champagne in a Broadway
cafe". It is well known that half a dozen
sanguine racing men will spend more money
in that way in one evening than will all the
members of the Standard Oil Company in
the course of their lives. In short, what is
known as " wine opening " is more likely to be
a sign of pecuniary desperation than of long
inheritance or great accretions.

In the popular mind, the gentleman of
wealth and high breeding invariably keeps a
valet, whom he talks about and parades be
fore the gaze of his friends and acquaintances
with an ostentation similar to that which
characterizes a boy with his first silver watch.
The Marquis of Stcyne, one of the greatest
swells as well as one of the most unscrupu
lous scoundrels in the whole range of modern
fiction, and the character who, of all others,
conveys to us a vivid and truthful idea of
what English caste really is, may or may not
have kept a valet, but certainly there is not a
single allusion to that servitor to be found
between the covers of "Vanity Fair." And
nowhere in the whole volume does the real
spirit of high station show itself more strongly
than in his involuntary ejaculation when
Becky tells him how much she is obliged to
spend on her table in order to maintain her
position in society. "Gad! I dined with
the king yesterday, and we had boiled neck
of mutton and turnips for dinner."

No, the man who talks about his valet
among decent people, or anywhere, in fact,
except in the literature of modern snobdom,
is either voted a bore or else openly ridiculed.
Nevertheless, in the minds of the vulgar, the
" man " of latter day fiction enjoys a degree
of distinction not unlike that which was ac
corded in Coney Island, some years ago, to

John Y. McKane s coachman, a functionary
who received a warm welcome everywhere
as befitting one who " rides every day in the
same carriage with the chief."

In millionaire society the distinctions of
wealth are not as sharply drawn as the writers
of Ledger serials would have us believe. A
great many persons of very limited means en
joy the very best standing in society, and are
even eagerly sought by the families of pluto
crats because of their superior connection.
Nor is there any general disposition to snub
poor young men in accordance with one of
the most time honored of serial traditions.
On the contrary, there is no place in the
world where a poor young man can succeed
better, provided he possesses any social quali
fications whatever, than among these self
same millionaires, club men, and society
women who constitute our native aristocracy.

A great many story readers would probably
be bitterly disappointed, were they to enter
the realms of fashion, by the simplicity in
matters of dress which prevails there. It
would dispel many a cherished dream were
they to behold a "belle of Murray Hill"
arrayed in a morning gown of gingham, and
with no diamond necklace around her neck
or emeralds in her ears. It is true that the
making of her dress may have cost a great
deal, but at least there will be no ostentation
in its material. Her lover, who never ap
pears in the pages of the weekly story paper
except in a frock coat with long tails, or the
conventional broadcloth prescribed for eve
ning wear, and seldom without his high silk
hat, goes out to walk with her in rough, well
worn clothes, thick soled shoes, and a cloth
cap, and looks anything but the popular
ideal of what he really is.

The conversation at the breakfast table
does not hinge altogether upon the amount
of money, possessed by the different friends
of the family, nor does the mother urge upon
her daughters the necessity for marrying
money, certain weekly story literature to the
contrary notwithstanding. In many old
fashioned serials it was customary to repre
sent the purse proud millionaire command
ing his daughter to marry a foreign noble
man, pictured in the wood cut as a cross
between a bandit and a bunco steerer, while
the daughter declares her intention of wed
ding a mechanic who wears overalls and
makes chairs and tables for a living. In real
life the daughter will sometimes marry a
foreign nobleman, but the millionaire is more
than likely to prefer the mechanic for a son
in law, because in that case he at least knows
what he is getting.

The daughters of wealth and fashion, by
the way, are far more particular now than

yo8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ever before in regard to alliances with foreign
noblemen. Those bearing French, German,
or Italian titles are not looked upon with
favor, and even the " well connected English
man," who was once so eagerly sought after,
is now expected to give some substantial
reason for a butterfly existence before the
doors of desirable houses are thrown open to
him.

The exalted classes are never "agog"
whatever that may be when one of their
number opens a flower store, or sublets the
family name to a dressmaker, or " goe s into
trade," as the society reporters put it. The
fact is, so many of the best of our million
aires are, or have been, in trade of some sort
or other themselves that they can endure the
spectacle with a fair degree of equanimity.

The stage is largely responsible for the
erroneous impressions that prevail concerning
the ultra refinement and ivory polish that
characterize the highly placed in private life.
In what are known as "society plays" the
manners of the actors are marked by a degree
of flourish and exaggerated courtesy which
is never seen in real life outside of a barber s
shop. The stage aristocrat will gravely offer
his arm to the lady whom he wishes to escort
across the room ; the actresses assume atti
tudes that they have seen in fashion plates,
and the pretended members of the nobility
vie with one another in the haughtiness of
their demeanor. The result of all this is a
portrayal of millionaire and society life that
would awaken the ridicule of any one who
had ever seen the inside of a decent house.

The late Dion Boucicault was once re
hearsing a play of his which dealt with aris
tocratic society, when his attention was
attracted by the antics of an actress who was
assuming the airs and graces which seemed

to her to be a part and parcel of drawing-
room manners.

"And what are you doing? " demanded the
dramatist, as he fixed his searching eyes upon
her. "You re trying to play a lady, aren t
you ? " he continued.

"Yes, that is my part," she replied, won
dering what was coming next.

" Well, aren t you a lady?" he demanded
significantly. No further reproof was needed,
and when the play was produced there was
one woman in the cast, at least, who looked
and acted as if she were accustomed to draw-
ingrooms.

No, millionaires and society people are no
more elaborate in their courtesy or particular
as to their manners than are those who are
less fortunately placed. Indeed, some one
has said with considerable truth that "only
middle class people have good manners ;
smart people don t need them." But to their
credit, be it said, they are not haughty in
their treatment ot acquaintances who are
worth anywhere from forty cents to a hundred
thousand dollars, or who do not get their
names into the society chronicles of the day.

Nor are they in the habit of talking about
their possessions. In fact, they are rather
inclined to deplore hard times, and to refer
in terms of pointed regret to the various
economies that they are compelled to prac
tise. The talk about money, and how much
Mr. Oiltrust is worth, and how much Mrs.
Oiltrust spends, and how many men in livery
serve the guests at one of her dinner parties,
is heard chiefly in cheap boarding houses.
After a season of conversation of this sort, it
is a positive relief, as I can personally testify,
to meet people who are devoid of that osten
tatious pride of purse of which we hear so
much at boarding house dinner tables.

THE OIJ3 DAY DREAM.
THK old day dream ! Strive as I may,
I cannot drive its shade away ;

For tho I seek where sunbeams fall,
Their glinting light her smiles recall
Till thoughts of her turn gold to gray.

Ah, vain regret ! She was my day
In that far time. The pleasant way
Was where she led me in her thrall
The old day dream !

Could it one constant pang allay,

Or to the empty heart convey
One thrill of pleasure at its call,
Such joy would recompense for all ;

And I would welcome and bid stay
The old day dream.

James King Duffy.

FIVE LETTERS AND A CALL.

BY WILLIAM FREDERICK DDL

The tangkd love affairs, real and imaginary, of John Stockton Morrowby A
businesslike proposition, and an unbusinesslike change of plan*

JOHN MORROWBY sat in his room in
Montrose, New Jersey, writing a letter.
The room was large and pleasant, and
from the two west windows one could look
out upon trim lawns, pretty country places,
and hard, white roads bordered with elm
trees. In the distance was the long, blue
green "brow" of the Orange "mountain."
John was smoking a brier pipe, and his atti
tude showed concentration of thought. This
is what he wrote :

BROWVIEW, August 3, 1897.
MY DEAR PRENTISS :

I know that, being engaged to Vida Lincoln,
you are not supposed to have any secrets from
her. Still, there is a matter which I should
greatly like to discuss with you, which must be
in strict confidence. I do not wish to be the
cause of your having any secrets from her, but
this case is of such vital interest to me and, I
think, to you also, that I feel justified in asking
your permission. Think it over and let me
know.

How go the mines, and are you investing your
savings in mining stock? If so, may they all
prove small Klondikes to you and may your path
of progress be lined with gold and glory !

Montrose is about as usual. The new Field Club
house is popular as ever, and we hope to have
some jolly dances there this winter. Am just off
for a game at the tennis grounds, so farewell.

Sincerely yours,
JOHN STOCKTON MORROWBY.

Having finished his letter and his pipe at
the same time, Mr. Morrowby stamped the
one and hung the other up in the leather wall
case. Descending to the lawn, he mounted
his wheel and rode off for a game of tennis in
the beautiful Montrose grounds. As he en
tered the inclosure he doffed his cap to the
fair occupants of a pony cart, two buckboards,
and a four in hand coach which had lumbered
majestically in for a few moments on the way
to Summit for dinner. On the green level in
the center of the shaded grounds a dozen
young men in white duck trousers and pink
and blue outing shirts were playing. Their
alertly moving figures contrasted sharply with
the dark green background.

As John stood watching the final of a set

of doubles at his end of the grounds, Eliot
Lincoln and his sister rode in on their wheels,
with their rackets tied to the handle bars.

"Hello, Joiiu ! Waiting for a chance?"
Eliot sang out as he dismounted.

"Hello, Eliot! Good afternoon, Vida,"
John aaswered, joining them and stacking
his wheel with theirs. "I m awfully glad
you came. Yes, why can t we make up a
four ? This set is just finished. "

" All right, I ll ask Miss Bloodgood over
there ; she has her racket, I see ; and Eliot
went across to one of the pony carts.

"I ve just been writing to him," said
John, smiling at Miss Lincoln.

" Who is him ? " she asked.

"There should be but one him to you,"
John replied banteringly. "To Wilkes
Prentiss, of course. He s a friend of mine
out at the mines, you know. I ve just asked
him if I could have a secret with him which
you were not to be in."

Miss Lincoln colored a little and laughed
happily.

" How very aggravating ! " she exclaimed.
" Of course, if you don t want to tell me I
don t want to know ; but you are horrid to
tell me about it. I don t see why you can t
confide in me, too, John ; you have never had
cause to regret doing so in the past."

"I know it, Vida," John said, more
gravely. "You have always been a mighty
nice friend to con fide in, but inthiscase "

"Shake it up, over there; here s the
court ! " called out her brother from the net,
and in a minute more the quartet had added
another picturesque group to the animated
scene.

Ten days later, John received the following
letter :

CRIPPLE CREEK, August 8, 1807.
DEAR MORROWBY :

Of course you may. Go ahead perfectly
frankly. Vida knows all my secrets, but there
is no reason why she need know yours unless
you want her to. She and I have a perfect
understanding about those things, and you know
how sensible she is. Tell me all about it, old
man, and I ll do the best I can for you.

yio

MUNSKY 3 MAGAZINE.

Progress here is slow, and I have not made
any investments for the simple reason that I
have not been able to save anything. A student
of mining engineering nowadays does not easily
find the golden road to glory, and a comfortable
berth in Denver with a modest salary is the best
I can hope for for a good many years yet.

Your suggestion of Montrose gaieties makes me
realize what a lucky dog you are to be among
them. I get a little blue now and then, but
what s the use ? I know my road, and I m going
to stick in it. Give my regards to the fellows,
And believe me,

Yours, pegging away,

WILKES PRENTISS.

In writing his reply to the young engineer,
the attitude of Mr. John Stockton Morrowby
showed even more concentration of thought
than in his first communication. It was
rather long, and John meant every word in it.

BROWVIEW, August, 15, 1897.
DEAR PRENTISS :

I am going to write you in absolute frankness,
and shall keep nothing back. Whatever your
feelings are in regard to what I say, I trust you
will express them with equal honesty. I should
feel very sorry, indeed, if I thought our regard
for each other was to be in the least impaired.

As you know, Vida Lincoln and I are old friends.
We have always been much together, and since
you went awa} a year and a half ago, I have been
with her neither more nor less than when you
were here. We have so many interests in com
mon that we naturally see each other often.
When I want to fall back on a girl for a ride or a
drive I take her, and when she wants a man to
fill a dinner chair at the last moment, or take
her to the Country Club, when her brother can t
go, she calls on me.

Had I any idea of what was coming from all
this, I never should have continued in this beau
tifully platonic but dangerous manner, but I have
recently awakened to the fact that, from my side,
the platonic part of it has entirely faded away.
I am more in love with Vida than I had ever
believed I could be with any one. In fact, I
well, I won t go into harrowing details, when you
know me well enough to believe that when I say
I am in love, I am in love ! You also know me
well enough to understand that I have not given
Vida the faintest suspicion of such a thing. That
I am successful in this dissimulation is evident
from the fact that she treats me precisely as she
always has done. If she thought I was trying to
take advantage of your absence, you know how
she would recoiLfrom me.

I realize perfectly well that she has promised
to marry you, and I have no right to enter the
lists, but I believe, Prentiss, old man, that this
is a peculiar case, and, knowing your conscien
tious and analytical trend of mind, I am going to
explain what I mean.

Neither your love for a woman nor mine is that
selfish, blindly passionate kind that demands
possession of its object under any conditions.
We love in a way that wishes, first of all things,
happiness to the woman, even if oneself has to

be sacrificed. I feel that this is the highest and
most honorable kind of love, and the kind a
woman such as Vida deserves. Now, if you felt
that some one else could make her happier in life
than you could, what would you do ? Or, in
other words, if I feel conscientiously that,
should she love me, I could make her happier
than you could, ought she to have the opportun
ity of changing ? If she loves you wholly and
devotedly, of course that settles it, for with her
love is the only thing that is all important. But
let us look at it for a moment in the abstract.

You and she were engaged almost before she
entered society, and soon after that you went
west. You are a scientist and a practical man.
You will succeed in life, and are almost sure to
do more useful work for the world than ever I
shall do. But if Vida marries you, she must
leave her home and all her friends, and begin
life anew in Denver. You say your hopes are
only for a modest salary for a good many years
to come. You must be away all day, and she
knows nothing about hydraulics or silver mine
shafts.

On the other hand, I have plenty of leisure and
money. Vida loves music, and I am working at
composing and musical criticism. We have
everything in common. Should she marry me,
she could travel, hear the best music in Europe,
study and live where she wished, and my own
work would be directly in line with all her inter
ests in life.

Shall I put the case before her ? I will tell her
that I have written you, and that you have given
me permission, simply because you had her best
welfare at heart. If you say no, it is needless to
say that she shall never know of what has passed
between us or within my own heart. You may
depend upon my loyalty to you.

This has been a hard letter to write, and I could
not imagine myself writing it to any one but
your old dear self. Good by, old man, and, for
Heaven s sake, write soon to one who is trying to
see things in the right way.

Always your friend,

JOHN MORROWBY.

When this letter was completed, the writer
sealed and addressed it with elaborate care,
then sat back in his chair and consumed
three pipefuls of birdseye in solemn proces
sion.

Then he went down, mounted his wheel,
and rode over to the Lincolns .

Two weeks later the following letter came
to him.

CRIPPLE CREEK, August 24, 1897.
MY DEAR JOHN :

I have spent the last few days tramping furi
ously over these hills, trying in vain to calm
myself and get into a mood in which a letter to
you would be possible. I understand fully
every word in your letter, and appreciate the
situation absolutely. I honor you for the honor
able yes, noble way you have met a situation
which I can only regard as a catastrophe.

Ever since Vida came into my life, she has
been the end and aim of all my ambitions and

FIVE LETTERS AND A CALL.

711

hopes. I have had a hard life of it here, John,
harder than I should like to admit, and the one
thing that has cheered and encouraged me has
been the love that girl has given me and the
adoration I have for her. Your own life is so
rich and so full of happiness you have home and
friends and everything that wealth and culture
can give you that you cannot, perhaps, appre
ciate and understand just what this means
to me. The mere thought of a possibility of
Vida going out of my life has completely un
nerved me. For two days I was almost ill over
it. Then I grew calmer, and tried to realize the
question from her standpoint. You say my love
for her is unselfish. Of course I wish her to be
happy above all things yes, even at the sacrifice
of myself ; and yet I fear I have been all too
selfish in my love for her, for I find that 1 had
never quite realized all that her marriage to me
might mean to her till you put it in pardon the
expression cold blood on paper before me.
What you say may be true, though that thought
almost kills me. Heaven knows I want to do
what is right for her and for myself and for
you.

As I work here drearily day by day, it is the
constant vision of her that inspires -me with
courage. I feel her spirit always with me and
but, as you say, I will not go into harrowing
details.

Yes, John, speak to her. Tell her I told you
to put the case before her. I know how she
loves music, and how she would delight in
travel and opportunity for study, and God help
me ! let me know at once the result. I will not
write her again till I hear from you will say I
have a pinched hand or something. L,et me
know at once, John.

Yours,

WlLKES.

This letter came in the morning delivery,
and John Morrowby found it at his breakfast
table. He read it in the quietness of his
room, then read it again, and then finally put
it carefully in his pocket. Then he mounted
his wheel and rode to Mil burn and Short
Hills, and after circling among the pictur
esque stone residences there struck across to
the main road and climbed the long hill
toward Summit. When he reached Chatham
he turned and rode quickly back to Summit,
made a detour down to Beechwood, coasted
to Milburn, then rode slowly home. He had
ridden, perhaps, twenty five miles.

He spent the afternoon in his room, and
that evening he wrote the following letter to
Cripple Creek, putting on the envelope a
special delivery stamp.

BROWVIKW, August 29, 1897.
DEAR WILKES :

It s all right ! for you, I mean, not for me. I
have been around there this afternoon, and, with
out committing myself in any way, found that my
case was absolutely hopeless. We talked about
you and your work and prospects, and she in her
confidential way heaven bless her ! told me in a

beautifully sweet and simple manner how your
love had couie into her life and glorified it, and
how all her future hopes and plans were with
you, and how but again I will refrain from har
rowing details. She little suspected what all
that meant to me, and I got away as soon as I
could. I hope she didn t think me bored or un
sympathetic.

And now, my dear fellow, I feel that this has
been a somewhat remarkable correspondence of
ours, and I grieve that I should ever have been
the cause of putting you to the agony you evi
dently have suffered. We have both acted up to
the light that we could get, and have been honest
with ourselves and with each other.

You wrote me a letter that I appreciate with
all the feelings of honor and duty within me,
and I can only say that all the work and hardship
that will ever come to you out there alone among
the mines or anywhere else will be more than
paid for by the love Vida Lincoln has for you
and for you alone.

I am thinking of going away somewhere for a
trip.

God bless you both !

Faithfully your friend,

JOHN STOCKTON MORROWBY.

John Morrowby had not been near Miss
Lincoln for three days.

The afternoon of the 1st of September was
bright and summery. Vida Lincoln, seated
in a shady corner of her porch, where honey
suckle vines screened her from the avenue
across the wide lawn, was embroidering
"sunbursts" upon a white linen cover for
her tea table. Skeins of glossy, pale colored
silks lay on the table beside her.

Presently John Morrowby walked leisurely
across the lawn, wheeling his bicycle, and she
rose delightedly to greet him, dropping the
scissors which were in her lap. He greeted
her in his affectionate, friendly way, picked
up the scissors, and seated himself luxuriously
in the large wicker chair near her. As has
been seen, John was a conscientious fellow, and
yet while the last letter he had written to
Prentiss, as far as the conversation he had
described with Miss Lincoln went, had been
pure fiction, his conscience was seemingly
not troubling him in the least.

Soon he lighted the kettle for his com
panion, and while they were sipping their
tea he remarked quietly.

"Vida, do you remember that girl I met
in the woods last summer ? I told you about
her the day you drove me to Montclair. "

Vida put down her cup and took up her
work. She knew he was not expecting any
particular response, so she simply waited.
She did not remember the girl, but John
was always having girls. She must have
forgotten, she thought. But the real reason
why she did not remember her was because
there never had been such a girl.

712

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" I had a letter from her this morning," he
continued. "She spoke most affectionately
of our friendship, and "

Vida bit off the pink silk and looked up
sympathetically.

" And she said she knew I would rejoice
with her in a great happiness that had just
come into her life."

Vida put down the tea table cover on her
lap and rested her hands quietly upon it.

"They will be married during the holi
days," he continued slowly, his imagination
now in active working order. By the way,
Vida," he went on, with an air of relief at
having finished a somewhat dangerous sub
ject, " I have an uncle out in Denver, a min
ing expert and capitalist. He wants a young
man to help him iii his personal affairs, and I
have written him about Wilkes If he likes

him, it will mean simply everything to to
you both. 1

"John dear!" Vida exclaimed, jumping
up impulsively and again dropping her scis
sors ; "that s just like you; you always are
doing nice things for people. Oh, I do hope
your uncle will like Wilkes ! " she added
wistfully.

John held her hand for a moment, and
then descended the porch steps and picked
up his wheel.

" I decided a few days ago to run over to
Dresden for the winter," he said. "1 want
to see if I can t compose something decent."

" Was it a few days ago or this morning? "
slie asked archly.

John grinned and prepared to mount.

" Vida," he said, "don t presume upon old
friendship. You ask too many questions."

CLORINDA S VIOLIN.

it from its case,

That stolid thing of wood ;
She lifted it anear her face

How well it understood !
Then, while I burned with envious ire,

She laid her dimpled chin,
All pink with girlhood s first faint fire,

Upon her violin.

No wonder that it sudden woke

To ecstasy of life.
Such touch from granite might evoke

Love s rapture and love s strife.
No wonder that Clorinda s bow

Drew from each pulsing string,
Such harmony as Heaven must know,

When choired angels sing.

Oh, I am but a stolid thing,

With lips that mutely fail
My heart s pent melodies to sing

In passioned plaint or wail ;
But if Clorinda once should rest

That little dimpled chin
Against my stupid wooden breast,

I d shame her violin !

Lulah Ragsdale.

THE RISE AND FALL OF SPAIN.

BY RICHARD H. TITHERINGTON.

A GREAT HISTORICAL ROMANCE IN BRIEF HOW SPAIN SUDDENLY ROSE TO THE FIRST

PLACE AMONG THE NATIONS, AND HOW HER DAYS OF GREATNESS AND GLORY

HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED BY THREE CENTURIES OF STEADY DECADENCE.

"THERE is no more remarkable and
* romantic chapter in the history of
the world than that which tells the story
of modern Spain of her sudden and
tremendous expansion, of her rapid and
seemingly irremediable decay. It is one
of the most tragic of historical dramas,
though among its dark passages of blood
and crime, of cruelty and treachery, of per
secution and oppression, there are bright
pages of loyalty, heroism, and enterprise.
Every historian, every poet, every
traveler has felt the fascination of the
strange land that nature has cut off from
the rest of Europe by the encircling sea
and by the mighty mountain wall of the
Pyrenees. Many another has known the
spell that Longfellow voiced :

How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore !

What dreams romantic filled my brain

And summoned back to life again

The Paladins of Charlemagne,

The Cid Campeador !

At the dawning of modern histor} r
usually dated as beginning with the latter
half of the fifteenth century Spain, like
Italy, was merely a geographical expres
sion. Carthage had been her mistress,
and then Rome. Her days of honor as the
foremost province of the Caesars empire,
the motherland of such great Romans as
Trajan and Hadrian, Martial and Lucan,
Seneca and Quintilian, had been followed
by successive waves of barbaric invasion,
by a Gothic kingdom that lasted three
hundred years, and by the coming of the

THE GARDENS OF THK ALCAZAR, SEVILLK. THE ALCAZAR WAS Till: PALACE OF THE MOORISH

RULERS OF SEVILLE, AND LATER WAS FREQUENTLY THE RESIDENCE OF THE

SPANISH KINGS. THE GARDENS WERE LAID OUT BY CHARLES V.

7*4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE EMPEROR CHARLES V. THIS EQUESTRIAN PORTRAIT^ OK THE GREATEST MONARCH OF HIS

AGE CHARLES V, EMPEROR OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE, KING OF SPAIN AND NAPLES,

AND DUKE OF BURGUNDY IS ESTEEMED BY MANY CRITICS AS THE FINEST

PORTRAIT PAINTED BY ANY OF THE OLD MASTERS.
From a photogra^ ure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Titian in the Prado, Madrid.

conquering Saracen from Africa. For
seven centuries cross and crescent had
made the peninsula their battle ground,
the bloody frontier between them being
pushed now forward and now back, but
moving graduall}- southward as the
Moorish power declined. Cordova had
had its hour as the first city of medieval
Europe, and the center of western civil
ization. The north and the center of
Spain had been divided between the
Christian states of Aragon, Navarre, and
Castile, which latter had absorbed Leon
and Asturias. Facing toward the Atlantic,

Portugal, once overrun by the Moors, and
then tributary to Castile, had regained her
independence. The followers of Islam
still held their own in Andalusia, where
the} had set their last stronghold
and most imperishable monument, the
Alhambra, upon the citadel hill of Gra
nada.

THE BIRTH OF A NEW SPAIN.

It was at this historical moment that
modern Spain was to be born. From her
division and isolation she was suddenly
to become a nation, to be brought into

THE RISK AND FAIJv OF SPAIN.

contact with the outer world, and to assert
her supremacy over almost half of it all
within a single generation. Almost as
quickly she was to be dethroned, to see
her power decay and her scepter pass into
other hands. The great drama was to

elements of strength and the seeds of
decay. The sword was her weapon in the
winning of empire. For seven hundred
years Spain had been a school for soldiers,
and had been breeding a race of them.
Her nobles lived in the field, warring,

THE PALACE OF SAN TELMO AT SEVILLE. THIS RICHLY DECORATED PALACE, WITH ITS FINE

GARDENS AND PICTURE GALLERY, IS NOW THE RESIDENCE OF THE DUC DE MONT-

PENSIER, A DISTANT COUSIN OF THE SPANISH ROYAL FAMILY.

have its heroine a woman who has a far
better title than Elizabeth of England or
Catherine of Russia to be called the
greatest queen of history ; it was to have
its villains only too many of them and
its picturesque and stately figures.

The young nation that grew so suddenly
to mighty stature, and whose hands
reached out so swiftly for world wide
dominion, had within herself both the

as Burke says, " against their Moslem
rivals as a constant duty, and against
their Christian neighbors as a no less
constant pleasure. Her armies, led by
the Great Captain, Gonsalvo of Cordova,
proved as irresistible in Europe as they
were under Cortez and Pizarro in the new
world. From the battle of Seminara, in
1503, for more than a century of almost
constant fighting, the Spanish infantry

7i6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

PRINCESS ISABELLA, DAUGHTER OF KING EMMANUEL OF PORTUGAL, AND WIFE OF THE

EMPEROR CHARLES V.

From a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting: by Titian in the Pracio at Madrid.

never suffered a defeat. It was not until
Rocroy, in 1648, that their prestige was
finally shattered, and the} learned that
others had outstripped {hem in the arts
of war.

THE WOOING OP A SPANISH PRINCESS.

If Don Pedro Giron, a nobleman of the
court of Henry IV of Castile, had lived a
few days longer, the later history of Spain

might have been differently written.
Henry, the last prince of the ancient
house of Trastamara, had insisted that
his sister should marry Don Pedro ; and
although the young Princess Isabella
protested, preparations were made for the
wedding, which would probabl}- have
taken place had not the expectant bride
groom died. Thereupon the princess
found refuge in a convent, where she was

7i8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It is illustrative of the ethics of the

not further molested, although, her brother the battlements before the travelers were
being childless, many foreign princes recognized. He met the princess at
would gladly have wooed the heiress Valladolid, and there, in a private house,
to the Castilian crown. The Duke of with very little of ceremony, they were
Gloucester, afterwards execrated as the married,
hunchback Richard of England, was
one of these tentative suitors.

But Isabella, who had a will of her own
early in life, had fixed her fancies else
where upon her young cousin, Ferdi
nand, son and heir of John II of Aragon.
At eighteen, Ferdinand was distinguished
for his good looks and his prowess in
martial exercises. Isabella, a year his

%:- " * ; "

THE FAMOUS CATHEDRAL OF SEVILLE, THE GRANDEST MONUMENT OF MEDIEVAL SPAIN. THE

CATHEDRAL, ONE OF THE THREE OR FOUR LARGEST AND GRANDEST IN EUROPE, WAS

BUILT IN THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES, FOLLOWING THE BROAD

RECTANGULAR PLAN OF AN EARLIER MAHOMETAN MOSQUE. OF THE FINE

BELFRY, THE GIRALDA OF WHICH THE TOWER OF MADISON SQUARE

GARDEN IS A MODIFIED COPY THE LOWER PART IS MOORISH,

THE UPPER PART SPANISH, ADDED IN 1568. "~-

senior, had the blue eyes and golden hair
of her English grandmother, a daughter
of John of Gaunt, and was described by
one of her household as "the handsomest
lady I ever saw." The Aragon ese king
and prince welcomed the match ; but they
had enemies both in their own country
and in Castile, and when Ferdinand set
forth to meet his bride he traveled in dis
guise, with a compan3 T of merchants. He
arrived at the castle of Burgo de Osma,
which was held by adherents of Isabella,
in the night, and had a narrow escape
from being killed by a stone thrown from

country and the time to learn that there
were some scruples about this marriage
of cousins, and that, in order to quiet
them, the King of Aragon, being on un
friendly terms with the Pope, forged,
with the assistance of the Archbishop of
Toledo, a papal bull authorizing the
union. Years later, when Isabella dis
covered the forgery, another Pope, Sixtus
IV, gave her a genuine document, which
he obligingly dated back to the time of
the marriage.

Isabella s wedding day was the i9th
of October, 1469. Five years later her

PHILIP II OF SPAIN. TITIAN WAS THE FAVORITE PAINTER OF CHARLES V, WHO SUMMONED HIM
FROM ITALY TO THE IMPERIAL COURT AT AUGSBURG ; AND THIS PATRONAGE WAS CON
TINUED BY PHILIP II UNTIL THE GREAT PAINTER S DEATH IN 1576.
From a photogravure ty the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Titian in the Pr.ido at RfadriJ.

720

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

DON CARLOS, SON OF PHILIP II OF SPAIN. THE BEST MONUMENT OF THE SPANISH COURT OF

THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY IS THE SPLENDID SERIES OF PORTRAITS OF KINGS AND QUEENS,

PRINCES AND PRINCESSES, NOW PRESERVED IN THE ROYAL GALLERY.

Front a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Coello in the Prado at Madrid.

brother s death left her Queen of Castile,
Leon, and Asturias.

THE GREATEST QUEEN OF SPAIN.
The situation that this young queen
of twenty four had to face was not an
easy one. Castile had been unlucky in
its rulers. The court was traditionally
vicious ; the treasury was empty ; the
church was corrupt as was scarcely

strange when it had been a recognized
practice for the king to appoint his cast
off mistresses to high places in religious
orders. The peasantry were sturdy but
undisciplined ; the roads swarmed with
robbers. A great number of licensed
mints, and others that dispensed with
any license, were turning out debased
money, and commerce was at a standstill.
Isabella undertook nothing less than

THE RISE AND FAU, OF SPAIN.

721

INFANTA ISABELLA, DAUGHTER OF PHILIP II OF SPAIN. THIS IS A VERY CHARACTERISTIC,
BEAUTIFUL, AND DIGNIFIED PORTRAIT OF A SPANISH PRINCESS IN THE GREAT

DAYS OF SPAIN.

A^rom a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Coello in the Prado at Madrid.

the entire reorganization of the govern
ment. She traveled everywhere and per
sonally investigated every abuse. She
instituted the famous police force of the
Santa Hermendad, or Holy Brotherhood,
whose value was proved by the fact that
at the end of the century turbulent Spain
was accounted the most orderly country
in Europe. She razed fifty castles of
robber knights, and exiled more than a
thousand of the marauders. She deprived

many of the Castilian grandees of the
privileges and grants of public property
bestowed upon them by her spendthrift
brother.

A disturbing element had been the
prerogatives usurped by the three great
military orders of Calatrava, Santiago,
and Alcantara. Isabella extinguished
their power by a neat stroke of diplo
macy. She secured Ferdinand s election
to the headship of all three, thus making

THE ARCHDUCHESS JOANNA OF AUSTRIA, DAUGHTER O - THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.
From a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Moro in the Prado at Madrid.

THE RISE AND FALL OF SPAIN.

THE INFANTA JUANA (ARCHDUCHESS JOANNA), DAUGHTER OF FERDINAND AND ISABELLA OF SPAIN.
THE SUBJECT OF THIS PAINTING IS NOT POSITIVELY KNOWN, AND IT HAS ALSO BEEN

CATALOGUED AS A PORTRAIT OF THE INFANTA ISABELLA, JOANNA S SISTER.
From n pliotograph by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Rafael in. the Louvre.

them mere appanages of the crown. She
reformed her court. She made roads and
bridges, and abolished the private mints.
And all that she did was accomplished
without bloodshed or civil disorder.

A new era of prosperity opened for
Spain. Industry and commerce flour
ished ; the steel of Toledo, the silvenvork
of Valladolid. the silk of Granada, the
leather of Cordova, and the wool that was
the peninsula s choicest product, went
across the seas in the ships of Barcelona.
And over all was a strong, centralized

government, with an overflowing treas
ury. When Isabella came to the throne,
the public revenue was less than a
million reales ($50,000); in 1504 it had
risen to forty two million reales.

THE EXPANSION OF SPAIN.

In 1479, when King John died, Ferdi
nand and Isabella were rulers of all Spain
except the little corner of Navarre, of
which Ferdinand s sister was queen, and
the Moorish kingdom of Granada. To
the conquest of the latter the}- deliber-

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ately set themselves. There were eleven
years of war, in which, if Ferdinand was
the leader of armies, Isabella was their
organizer ; years whose detailed story,
with the first exploits of the Great Cap
tain, the romance of Boabdil, and the

pared to the tremendous expansion that
followed.

On the 2nd of January, 1492, Isabella
entered Granada. On the I2th of Ma}-,
in the same year, Columbus left the old
Moorish city with his commission as

- "

PHILIP IV OF SPAIN. THIS PORTRAIT, SHOWING KING PHILIP IN CORSELET AND PLUMED HAT,

WITH A BATON OF MILITARY COMMAND IN HIS HAND, IS CONSIDERED TO BE THE
FINEST OF VELASQUEZ PORTRAITS.

From a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic on:pany after the painting by I elasquez in the Prado at Madrid,

tragedy of the Abencerrages, ma}* be
found in the histories ; years that end
with "the last sigh of the Moor" as
he turned, on his journey toward exile,
for a farewell look at the white minarets
of the Alhambra.

The Spaniards conquest of their an
cient foes echoed through the world. It
was celebrated by a " Te Deum " sung in
St. Paul s Cathedral by order of Henry
VII. But it was a small success com-

" admiral of the ocean, " and set forth to
win a new world for Spain. This, too,
was the queen s doing, for when, after
long consideration of his plan, Ferdinand
final ly dismissed the Italian sailor, Isa
bella summoned him, and promised the
ships and money he needed, assuming
the undertaking "for her own crown of
Castile," and declaring herself read} to
pawn her jewels if her treasury had been
emptied by the war with the Moors.

THE RISE AND FALL OF SPAIN.

725

QUEEN ISABELLA, WIFE OF PHILIP IV OF SPAIN. DURING THE LONG REIGN OF PHILIP IV

(1621-1665) VELASQUEZ WAS BOTH COURT PAINTER AND QUARTERMASTER GENERAL

OF THE ROYAL HOUSEHOLD. HE PAINTED ABOUT FIFTY PORTRAITS

OF THE KING AND QUEEN.

From a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by I elasquez in thf Prado /if Madrid.

When the Italian sailor returned from
his first memorable voyage, neither he
nor the sovereigns who welcomed him
had any conception of the epoch making
magnitude of his discovery, or of what it
meant to Spain and to civilization. This
was gradually unfolded, as Columbus
w r as followed by Vespucci, Magalhaes,
Sebastian Cabot, Cabeza da Vaca, and
the other navigators who have put Span
ish names upon half the great headlands
of the eastern and western seas. "Are
there no regions yet unclaimed by Spain?
asked an English poet. The question
was no idle one, for the Catholic Kings
regarded almost the whole extra European
world as their domain ; and its richest

parts the}- systematically and unscrupu
lously drained of treasure.

The result, to Spain, was a sudden and
immense increase of the nation s wealth,
with a baneful effect tipon the national
character. Gold and silver were sent
across the Atlantic literally in hundreds of
tons. The native rulers were mercilessly
plundered of their possessions. Their
people were enslaved and set to labor in
mines that poured forth precious metals
to enrich the conquerors. Adventurers
went out to America, and in a few years
returned as millionaires. Countless stories
are told of the wild extravagance of the
noitvcaux riches. A soldier who married
the daughter of a nobleman in Barcelona

726

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

DON BALTHASAR CARLOS, SON OF PHILIP IV OF SPAIN. THIS YOUNG PRINCE, WHO AFTERWARDS
CAME TO THE THRONE AS CHARLES II (1665-1700), WAS THE LAST OF THE HAPSBURG

LINE OF SPANISH KINGS.
From a photogravure by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by Velasquez in the Prado at Madrid.

gave away twelve million reales in alms
on his wedding day. Another returned
Spaniard stood at a window in Madrid
and threw two barrels of coins into the
street, to watch the populace scrambling
for the money.

THE CHAMPION OF SLAVERY.

But other causes were more directly at
work to effect the downfall of Spain. Her

ruin was already beginning when her
greatness was new, and both the greatness
and the ruin were the work of the same
hands. Strong and far sighted empress
as she was, Isabella was a typical Spaniard.
She belonged to modern history in date,
but not in spirit. She represented sys
tems and ideas that had had their day.
She had no vision of the dawning of
libertv as the light of the world. Her

THE RISE AND FALL OF SPAIN.

-27

MARIA CHRISTINA, O.UEEN REGENT OK SPAIN.
From a photograph by Debas, Madrid.

ALKONSO XII, THE LATE KING OF SPAIN.

From a photograph by Debas, Madrid.

eyes were turned to the sunset to which greatness and military glory say from

Spain has been looking ever since. the conquest of Granada to the destruc-

During the century of her material tion of the Armada Spain stood forth as

THE ALCALA GATE, MADRID. THIS TRIUMPHAL ARCH WAS BUILT BY CHARLES III (1759-1788),

WHO WAS PROBABLY THE MOST CAPABLE RULER SPAIN HAS HAD SINCE THE DEATH

OF THE GREAT ISABELLA. HE RESTRICTED THE POWER OF THE INQUISITION,

EXPELLED THE JESUITS FROM SPAIN, AND RECOVERED MINORCA

FROM THE ENGLISH.

728

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ALFONSO XIII, THE BOY KING OF SPAIN. ALFONSO WAS BORN MAY IJ, 1 886, SIX MONTHS AFTER
HIS FATHER S DEATH, AND WAS PROCLAIMED KING OF SPAIN ON THE DAY OF HIS

BIRTH, WITH HIS MOTHER AS REGENT.
From his latest photograph by }~aleniin, Madrid.

the great champion of slavery for the
minds and bodies of men. There \vasno
Rennaissance, no Reformation, south of
the Pyrenees. While thought was strik
ing off its shackles elsewhere, the Spanish
primate was publicly burning manuscripts
suspected of hostility to the church.
When strangers were welcomed in the in
tellectual and commercial world of every
other civilized land, Spain was banishing
the Jews, who constituted her financial

strength, and persecuting the Moors, her
most industrious and inventive citizens.
In her stubborn loyalty to dying ideas,
she poured out her blood in a disastrous
struggle against the forces of the modern
world. " She remained," says Burke,
" an old fashioned t3 T rant, odious, if
dreaded, in the day of her power, mereh*
contemptible when that power passed."

Of all the nations, at the opening of
modern history, Spain had the grandest

THE RISE AND FAIJ, OF SPAIN.

729

opportunity, and most signally wasted it ;
and as her own most famous writer has
said: " There are no birds in last year s
nest."

Something somber and austere
O er the enchanted landscape reigned

A terror in the atmosphere,

As if King Philip listened near,

Or Torquemada the austere
His ghostly sway maintained.

There are Spanish writers who dare to
defend the Inquisition a fact which
proves that courage is not extinct in the
land of the Cid. Yet even the devout
Isabella, who permitted the awful institu
tion to be planted among her people, did
not view it with entire equanimity when
she lay on her deathbed. " I have caused
great calamities, " she said ; "I have de
populated towns and provinces and king
doms, for the love of Christ and of his
Holy Mother ; but I have never touched
a maravedi of confiscated property. I have
used the money in educating and dower
ing the children of the condemned "
the truth of which latter plea is ques
tioned by historians.

THE SPANISH INQUISITION.

Spain, of course, is not the only coun
try in which unspeakable cruelties have
been done in the name of a God of mercy.
Other lands had their Sicilian Vespers
and their St. Bartholomew s P/ve, their
massacres of Muret and Carcassonne, their
fires of Smithfield, their harryings of
Waldenses or Hussites ; but it is not
strange that the Inquisition should be
.specially identified with Spain. It grew
out of the work of a Spaniard of Castile
St. Dominic, who founded the order that
bears his name as a weapon for the reclama
tion of the heretic. It was a Spanish
pope the masterful and unscrupulous
Borgia, Alexander VI who did most to
spread its power. It is the Spaniard Tor-
qiiemada, a member of Dominic s order,
who is pilloried in history as the minister
of its most hideous excesses.

To Isabella and her money loving con
sort, the establishment of the Inqtiisition
was to a great extent a revenue measure.
A very important feature of the system
was that while one third of the convicted
heretic s goods were forfeited to the
church, two thirds went to the state. But
9

this addition to the public revenue was
dearly bought. The inquisitor s reign
was one of terror. No citizen was safe
from the secret denunciation that led to
the secret trial and the almost certain
conviction. The flimsiest and most far
fetched charges were enough to forfeit the
victim s life; or if his life were spared,
his property almost never was, for there
was not an acquittal in a thousand cases.
Two bishops were accused on the ground
that their fathers, rich Jews, had recanted
Christianity on their deathbeds. One
was condemned for this paternal offense ;
the other escaped only by a direct appeal
to Rome.

HOW SPAIN SHED SPANISH BLOOD.

So widespread was the fear of the Inqui
sition, that nobles, to insure their per
sonal safety, would assume the sable liv
ery of the familiars " of the Holy Office.
That it profoundly affected the national
character, there can be no doubt. Burke
sums up its results as " a rapacious gov
ernment, an enslaved people, a hollow re
ligion, a corrupt church, a century of
blood, three centuries of shame." As to
its actual number of victims, authorities
differ widely. They must have been
shockingly numerous, for it is recorded
that in the first year of its operation
1481 in the province of Seville alone,
more than two thousand people perished
at the stake as heretics. And where
Torquemada slew his thousands in Spain,
his disciples in the New World relent
lessly slaughtered their ten thousands.

Nor is this the whole tale of the disas
trous bigotry of Spain s first great mon
arch. The year 1492, which saw Isabella
enter Granada and despatch Columbus to
the discovery of America, witnessed ;\
third event pregnant with meaning for
Spain and the world the expulsion of
the Spanish Jews. This was the most
barbarous and disastrous persecution of
the Hebrew race in the history of Europe.
Two hundred thousand people, who, as
has been said, constituted Spain s com
mercial backbone, were consigned nomi
nally to banishment, actually to spolia
tion and death. They were allowed to
sell their property, but forbidden to carry
the money out of the country ; and while
to stay in Spain was a capital offense, the

730

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Pope passed a bull enjoining all foreign
governments to arrest " fugitive Jews "
and return them forthwith to the Spanish
authorities.

In the same spirit, ten years later, an
other royal edict declared Islam abolished
in the Spanish dominions. As much
mercy was shown to Isabella s Mahometan
subjects as to the Jews. The decree that
exiled them forbade them to seek refuge
in Africa or any Mussulman country.

Such was Spain in her day of greatness.
A blight was upon her growth ; she was
self doomed to deca3 r . Her expansion
was to continue for a time, for in the
3 r ear of Isabella s death, her Great Cap
tain, Gonsalvo de Cordova, gave Ferdi
nand, as the spoil of war, the crown
of Naples and Sicily. The conquest
of Navarre, a few years later, pushed
the same king s frontier to the Pyr
enees. To his grandson there came
the sovereignty of Burgundy and the
Netherlands by inheritance, and the
imperial crown of Germany by election.
His great grandson secured a temporary
hold upon the duchy of Milan and the
kingdom of Portugal ; but this aggran
dizement of her rulers brought weakness
rather than strength to Spain.

SPAIN S FOREIGN DYNASTIES.

Indeed, with Ferdinand ends the history
of Spain s Spanish kings. She was to be
ruled, henceforth, by two foreign djmas-
ties the Hapsburgs of Austria and the
Bourbons of France.

Marvelously fortiinate in other respects,
Isabella and her consort were unlucky in
their children. Their only son died a few
weeks after his marriage to a daughter of
the Emperor Maximilian. Their eldest
daughter, her mother s namesake, married
two princes of Portugal successively. To
her second husband she bore a son, heir
to both the peninsula s crowns, but she
died in childbirth and her son followed
her to the grave in infancy.

Another daughter was the unhappy
Catharine, the wronged wife of Henry VIII
of England. Another Juana, or Joanna
lived to be the mother of a long line of
kings, and to endure a fate far worse
than early death. For her Isabella ar
ranged a marriage with the Archduke
Philip of Austria, son of the Emperor

Maximilian, thus forging a double bond
between her royal house and that of
Hapsburg. The young archduke inherited
the sovereignty of Burgundy from his
mother, Mary, the only child of Charles
the Bold. After Isabella s death he and
his wife left Brussels, then the capital of
their duchy, for Spain, to assert Joanna s
rights as heiress to the Spanish crown.
Not far from the frontier, at the village of
Vallafafila, Ferdinand met them.

A CHAPTER OE SPANISH DIPLOMACY.

The story of the meeting at Vallafafila
is characteristic. The only building in
which the princes could confer was the
village church, and there there was a long
interview with closed doors. When the
doors opened, a treaty was publicly pro
claimed, by which Ferdinand not only
recognized the prospective rights of "his
most beloved children " ; he ceded them
the throne of Castile absolutely and im
mediately. He liad decided to betake
himself to his Italian kingdom of Naples.
Such was the announced settlement ; but
Ferdinand and Philip had also made
a private agreement that the archduke
alone should have power in Spain, and
that Joanna and her adherents should be
excluded from all share in the government
by the forces of both the contracting
parties. And at the same time and place
this veteran master of Spanish diplomacy
had executed a formal document before an
apostolic notary, setting forth that "un
armed and attended by only a few servants
he had fallen into the hands of his son at
the head of a great armed force ; that all
his acts were void, and that he solemnly
protested against the wrong done his
daughter. "

But Joanna s fate was sealed; and s
was her husband s.

Ferdinand said a tender farewell to his
" beloved children, " and sailed for Naples,
leaving a trusted familiar to be Philip s
personal attendant. Within three weeks
Joanna was shut up in the fortress of
Tordesillas, it being announced that she
had lost her reason ; and Philip was dead
of asudden chill, the court physicians said ;
but there were not unnatural suspicions
of poison. Ferdinand came back to Spain,
to die there, and to recognize his grand
son, Charles, as his heir ; but there was

THE RISE AND FAU, OF SPAIN.

no mercy for Joanna from father or son, and
she remained a prisoner at Tordesillas for
forty six years, to the day of her death.

THE HAPSBURG KINGS OP SPAIN.

Born at Ghent, brought up at his father s
court in Brussels, Charles never saw
Spain until nearly two years after he be
came its king. Two years later, he left it
to take the imperial crown of Germany,
and thenceforth his interests seemed to lie
beyond the Pyrenees. . He waged his
wars as a German and Italian sovereign,
and as the self constituted arbiter of
Europe ; Spain was but the storehouse
from which he drew his revenues and the
material for his armies. He never was
much more than a visitor to the penin
sula till, a worn out old man at fifty five,
weary of the world and all it had to offer,
he gave up his thrones and retired to his
sybaritic cell in the monastery of Yustc
a fruitful text for sermons upon the vanity
of human ambition.

For four more generations the crown of
Spain passed from father to son in the
Hapsburg line. Of these four monarchs
Philip II, Philip III, Philip IV, and
Charles II the first named is familiar in
history as the husband of Mary of Eng
land, who lost Calais by being drawn
into his quarrel with France, and as the
king who sent the Armada to crush the
insolence of his dead wife s sister, Eliza
beth. The Armada s disastrous failure,
shattering Spain s maritime prestige,
and leaving the command of the sea to be
fought for by Holland and England, and
to be won by the latter, was merely an in
cident in the country s steady decline.

It has been the unique ill fortune of
Spain that of the thirteen sovereigns she
had between the great Charles and the
boy Alfonso, scarcely one possessed even
the average of character and ability. A
beneficent autocrat might have arrested
her decay ; these were autocrats for two
centuries the tribute of the colonies ren
dered them independent of representative
bodies, and from 1713 to 1789 the Cortes
never met ; but they were almost uni
formly weak, cruel, and utterly immoral
and incapable. Two or three were noto
riously tainted with insanity.

Ruled by such men, and by the minis
ters they chose, it is no wonder that since

the sixteenth century Spain s history has
been a long catalogue of disasters. Bur
gundy, Milan, Naples, and Sicily passed
from her ; Portugal and the Netherlands
revolted and regained their independence.
When her last Hapsburg king died child
less, bequeathing his crown to a French
prince, the grandson of L,ouis XIV who
thereupon declared that "the Pyrenees
no longer exist " she was harried in the
long War of the Spanish Succession,
which ended with further losses of terri
tory, and with the English flag posted at
Gibraltar.

SPAIN AS THE SPORT OP NAPOLEON.

Then Europe was upheaved by the
French Revolution. Spain at first joined
the powers allied against France, and a
French army invaded her ; then she took
sides with France, and England captured
Trinidad, and cut off her commerce with
America. Promising to drive the British
from Gibraltar, Napoleon took Louisiana
from her to sell it to Jefferson three years
later and compelled her to contribute to
the expenses of his grand project for in
vading England. Trafalgar followed,
forever ending the sea power of Spain.

Next Napoleon and the reigning Span
ish Bourbon, Charles IV, signed an agree
ment for the invasion and partition of
Portugal. To carry it out, a French army
crossed the Pyrenees, marched to Madrid
and stayed there. Charles found him
self ousted, and Napoleon ordered his
brother Joseph to the vacant throne.

But there was unexpected resistance.
Spain s navy was destroyed and her
army crushed, but her peasantry had
still the sturdy loyalty and the fierce
fanaticism of their medieval forefathers.
A desperate and merciless guerrilla war
fare followed.* "I will cut down the

*The Spanish jartidas, or guerrilla bands, co i-
stantly hovered about the French armies, shootii g
stragglers, murdering the wounded, and giving i o
quarter to prisoners. Nor were-the commanders of
the regular forces much more scrupulous. Of tl e
army corps of Dupont, which surrendered to the Spa i-
iards on condition of immediate return to France
which condition was utterly disregarded only a
remnant survived after four years terrible suffering.
And the French, in turn, repaid these cruelties in
kind. After the battle of Ucles (Jan. 13, 1809), sixty
eight of the leading inhabitants of the town were tied
two and two together and slaughtered in cold blood.
At Tarragona, in 1811, the French troops massacred
more than five thousand unarmed citizens.

732

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

people with grapeshot, Napoleon said.
Spain is already in most places a soli
tude, without five men to a square
league." There were enough Spaniards
left, however, to inflict upon him the
most serious losses he had ever suffered ;
and England repaid his intended invasion
of her inviolate isle by sending Welling
ton to drive his legions out of the penin
sula. From the battlefield of Vittoria,
where the French were routed as signally
as they were two years later at Waterloo,
King Joseph fled over the frontier with
nothing except the clothes he wore, leav
ing behind him a great baggage train of
treasures stolen from the palaces of
Madrid.

THE BOURBONS, TWICE; EXPELLED, TWICE

RETURN.

Little did Spain profit by the expulsion
of the Bonapartes. She went back to the
Bourbons with a new constitution, which
the restored king, Ferdinand VII, disre
garded as soon as he was reestablished
in his throne. Since then, in eighty years,
there have been six more new constitu
tions, all equally good on paper.

Meanwhile, during the peninsula s do
mestic troubles, the vast provinces of
Spanish America had fallen into the po
litical unrest which has ever since been
their normal condition. In one after
another of them, patriots or adventurers
seized their opportunity to set up the
standard of revolt, and Spain s efforts to
restore her rule were feeble and futile.

After 1821 she retained not a foot of
ground upon the mainland of America.

The scandals of the reign of Isabella
II an unworthy namesake of the pa
troness of Columbus are within living
memory. They culminated in a revolu
tion, and an invitation to an Italian
prince Amadeo, the brother of King
Umberto to take the vacant throne.
After three years he found his position at
Madrid intolerable, and resigned. It was
only to be expected, with a people so ut
terly devoid of training in self govern
ment, that the republic which followed
should prove a worse failure than the mon
archy ; and the restoration of the Bour
bons, in the person of Isabella s son
Alfonso, the father of the present king,
was welcomed as a relief after two years
of anarchy, even at the cost of a civil war
with the adherents of his cousin, Don
Carlos unquestionably the rightful heir
to the throne by the old Salic law.

Of Spain s present troubles, of the
losses and disasters now threatening her,
it is unnecessary to speak here. Her
Hapsburg dynasty lasted a hundred and
eighty three years ; her Bourbon kings
have governed her, with two brief inter
vals, for a hundred and eighty eight.
Whether their rule will complete its second
century seems very doubtful; but whatever
regime may be in power at Madrid, it
is difficult to discern on the political
horizon any dawning star of hope for
Spain. Her ancient glories have passed
away, never to return.

SUMMER NIGHT.

LONG have they battled, Night and Day,

Which one shall hold the sway supreme.
From Day s last stand the sunset gleam

With golden arrows holds the way,

And rainbow banners lend the fray

Their glory till the last fair beam
Is quenched, as fades a broken dream,

Or sunshine of a storm swept day.

Long has the struggle been, but Night,
The victor, strikes the final blow ;
Then, generous to a vanquished foe,

Hangs mid the shades soft orbs of light ;
So all his hours so darkly gray
Wear still some presage of the Day.

Laura Berteaujc Bell.

SWALLOW.

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

u Swallow * is a story of South Africa, where Anglo Saxon, Boer, and Kaffir
still struggle for supremacy, and the reader is like to forget his environment and
imagine that real life is being enacted before him ; that he, too, lives and loves and
suffers with Ralph Kenzie and Suzanne, the Boer maiden This is one of the best
stories from Mr. Haggard s pen since ** King Solomon s Mines," u She," and
"Allan Quatermain."

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

SWALLOW is the name given by Hie Kaffirs to Suzanne, daughter of a Boer, Jan Botmar, whose
wife is the teller of the story. Long years before, the worthy couple adopted Ralph Kenzie, an
English lad, a castaway, whom Suzanne had found when they were both children, and who, when
he reaches his nineteenth year, is discovered to be the son of a Scotch lord and the heir to vast
estates. Two Englishmen have come out to the Cape to look for him, whereupon Jan and his
wife, though heartbroken at the thought of losing him, for they have come to look upon him as their
own son, decide that they must give him up. Ralph, however, stoutly refuses to leave them, and
tells them of his love for Suzanne and that he means to make her his wife. When the two Englishmen
arrive Jan Botmar and Ralph are away, and the ciinning vrouw persuades them that the youth is not
he whom they seek. Shortly after their departure, Swart Piet. a rich Boer who has Kaffir blood
in his veins, visits the Botmar homestead. He has fallen in love with Suzanne, but she repulses
his advances. A few days later, while riding some distance from her home, the young girl conies
upon Swart Piet and some of his henchmen as they are about to hang a young native woman
known as Sihamba for alleged cattle stealing. Working on the girl s pity, Piet forces her to kiss
him as the price of the woman s life, and, not content with that, he crushes her in his arms and
covers her face with kisses. The girl finally escapes and reaches her home, where she tells her
father and Ralph of the occurrence, first, however, exacting a promise from her lover that he will
not try to kill the man. Sihamba, who is now destitute, has followed Suzanne home, where, at her
earnest solicitation, she is permitted to remain.

XI. " Had he his gun with him? " I asked
again and anxiously.

EARLY the next morning I sought for " No, there was nothing but a sjambok, a

Ralph to speak to him on the matter of very thick sjambok, in his hand."

his marriage, which, to tell truth, I longed Then I went back to the house with a

to see safely accomplished. But I could not heavy heart, for I was sure that Ralph had

find him anywhere, or learn where he had gone to seek Piet van Vooren, though I

gone, though a slave told me that he had said nothing of it to the others. So it

seen him mount his horse at the stable. proved, indeed. Ralph had sworn to Su-

I went down to the cattle kraal to look if zanne that he would not try to kill Piet, but

he were there, and as I returned, I saw Si- here his oath ended, and therefore he felt

liamba seated by the door of her hut en- himself free to beat him if he could find him,

gaged in combing her hair and powdering for he was altogether mad with hate 01 the

it with the shining blue dust. man. Now, he knew that when he was at

" Greeting, Mother of the Swallow," she home it was Swart Piet s habit to ride of a

said. " Whom do you seek? " morning, accompanied by one Kaffir only,

" You know well," I answered. to visit a certain valley where he kept a large

" Yes, I know well. At the break of dawn number of sheep. Thither Ralph made his

he rode over yonder rise." way, and when he reached the place he saw

"Why?" I asked. that, although it was time for them to be

" How can I tell why? But Swart Piet feeding, the sheep were still in their kraal,

lives out yonder." baa-ing, stamping, and trying to climb the

* Copyright, 1808, by H. Rider Haggard.

734

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

gate, for they were hungry to get at the
green grass.

" So," thought Ralph, " Swart Piet means
to count the flock out this morning. He
will be here presently."

Half an hour afterwards he came, and with
him the one Kaffir as was usual. Then the
bars of the gate were let down, and the
sheep suffered to escape through them,
Swart Piet standing upon one side and the
Kaffir upon the other, to take tale of their
number. When all the sheep were out, and
one of the herders had been brought before
him and beaten by the Kaffir because some
lambs were missing, Swart Piet turned to
ride homewards, and in a little gorge near
by came face to face with Ralph, who was
waiting for him. Now he started and looked
to see if he could escape, but there was no
way of doing it without shame, so he rode
forward and bid Ralph good day boldly,
asking him if he had ever seen a finer flock
of sheep.

" I did not come here to talk of sheep,"
answered Ralph, eyeing him.

Is it of a lamb, then, that you come to
talk, Heer Kenzie, a ewe lamb, the only one
of your flock? " sneered Piet, for he had a
gun in his hand and he saw that Ralph had
none.

"Aye," said Ralph, " it is of a white ewe
lamb whose fleece has been soiled by a
bastard thief who would have stolen her,"
and he looked at him.

" I understand," said Piet coldly, for he
was a bold man; "and now, Heer Kenzie,
you had best let me ride by."

" Why should I let you ride by when I
have come out to seek you? "

" For a very good reason, Heer Kenzie:
because I have a gun in my hand and you
have none, and if you do not clear the road
presently it may go off."

" A good reason, indeed," said Ralph,
" and one of vhich I admit the weight; "
and he drew to one side of the path as
though to let Piet go by, which he began to
do, holding the muzzle of the gun in a line
with the other s head. Ralph sat upon his
horse staring moodily at the ground, as
though he was trying to make up his mind
to say something or other, but all the time
he was watching out of the corner of his
quick eye. Just as Swart Piet drew past
him, and was shaking the reins to put his
horse to a canter, Ralph slid from the saddle,
and, springing upon him like light, passed
his strong arm round him and dragged him
backwards to the ground over the crupper
of the horse. As he fell he stretched out his
hands to grip the saddle and save himself,
so that the gun which he carried resting
on his knees dropped upon the grass.

Ralph seized it and fired it into the air, and
then turned to face his enemy, who by this
time had found his feet.

Now we are more equally matched,
Mynheer van Vooren," he said, " and can
talk further about that ewe lamb, the only
one of the flock. Nay, you need not look
for the Kaffir to help you, for he has run
after your horse, and at the best will hardly
care to trust himself between two angry
white men. Come, let us talk, Mynheer."

Black Piet made no answer, so for a while
the two stood facing each other, and they
were a strange pair, as different as the light
from the darkness: Ralph fair haired, gray
eyed, stern faced, with thin nostrils, that
quivered like those of a well bred horse,
narrow flanked, broad chested, though
somewhat slight of limb and body, for he
was but young, and had scarcely come to a
man s weight, but lithe and wiry as a tiger;
Piet taller and more massive, for he had the
age of him by five years, with round Kaffir
eyes, black and cruel, coarse black hair that
grew low upon his brow, full red lips, the
lower drooping so that the large white teeth
and a line of gums could be seen within,
great limbed, firm footed, bull strengthed,
showing in his face the cruelty and the cun
ning of a black race mingled with the mind
and the mastery of the white, an evil and a
terrible man, knowing no lord save his own
passions, and no religion but black witch
craft and vile superstition, a foe to be
feared, indeed, but one who loved better to
stab in the dark than to strike in the open
day.

" Well, Mynheer van Vooren," mocked
Ralph, " you could fling your arms about
a helpless girl and put her to shame before,
the eyes of men, now do the same by me
if you can;" and he took one step towards
him.

" What is this monkey s chatter ? " asked
Piet, in his slow voice. " Is it because I
gave the girl a kiss that you would fix a
quarrel upon me ? Have you not done as
much yourself many times, and for a less
stake than the life of one who had been
doomed to die? "

" If I have kissed her," answered Ralph,
" it is with her consent, and because she
will be my wife; but you worked upon her
pity to put her to shame, and now you shall
pay the price of it. Do you see that whip?"
and he nodded toward the sjambok that was
lying on the grass. " Let him who proves
the best man use it upon the other."

" Will be your wife," sneered Piet the
wife of the -English castaway ! She might
have been, but now she never shall, unless
she cares to wed a carcase cut into rimpis.
You want a flogging and you shall have it,

SWALLOW.

735

yes, to the death, but Suzanne shall be
not your wife, but my

He got no further, for at that moment
Ralph sprang at him like a wildcat,
stopping his mouth with a fearful blow upon
the lips. Then there followed a dreadful
struggle between these two; Swart Piet
rushed again and again, striving to clasp
his antagonist in his great arms and crush
him, whereas Ralph, who, like all English
men, loved to use his fists, and knew that he
was no match for Piet in strength, sought
to avoid him and plant blow after blow upon
his face and body. This, indeed, he did
with such success that soon the Boer was
covered with blood and bruises. Again and
again he charged at him, roaring with pain
and rage, and again and again Ralph first
struck and then slipped to one side. At
length Piet s turn came, for Ralph, in leap
ing back, caught his foot against a stone
and stumbled, and before he could recover
himself the iron arms were round his middle,
and they were wrestling for the mastery.
Still, at the first it was Ralph who had the
best of it, for he was skilful at the game, and
before Swart Piet could put out his full
strength he tripped him so that he fell
heavily upon his back, Ralph still locked in
his arms. But he could not keep him there,
for the Boer was the stronger; moreover,
as they fought they had worked their way
up the steep side of the kloof so that the
ground was against him. Thus it came
about that soon they began to roll
down hill fixed to each other as though
by ropes, and gathering speed at every
turn. Doubtless the end of this would
have been Ralph s defeat, and perhaps
his death, for I think that, enraged as he
was, Black Piet would certainly have
killed him had he found himself the master.
But it chanced that his hand was stayed, and
thus. Near the bottom of the slope lay a
sharp stone, and as they rolled in their fierce
struggle Piet s head struck against this stone
so that for a few moments he was rendered
helpless. Feeling the grip of his arms les
sen, Ralph freed himself, and running to the
sjambok snatched it from the ground. Now
Piet sat up and stared at him stupidly, but
made no effort to renew the fight, where
on Ralph gasped:

" I promised you a flogging, but since it
is chance that has conquered you more than
I, I will take no advantage of it, save this; "
and he struck him once or twice across the
face with the whip, but not so as to draw
blood. " Now, at least I am free from a
certain promise that I made that I would
not kill you and should you attempt
further harm or insult towards Suzanne Bot-
mar, kill you I will, Piet van Vooren;" and

turning he went to his horse, which was
standing close by, mounted, and rode away,
the other answering him nothing.

Still, Ralph did not get home without
another adventure, for when he had gone
a little way he came to a stream that ran
from a hillside which was thick with trees,
and here he stopped to doctor his hurts and
bruises, since he did not wish to appear at
the house covered with blood. Now, this
was a foolish enough thing to do, seeing the
sort of a man with whom he had to deal,
and that there was bush where any one
could hide to within a hundred and twenty
yards of his washing place. So it proved,
indeed, for just as he had mounted his horse
and was about to ride on, he felt a sharp,
stinging pain across his shoulders, as though
some one had hit him on the back with a
whip, and heard the sound of a gunshot
fired from the cover of the bush, for there
hung a cloud of smoke above the green
leaves.

" That is Swart Piet, who has crept round
to cut me off," Ralph thought to himself,
and for a moment was minded to ride to the
smoke to seek him. Then he remembered
that he had no gun, and that that of his
enemy might be loaded again before he
found him, and judged it wiser to canter
into the open plain and so homeward. Of
the hurt that he had taken from the bullet
he thought little, yet when he reached the
house it was seen that his escape had been
narrow indeed, for the great ball had cut
through his clothes beneath his shoulders,
so that they hung down leaving his back^
naked. Also it had furrowed the skin,
causing the blood to flow copiously, and
making so horrible a sight of him that
Suzanne nearly fainted when she saw it,
and I made certain that the lad was shot
through the body, although as it turned out
in a week, except for some soreness, he
was as well as ever.

Now this matter caused no little stir
among us, and Jan was so angry that, with
out saying a word to any one, he mounted
his horse and, taking some armed servants
with him, set out to seek Black Piet; but
not to find him, for the man had gone, no
body knew whither. Indeed, this was as
well, or so we thought at the time, for though
Jan is slow to move, when once he is moved
he is a very angry man, and I am sure that
if he had met Piet van Vooren that day the
grasses would have been richer by the blood
of one or both of them. But he did not meet
him, and so the thing passed over, for after
wards we remembered that Ralph had been
the aggressor, since no one would take count
of this story of the kissing of the girl, and
also that there was no proof at all that it

736

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

was Piet who had attempted his life, as that
shot might have been fired by any one.

Now, from this day forward Suzanne went
in terror of Swart Piet, and whenever Ralph
rode, he rode armed, for though it was said
that he had gone on one of his long jour
neys trading among the Kaffirs, both of
them guessed that they had not seen the
last of Van Vooren. Jan and I also were
afraid, for we knew the terrible nature of
the man and of his father before him, and
that they came of a family which never for
got a quarrel or left a desire ungratified.

About fourteen days after Ralph had been
shot at and wounded, a Kaffir brought a let
ter for Jan, which, on being opened, proved
to have been written by Swart Piet, or on his
behalf, since his name was set at the bottom
of it. It read thus:

To THE HEER JAN BOTMAR :

Well beloved Heer, this is to tell you that
your daughter, Suzanne, holds my heart, and
that I desire to make her my wife. As it is not
convenient for me to come to see you at present,
I write to ask you that you will consent to our
betrothal. I will make a rich woman of her, as
I can easily satisfy you, and you will find it
better to have me as a dear son in law and friend
than as a stranger and an enemy, for I am a good
friend and a bad enemy. I know there has been
some talk of love between Suzanne and the Eng
lish foundling at your place ; but I can overlook
that, although you may tell the lad that if he
is impertinent to me again, as he was the other
day, he will not for the second time get off with
a whipping only. Be so good as to give your
answer to the bearer, who will pass it on to those
Uiat can find me, for I am traveling about on
Dusiness, and do not know where I shall be
from day to day. Give also my love to Suzanne,
your daughter, and tell her that I think often of
the time when she shall be my wife.

I am, well beloved Heer, your friend,

PIRT VAN VOOREN.

Now, when Ralph had finished reading
this letter aloud, for it had been given to
him as the best scholar among us, you might
have thought there were four mad people in
the room, so great was our rage. Jan and
Ralph said little, indeed, though they
looked white and strange with anger, and
Suzanne not overmuch, for it was I who
talked for all of them.

" What is your answer, girl? " asked her
father presently, with an angry laugh.

" Tell the Heer Piet van Vooren," she re
plied, smiling faintly, " that if ever his lips
should touch my face again it will be only
when that face is cold in death. Oh,
Ralph! " she cried, turning to him suddenly
and laying her hand upon his breast, " it
may be that this man will bring trouble and
separation on us; indeed, my heart warns me
of it, but, whatever chances, remember my

words, dead I may be, but faithful I shall be
yes, to death and through death."

" Son, take pen and write," said Jan
before Ralph could answer. So Ralph wrote
down these words as Jan told them to him:

PIET VAN VOOREN :

Sooner would I lay my only child out for
burial in the grave than Lead her to the house of
a colored man, a consorter with witch doctors
and black women, and a would be murderer.
That is my answer, and I add this to it : Set no
foot within a mile of my house, for here we shoot
straighter than you do, and if we find you on
this place, by the help of God we will put a
bullet through your carcase.

At the foot of this writing, which he would
not suffer to be altered, Jan printed his
name in big letters; then he went out to
seek the messenger, whom he found talking
to Sihamba, and having given him the
paper bade him begone swiftly to wherever
it was he came from. The man, who was a
strong, red colored savage, naked except for
his moocha and the kaross rolled up upon his
shoulders, and marked with a white scar
across the left cheek, took the letter, hid it
in his bundle, and went.

Jan also turned to go, but I, who had fol
lowed him and was watching him, although
he did not know it, saw him hesitate and
stop.

" Sihamba," he said, " why were you talk
ing to that man? "

" Because it is my business to know of
things, Father of Swallow, and I wished to
learn where he came from."

Did he tell you, then? "

" Not altogether, for some one whom he
fears had laid a weight upon his tongue, but
I learned that he lives at a kraal far away in
the mountains, and that this kraal is owned
by a white man who keeps wives and cattle
at it, although he is not there himself just
now. The rest I hope to hear when Swart
Piet sends him back again, for I have given
the man a medicine to cure his child, who is
sick, and he will be grateful to me."

" How do you know Swart Piet sent the
man? " asked Jan.

She laughed and said: " Surely that was
easy to guess; it is my business to twine
little threads into a rope."

Again Jan turned to go, and again came
back to speak to her.

" Sihamba," he said, " I have seen you
talking to that man before. I remember
the scar upon his face."

" The scar upon his face you may remem
ber," she answered, " but you have not seen
us talking together, for until this hour we
never met."

" I can swear it," he said angrily. " I re-

SWALLOW.

737

member the straw hut, the shape of the
man s bundle, the line where the shadow
fell upon his foot, and the tic bird that
came and sat near you. I remember it all."

" Surely, Father of Swallow," she replied,
eying him oddly, " you talk of what you have
just seen."

" No, no," he said; " I saw it years ago."

" Where? " she asked, staring at him.

He looked and uttered some quick words.
" I know now," he said. " I saw it in your
eyes the other day."

" Yes," she answered quietly; " I think
that, if anywhere, you saw it in my eyes,
since the coming of that messenger is the
first of all the great things that are to happen
to the Swallow and those who live in her
nest. I do not know the things; still, it may
happen that another who has vision may
see them in the glass of my eyes."

XII.

TWELVE days passed, and one morning
when I went out to feed the chickens, I saw
the red Kaffir with the scar on his face
seated beyond the stoep taking snuff.

" What is it? " I asked.

" A letter," he said, giving me a paper.

I took it into the house, where the others
were gathered for breakfast, and as before
Ralph read it. It was to this effect:

WELL BELOVED HEER BOTMAR :

I have received your honored letter, and I
think that the unchristian spirit which it shows
cannot be pleasing to our L,ord. Still, as I seek
peace and not war, I take no offense, nor shall 1
come near your place to provoke the shedding
of the blood of men. I love your daughter, but
if she rejects me for another I have nothing
more to say, except that I hope she may be
happy in the life she has chosen. For me, I am
leaving- this part of the country, and if you, Heer
Botmar, like to buy my farm, I shall be happy
to sell it to you at a fair price ; or perhaps the
Heer Kenzie will buy it to live on after he is
married ; if so, he can write to me by this
messenger. Farewell.

Now, when they heard this letter, the
ethers looked more happy; but for my part
I shook my head, seeing guile in it, since
the tone of it was too humble for Swart
Piet. There was no answer to it, and the
messenger went away, but not, as I learned,
before he had seen Sihamba. It seems that
the medicine which she gave him had cured
his child, for which he was so grateful that
he drove her down a cow in payment, a fine
beast, but very wild, for handling was
strange to it; moreover, it had been but just
separated from its calf. Still, although she
questioned him closely, the man would tell
Sihamba but little of the place where he
lived, and nothing of the road to it.

Here I will stop to show how great was
the cunning of this woman, and yet how
simple the means whereby she obtained the
most of her knowledge. She desired to
learn about this hiding place, since she was
sure thrt it was one of the secret haunts of
Swart Piet, but when she asked him the mes
senger was deaf and blind, and she could
find no one else who knew anything of the
matter. Still, she was certain that the cow
which had been brought to her would show
the way to its home, if there were anybody
to follow it hither and make report of the
path.

Now, when Sihamba had been robbed and
sentenced to death by Swart Piet, the most
of her servants and people who lived with
her had been taken by him as slaves.
Still, some had escaped, either then or after
wards, and settled about in the neighbor
hood of the farm where they knew that their
mistress dwelt. From among these people,
who still did her service, she chose a young
man named Zinti, who, although he was
supposed to be stupid, was still very clevei
about many things, especially the remember
ing of any path that he had once traveled,
and- of every kopje, stream, or pan by which
it could be traced. This youth she bade to
herd the cow which had been given her,
telling him to follow it whithersoever ; t
should wanuer, even if it led him a ten days
journey, and when he saw that it had
reached home, to return himself without
being seen, and to bring her an exact report
of the road which it had traveled.

Now, all happened as she expected, or
on the first day that the cow was turned out,
watched by the lad, who was provided with
food and a blanket, so soon as it had filled
itself it started straight over the hills, run
ning at times, and at times stopping to
graze, till night came on, when it lay down
for a while and its herd beside it, for he
had tied his wrist to its tail with a rimpi
lest it should escape in the darkness.

At the first breaking of the light the cow
rose, filled itself with grass, and started
forward on its homeward path, followed by
the herd. For three days they traveled thus,
the boy milking the cow from time to time
when its udder was full. On the evening
of the third day, however, the beast would
not lie down, but walked forward all night,
lowing now and again, by which the herd,
who found it difficult to keep it in sight
because of the darkness, guessed it must be
near its home. So it proved, indeed, for
when the sun rose Zinti saw a kraal before
him, hidden away in a secret valley of the
mountains over which they had been travel
ing. Still following the cow, though at a
distance, he moved down towards the kraal

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

and hid himself in a patch of bush. Present
ly the cattle were let out to graze, and the
cow rushed to them lowing loudly, till a
certain calf came to it, which it made much
of and suckled, for it was its own calf.

Now Zinti s errand was done, but still
he lay hid in the bush a while, thinking that
he might learn some more, and lying thus
he fell asleep, for he was weary with travel.
When he awoke the sun was high, and he
heard women talking to erch other close by
him, as they labored at their task of cutting
wands, such as are used for the making of
huts. He rose to run away, then thought
better of it and "at down again, remember
ing that should he be found, it would be easy
to tell them that he was a wanderer who
had lost his path. Presently one of the wo
men asked:

" For whom does Bull Head build this
fine new hut : i the secret krantz yonder? "

Now Zinti opened his ears wide, for he
knew that this was the name which the na
tives had given to Swart Piet, taking it from
his round head and fierce eye, according to
their custom when they note any peculiarity
in a man.

" I do not know," answered a second
woman, who was young and very pretty,
" unless he means to bring another wife
here; if so, she must be a chief s daughter,
since men do not build huts for gfrls of com
mon blood."

" Perhaps," said the other; " but then, I
think that he has stolen her from her father
without payment; else he would not wish to
hide her away in the secret krantz. Well, let
her come, for we women must work hard
here where there are so few men, and many
hoes clean a field quickly."

" For my part I think there are enough of
us already," ^aid the young girl, looking
troubled, for she was Swart Piet s last Kaffir
wife, and did not desire to be supplanted by
a new favorite. " But be silent; I hear Bull
Head coming on his horse; " and she began
to work very hard at cutting the wands.

A few minutes later Zinti saw Swart Piet
himself ride up to the women, who saluted
him, calling him " chief " and " husband."

" You are idle," he said, eying them
angrily.

" These wands are tough to cut, husband,"
murmured the young woman in excuse.

" Still, you must cut them quicker, girl,"
he answered, " if you would not learn how
one of them feels upon your back. It will
go hard with all of you if the big hut is not
finished in seven days from now."

" We will do our best," said the girl; " but
who is to dwell in the hut when it is done? "

" Not you, be sure of that," he answered
roughly, " nor any black woman; for I am

weary of you, one and all. Listen: I go to
morrow with my servants to fetch a chief-
tainess, a white lady, to rule over you, but if
any of you speak a word of her presence
here you will pay for it, for I shall turn you
away to starve. Do you understand?"

" We hear you, husband," they replied,
somewhat sullenly, for now they understood
that this new wife would be a mistress, and
not a sister to them.

" Then be careful that you do not forget
my words, and hearken so soon as you
have cut a full load of hut poles, let two of
you carry them up to the krantz yonder,
where they are wanted, but be careful that
no one sees you going in or coming out."

" We hear you, husband," they said again,
whereon Swart Piet turned and rode away.

Now, although Zinti was said to be foolish,
chiefly, as I think, because he could not or
would not work, yet in many ways he was
cleverer than most Kaffirs, and especially
always did he desire to see new places, the
more so if they chanced to be secret places.
Therefore, when he heard Swart Piet com
mand the women to carry the rods to the
hidden krantz, he determined that he would
follow them, and this he did so skilfully that
they neither heard nor saw him. At first
he wondered whither they could be going,
for they walked straight to the foot of what
seemed to be an unclimbable wall of rock
more than a hundred feet high. On the face
of this rock, however, shrubs grew here and
there like the bristles on the back of a hog,
and having first glanced round to see that
no one was watching them, the women
climbed to one of these shrubs, which was
rooted in the cliff about the height of a man
above the level of the ground, and vanished
so quickly that Zinti, who was watching,
rubbed his eyes in wonder; after waiting a
while he followed in their steps, to find that
behind the shrub was a narrow cleft or crack,
such as is often to be seen in cliffs, and that
down this cleft ran a pathway which twisted
and turned in the rock, growing broader as
it went, till at last it ended in the hidden
krantz. This krantz was a very beautiful
spot, about three morgen, or six English
acres, in extent, and walled all round with
impassable cliffs. Down the face of one of
these cliffs fell a waterfall, forming a deep
pool, out of which a stream ran, and on the
banks of this stream the new hut was being
built in such a position that the heat of the
sun could strike it but little.

While he was taking note of these and
other things, Zinti saw some of those who
were working at the hut leave it and start to
walk towards the cleft; so, having learned
everything that he could, he thought that
it was time to go, and slipped away back to

SWALLOW.

739

the bush, and thence homeward by the
road which the cow had shown him.

Now it chanced that as he went Zinti
pierced his foot with a large thorn, so that
he was only able to travel slowly. On the
fifth night of his journey he limped into a
wood to sleep, which wood is not much
more than two hours on horseback from
our farm. When he had been asleep for
some hours he woke up, for all his food was
gone, and he could not rest well because of
his hunger, and was astonished to see the
light of a fire among the trees at some dis
tance from him. Towards this fire he crept,
thinking that there were herds or travelers
who would give him food, but when he came
to it he did not ask for any, since the first
thing he saw was Swart Piet himself walking
up and down in front of the fire, while at
some distance from it lay a number of his
men asleep in their karosses. Presently an
other man appeared, slipping through the
tree trunks, and coming to Swart Piet
saluted him.

" Tell me what you have found out," he
said.

" This, baas," answered the man: " I went
down to Heer Botmar s place and begged a
bowlful of meal there, pretending that I
was a stranger on a journey to court a girl
at a distant kraal. The slaves gave me meal
and some flesh with it, and I learned in talk
with them that the Heer Botmar, his vrouw,
his daughter Suzanne, and the young Eng
lishman, Heer Kenzie, all rode away yester
day to the christening party of the first born
of the Heer Roozen, who lives about five
hours on horseback to the north yonder. I
learned also that it is arranged for them to
leave the Heer Roozen tomorrow at dawn,
and to travel homewards by the Tigers Nek,
in which they will offsaddle about two hours
before midday, for I forgot to say that they
have two servants with them to see to their
horses."

" That makes six in all," said Swart Piet,
" of whom two are women, whereas we are
twenty. Yes, it is very good; nothing could
be better, for I know the offsaddling place
by the stream in Tiger s Nek, and it is a
nice place for men to hide behind the rocks
and trees. Listen now to the plan, and be-
sure you understand it. When these people
are offsaddled and eating their food, you
Kaffirs will fall on them with the spear and
the kerry alone, mind and they will come
to their end."

Does the master mean that we are to kill
them?" asked the man doubtfully.

" Yes," answered Swart Piet, with hesi
tation. " I do not want to kill them, in
deed, but I see no other way, except as re
gards the girl, of course, who must be saved.

These people are to be attacked and robbed
by Kaffirs, for it must never be known that
I had a hand in it, and you brutes of Kaffirs
always kill. Therefore, they must die, alas!
especially the Englishman, though so far as
I am concerned I should be glad to spare
the others if I could, but it cannot be done
without throwing suspicion upon me. As
for the girl, if she is harmed the lives of all
of you pay for it. You will throw a kaross
over her head, and bring her to the place
which I will tell you of tomorrow, where I
shall seem to rescue her. Do you under
stand, and do you think the plan good? "

" I understand, and I think the plan good,
and yet there is one thing that I hav- not
told you which may mar it."

" What is it? "

"This: when I was down there at the
Heer Botmar s place, I saw the witch &lt;Ioc-
toress, Sihamba, who has a hut upon the
farm. I was some way off, but I think that
she recognized me, which she well might do
seeing that it was I who set the rope about
her neck when you wished to hang her.
Now, if she did know me all your plans may
b^ in vain, for that woman has the sight and
she will guess them. Even when the cord
was round her she laughed at me and told
me that I should die soon, but that she
would live for years, and therefore I fear her
more than any one living."

" She laughed at you, did she? " said
Swart Piet. " Well, I laugh at her, for
neither she nor any one who breathes shall
stand between me and this girl, who has pre
ferred the suit of another man to mine."

"Ah, master! " said the Kaffir, "you are
a great one, for when a fruit pleases you,
you do not wait for it to drop into your lap,
you pluck it."

" Yes," said Swart Piet, striking his
breast with pride; " if I desire a fruit I pluck
it, as my father did before me. But now go
you and sleep, for tomorrow you will need
all your wit and strength."

When the lad Zinti had heard this he crept
away, heading straight for the farm, but his
foot was so bad and he was so weak from
want of food that he could only travel at the
pace of a lame ox, now hopping upon one
leg and now crawling upon his knees. In
this fashion it was that at length, about half
past eight in the morning, he reached the
house, or rather the hut of Sihamba, for she
had sent him out, and therefore to her, after
the Kaffir fashion, he went to make report.
Now, when he came to Sihamba, he greeted
her and asked for a little food, which she
gave him. Then he began to tell his story,
beginning, as natives do, at the first of it,
which in his case were all the wanderings of
the cow which he had followed, so that al-

740

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

though she hurried him much, many min
utes went by before he came to that part of
the tale which told of what he had heard in
the wood some eight hours before. So soon
as he began to speak of this Sihamba
stopped him, and calling to a man who
lingered near, bade him bring to her Jan s
famous young horse, the roan schimmel,
bridled but not saddled. Now this horse
was the finest in the whole district, for his
sire was the famous blood stallion which the
government imported from England, where
it wo- all the races, and his dam the swiftest
and most enduring mare in the breeding
herds at the Paarl. What Jan gave for him
as a yearling I never learned, because he was
afraid to tell me; but I know that we were
short of money for two years after he bought
him. Yet in the end it proved the cheapest
thing for which a man ever paid gold. Weil,
the Kaffir hesitated, for, as might be ex
pected, Jan was very proud of this horse,
and none rode it save himself, but Sihamba
sprang up and spoke to him so fiercely that
at last he obeyed her, since, although she
was small in stature, all feared the magic of
Sihamba, and would do her bidding. Nor
had he far to go, for the schimmel did not run
wild upon the veldt, but was fed and kept in
a stable, where a Kaffir groomed him every
morning. Thus it came about that before
ever Zinti had finished his tale the horse was
standing before her, bridled but not saddled,
arching his neck and striking th ground
with his hoof, for he was proud and full of
corn and eager to be away.

" Oh, fool! " said Sihamba to Zinti, " why
did not you begin with this part of your
story? Now, to save five from death and
one from dishonor, there is but a short hour
left and twenty miles to cover in it. Ho,
man, help me to mount this horse! "

The slave put down his hand, and setting
her foot in it, the little woman sprang on to
the back of the great stallion, which knew
and loved her as a dog might do, for she
had tended it day and night when it was ill
from the sickness we call " thick head," and
without doubt had saved its life by her skill.
Then, gripping its shoulders with her knees,
she shook the reins and called aloud to the
schimmel, waving the black rod she always
carried in her hand, so that the beast, hav
ing plunged once, leaped away like an ante
lope, and in another minute was nothing but
a speck racing towards the mountains.

XIII.

So hard did Sihamba ride, and so swift
and untiring proved the horse, to whose
strength her light weight was as nothing,
that, the veldt over which they traveled be

ing flat and free from stones or holes, she
reached the mouth of Tiger s Nek, twenty
miles away, in very few minutes over the
hour of time. But the Nek itself was a mile
or more in length, and for aught she knew
we might already be taken in Black Piet s
trip, and she riding to share our fate. Still,
she did not stay, but though it panted like
a blacksmith s bellows, and its feet stumbled
with weariness among the stones in the Nek,
she urged the schimmel on at a gallop. Now
she turned the corner, and the offsaddling
place was before her. Swiftly and fearfully
she glanced around, but seeing no signs of
us, she uttered a cry of joy and shook the
reins, for she knew that she had not ridden
in vain. Then a voice from the rocks called
out :

" It is the witch doctoress. Sihamba, who
rides to warn them. Kill her swiftly; " and
with the voice came a sound of guns and of
bullets screaming past her, one of which
shattered the wand she carried" in her hand,
numbing her arm. Nor was that all, for
men sprang up across the further end of the
offsaddling place, where the path was nar
row, to bar her way, and they held spears in
their hands. But Sihamba never heeded the
men or the spears, for she rode straight at
them and through them, and so soon was she
gone that, although six or seven assagais
were hurled at her, only one of them struck
the horse, wounding it slightly in the
shoulder.

A few minutes later, two perhaps, or three,
just as the four of us, with our Kaffir serv
ants, were riding quietly up to the mouth
of the Nek, we saw a great horse thundering
towards us, black with sweat and flecked
with foam, its shoulder bloody, its eyes star
ing, and its red nostrils agape, and perched
upon its bare back a little woman who
swayed from side to side as though with
weariness, holding in her hand a shattered
wand.

" Allemachter! " cried Jan. " It is Si
hamba, and the little witch rides my roan
schimmel! "

By this time Sihamba herself was upon
us. " Back," she cried as she came, " or
death awaits you in the pass," whereon, com
pelled to it as it were by the urgency of the
word? and the face of her who spoke them.
we turned our horses heads and galloped
after the schimmel for the half of a mile or
more till we were safe in the open veldt.

Then, of a sudden, the horse stopped,
whether of its own accord or because its
rider pulled upon the reins I know not. At
the least, it stood there trembling like a reed,
and Sihamba lay upon its back clinging to
the mane, and as she lay I saw blood run
ning down her legs, for her skin was chafed

SWALLOW.

to the flesh beneath. Ralph sprang to her,
and lifted her to the ground, and Suzanne
made her take a draft of brandy from Jan s
flask, which brought the life into her face
again.

" Now," she said, " if you have it to spare,
give the schimmel yonder a drink of that
stuff, for he has saved all your lives and I
think he needs it."

" That is a wise word," said Jan, and he
bade Ralph and the Kaffirs pour the rest of
the spirit down the horse s throat, which
they did, thereby, as I believe, saving its life,
for until it had swallowed it the beast looked
as though its heart were about to burst.

" Now," said Jan, " why do you ride my
best horse to death in this fashion? "

" Have I not told you, Father of Swal
low," she answered, " that it was to save you
from death? But a few minutes over an
hour ago, fifteen perhaps, a word was spok
en to me at your stead yonder, and now I am
here, seven leagues away, having ridden
faster than I wish to ride again, or than any
other horse in this country can travel with a
man upon his back."

" To save us from death? What death? "
asked Jan, astounded.

" Death at the hands of Swart Piet and his
Kaffir tribesmen for the three of you and the
two slaves, and for the fourth, the lady Su
zanne here, a love of which she does not
seek, the love of the murderer of her father,
her mother, and her chosen."

Now we stared at each other; only Su
zanne ran to Sihamba and, putting her arms
about her, kissed her.

" Nay," said the little woman, smiling,
" nay, Swallow, I do but repay to you but
one hundredth part of my debt, and all the
rest is owing still." Then she told her story
in few words, and when it was done, having
first looked to see that Swart Piet and his
men were not coming, at the bidding of Jan
we all knelt down upon the veldt and
thanked God for our deliverance. Only oi-
hamba did not kneel, for she was a heathen,
and worshiped no one, unless it were Su
zanne.

" You should pray to the horse, too," she
said, " for had it not been for its legs, I
could never have reached you in time."

" Hush, Sihamba," I answered; "it is God
who made the horse s legs, as God put it
into your mind to use them; " but I said
no more, though at any other time I should
have rated her well for her heathen folly.

Then we consulted together as to what was
to be done, and decided to make our way to
the house by a longer path, which ran
through the open veldt, since we were sure
that there, where is no cover, Swart Piet
would not attack us. Ralph, it is true, was

for going into the Nek and attacking him,
but, as Jan showed him, such an act would
be madness, for they were many and we
were few; moreover, they could have picked
us off from behind the shelter of the rocks.
So we settled to leave them alone, and that
night came home safely, though not without
trouble, for Sihamba had to be carried the
most of the way, and after he grew stiff the
schimmel could only travel at a walking pace.
Very soon that horse recovered, however,
and lived to do still greater service, although
for a while his legs were somewhat puffed.

Now, Jan and Ralph were mad against
Swart Piet, and would have brought him to
justice; but this road of justice was full of
stones and mud holes, since the nearest land-
drost lived a hundred miles off, and it
would not have been easy to persuade Piet
to appear and argue the case before him.
Moreover, here again we had no evidence
against the man, except that of a simple
Kaffir boy, who would never have been be
lieved, for, in fact, no attack was made upon
us, while that upon Sihamba might very well
have been the work of some of the low
Kaffirs that haunt the kloofs, runaway slaves
and other rascals, who desired to steal the
horse upon which she rode. Also we
learned that our enemy, acting through
some agent, had sold his farm to a stranger
for a small sum of ready money, giving it
out that he had no need of the land, as he
was leaving this part of the country.

But if we saw Piet s face no more, we
could still feel the weight of his hand, since
from that time forward we began to suffer
from the thefts of cattle and other troubles
with the natives, which so Sihamba learned
in her underground fashion were instigated
by him, working through his savage tools,
while he himself lay hidden far away and
in safety. Also he did us another ill turn
for it was proved that his money was at
the bottom of it by causing Ralph to be
commandeered to serve on some distant
Kaffir expedition, out of which trouble we
were obliged to buy him, at no small cost.

All these matters weighed upon us
much; so much, indeed, that I wished Jan
to trek far away and found a new home;
but he would not, for he loved the place
which he had built up brick by brick and
planted tree by tree; nor would he consent
to be driven out of it through fear of the
wicked practices of Swart Piet. To one
thing he did consent, however, and it was
that Ralph and Suzanne should be married
as soon as possible, for he saw that until
they were man and wife there would be little
peace for any of us. When they were spok
en to on the matter, neither of them had any
thing to say against this plan; indeed, I be-

742

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

lieve that in their hearts, for the first and
last times in their lives, they blessed the
name of Swart Piet, whose evil doing, as
they thought, was hurrying on their happi
ness. Now it was settled that the matter
of this marriage should be kept secret for
fear it should come to the ears of Swart Piet
through his spies, and stir him up to make a
last attempt to steal away Suzanne; and,
indeed, it did come to his ears, though how
to this hour I do not know, unless, in spite
of our warning, the predicant who was to
perform the ceremony, a good and easy man,
but one who loved gossip, blabbed of it on
his journey to the farm, for he had a two
days ride to reach it.

It was the wish of all of us that we should
continue to live together after the marriage
of Ralph and Suzanne, though not beneath
the same roof. Indeed, there would have
been no room for another married pair in
that house, especially if children came to
them, nor did I wish to share the rule of a
dwelling with my own daughter after she
had taken a husband, for such arrangements
often end in bitterness and quarrels. There
fore Jan determined to build them a new
house in a convenient spot not far away,
and it was agreed that during the two or
three months while this house was building
Ralph and his wife should pay a visit to a
cousin of mine who owned a very fine farm
on the outskirts of the dorp, which we used
to visit from time to time to partake of
Nachtmahl. This seemed wise for us for
several reasons beyond that of the building
of the new house. It is always best that
young people should begin their married
lives alone, as by nature they wish to do,
and not under the eyes of those who have
bred and nurtured them, for thus face to
face, with none to turn to, they grow more
quickly accustomed to each other s faults
and weaknesses, which, perhaps, they have
not learned or taken count of before.

Moreover, in the case of Ralph and Su
zanne we thought it safer that they should be
absent for a while from their own district
and the neighborhood of Swart Piet, living
in a peopled place where they could not be
molested; although not knowing the wick
edness of his heart, we did not believe it pos
sible that he would molest them when once
they were married. Indeed, there was some
talk of their going to the dorp for the wed
ding, and I would that they had done so, and
then much trouble might have been spared
to us. But their minds were set against this
plan, for they desired to be married where
they had met and lived so long, so we did
not gainsay them.

At length came the eve of the wedding
day and with it the predicant, who arrived

hungry and thirsty, but full of smiles and
blessings. That night we all supped to
gether and were full of joy, nor were Ralph
and Suzanne the least joyous of us, though
they said little, but sat gazing at each other
across the table as though the moon had
struck them. Before I went to bed I had
occasion to go out of the house, for I re
membered that some linen which Suzanne was
to take with her had been left drying upon
bushes after the wash, and I feared that if
it remained there the Kaffir women might
steal it. This linen was spread at a little
distance from the house, near the huts
where Sihamba lived, but I took no lantern
with me, for the moon was bright. As I
drew near the spot I thought that I heard
a sound of chanting which seemed to come
from a little circle of mimosa trees that grew
a spear s throw to my left, of chanting very
low and sweet. Wondering who it was that
sang thus, and why she sang for the voice
was that of a woman I. crept to the nearest
of the trees, keeping in its shadow, and
peeped through the branches into the grassy
space beyond, to perceive Sihamba crouched
in the center of the circle. She was seated
upon a low stone in such fashion that her
head and face shone strangely in the moon
light, while her body was hidden in the
shadow. Before her, placed upon another
stone, stood a large wooden bowl, such as the
Kaffirs cut out of the trunk of a tree, spend
ing a month of labor, or more, upon the
task, and into this bowl, which I could see
was filled with water, for it reflected the
moon rays, she was gazing earnestly and,
as she gazed, chanting that low, melancholy
song, of which I could not understand the
meaning.

Presently she ceased her singing, and,
turning from the bowl as though she
had seen in it something that frightened
her, she covered her eyes with her hands
and groaned alotid, muttering words in
which the name of Suzanne was mixed up,
or of Swallow, as she called her. Now I
guessed that Sihamba was practising that
magic of which she was said to be so great
a mistress, although she denied always that
she knew anything of the art, and at first
I made up my mind to call to her to cease
from such wickedness, which, as the Holy
Book tells us, is a sir. in the eyes of the
Lord, and a cause of damnation to those who
practise it; but I was curious and longed
greatly in my heart to know what it was
that Sihamba saw in the bowl, and what it
had to do with my daughter Suzanne, so
I changed my mind, thereby making my
self a partaker of the sin, and coming for
ward said instead:

"What is it that you do here?"

SWALLOW.

743

Now, although, as I suppose, she had
neither seen nor heard me, for I came up
from behind her, she did not start or cry
out as any other woman would have done;
she did not even turn to look at me as she
answered in a clear and steady voice:

" I read the fate of Swallow and of those
who Icve her according to my lore, O
Mother of Swallow, now while she is still
a girl. Look! I read it there."

I looked and saw that the bowl was filled
to the brim with pure water. At the bottom
of it was some white sand, and on the sand
were placed five pieces of broken looking
glass, all of which had been filed care- ully
to a round shape. The largest of these
piece? was of the size of a half crown of
English money. This lay in the exact cen
ter of the bowl. Above it and almost touch
ing its edge was another piece of the size
of a florin, then to the right and left at a
little distance, two more pieces of the size
of a shilling, and below, but some way off
where the bowl began to curve, a very small
piece, not larger than a threepenny bit.

" Swallow," said Sihamba, pointing to the
two largest of the fragments, " and hus
band of Swallow. There to the right
and left father and mother of Swallow, and
here at her feet, a long way off and very
small, Sihamba, servant of Swallow, made
all of them from the broken glass that shows
back the face, which she gave me, and set,
as they must be set, like the stars in the
cross of the skies."

Now I shivered a little, for in myself I was
afraid of this woman s magic, but to her I
laughed and said roughly:

" What fool s plaything is this made of
bits of broken glass that you have here,
Sihamba? "

" It is a plaything that can tell a story to
those who can read it," she answered with
out anger, but like one who knows she
speaks the truth.

" Make it tell its story to me, and I will
believe you," I said, laughing again.

She shook her head andanswered, "Lady,
I cannot, for you have not the sight; but
bring your husband here, and perhaps he
will be able to read the story, or some of it."

Now, at this I grew angry, for it is not
pleasant to a woman to hear that a man
whom all know to be but as a fool compared
to her, can see things in water which she is
not able to see, even though the things are
born only of the false magic of a witch doc-
toress. Still, as at that moment I chanced
to hear Jan seeking me, for he wondered
where I had gone. I called to him and set
out the matter, expecting that he would be
very angry and dismiss Sihamba, breaking
up her magic bowl. But all the while that

I talked to him the little woman sat, her
chin resting upon her hand, looking into
his face, and I think that she had some
power over him. At the least, he was not
at all angry, although he said that I must
not mention the business to the predicant,
who was well known to be a prejudiced
man. Then he asked Sihamba to show him
the wonders of the bowl. Replying that
she would if she might, and always keeping
her eyes fixed upon his face, she bade him
kneel down and look into the water in such
fashion that he did not shut the moonlight
off from it, and to tell us what he saw.

So he knelt and looked, whispering pres
ently that on the midmost piece of glass
thero appeared the image of Suzanne, and
on the others respectively those of Ralph,
Jan himself, me his wife, and of Sihamba.
I asked him what they were doing, but he
could give me no clear answer, so I suppose
that they were printed there like the heads
on postage stamps, if indeed they existed
anywhere except in Jan s brain, into which
Sihamba had conjured them.

" What do you see more ? " j-sked
Sihamba.

" I see a shadow in the water," he an
swered, " a dark shadow, and it is like the
head of Swart Piet cut out of black paper
it spreads till it almost hides all the faces on
the bits of glass. Almost, I say, but not
quite, for things are passing beneath the
shadow which I cannot distinguish. Now it
shrinks quite small, and. lies only over your
likeness, Sihamba, which shows through it
red yes, and all the water round it is
red, and now there is nothing left; " and Jan
rose, pale with fright, and wiped his brow
with a colored handkerchief, muttering,
" Allemachter ! this is magic, indeed."

" Let me look," I said, and I looked
for a long while and saw nothing except
the five bits of glass. So I told Jan out
right that he was a fool whom any conjurer
could play with, but he waited until I had
done, and then asked Sihamba what the
vision meant.

" Father of Swallow," she answered,
" what I saw in the water mirror you have
seen, only I saw more than you did because
my sight is keener. You ask me what it
means, but I cannot tell you altogether, for
such visions are uncertain; they sum up the
future, but they do not show it. This, how
ever, is sure, that trouble waits us all because
of Swart Piet, for his shadow lay black upon
the image of each of us; only note this,
that while it cleared away from the rest, it
remained upon mine, staining it blood red,
which means that while in the end you will
escape him I shall die at his hands, or
through him. Well, so be it, but meanwhile

744

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

this is my counsel because of other things
that I saw in the water, which I cannot de
scribe, for in truth I know not rightly what
they were that the marriage of the Swallow
and her husband should be put off, and that
when they are married it should be at the
dorp yonder, not here."

Now, when I heard this my anger over
flowed like water in a boiling pot. "What?"
I cried. " When all is settled and the pred
icant has ridden for two days to do the
thing, is the marriage to be put off because,
forsooth, this little black idiot declares that
she sees things on bits of glass in a
bowl, and because you, Jan, who ought to
know better, take the lie from her lips and
make it your own ? I say that I am mis
tress here, and that I will not allow it.
If we are to be made fools of in this fashion
by the peepings and mutterings of Kaffir
witch doctors, we had better give up and
die at once, to go and live among the dead,
Our business is to dwell in the world and
face its troubles and dangers until such time
as it pleases God to call us out of- the world,
paying no heed to omens and magic and
such like sin and folly. Let that come
which will come, and let us meet it like men
and women, giving glory to the Almighty
for the ill as well as for the good, since both
ill and good come from His hands, and are
a part of His plan. For my part I trust to
Him Who made us and Who watches us,
and I fear not Swart Piet, and therefore,
come what may, the marriage shall go on."

" Good words," said Jan, " such as my
heart approves of;" but he still mopped his
head with the colored pocket handkerchief,
and looked troubled as he added: " I pray
you, wife, say nothing of this to anybody,
and, above all, to the predicant, or he will
put me out of the church as a wizard."

" Yes, yes," said Sihamba; " good words,
but the sight is still the sight for those who
have the power to see. Not that I wished
you to see, indeed I did not wish it, nor did
I think that you would be turned from your
purpose by that which you have seen.
Father and mother of Swallow, you are
right, and now I will tell you the truth.
What you beheld in the water was nothing
but a trick, a clever trick of the little doctor-
ess Sihamba, by the help of which, and others
like it, she earns her living, and imposes on
the foolish, though she cannot impose upon
you, who are wise, and have the Lord of the
skies for a friend. So think no more of it,
and do not be angry with the little black
monkey whose nature it is to play tricks;"
and with a motion of her foot she upset the
bowl of water, and collecting the little
pieces of mirror hid them away in her skin
pouch.

Then we went, but as I passed through
the thorn trees I turned and looked back
at Sihamba, and lo! she was standing in
the moonlight her face lifted towards the
sky, weeping softly and wringing her
hands. Then for the first time I felt a little
afraid.

XIV.

Tnfi marriage morning broke brightly ;
never have I seen a fairer. It was spring
time, and the veldt was clothed with the
fresh green grass, and starred everywhere
with the bloom that sprang among it. The
wind blew softly,, shaking down the dew-
drops from the growing corn, while from
every bush and tree came the cooing of un
numbered doves. Beneath the eaves of the
stoep the pair of red breasted swallows which
had built there for so many years were fin
ishing their nest, and I watched them idly,
for to me they were old friends, and would
wheel about my head, touching my cheek
with their wings. Just then they paused from
their task, or perhaps it was at length com
pleted, and flying to a bough of the peach
tree a few yards away, perched there to
gether amidst the brightbloom, and, nestling
against each other, twittered forth their
song of joy and love.

It was at this moment that Sihamba
walked up to the stoep as though to speak to
me.

" The swallow and the swallow s mate,"
she said, following my eyes to where the
little creatures swung together on the
beautiful bough.

" Yes," I answered, for her words seemed
to me of good omen, " they have built their
nest, and now they are thanking God before
they begin to live there together and rear
their young in love."

As the words left my lips, a quick shadow
swept across the path of sunlit ground before
the house, two strong wings beat, and a
brown hawk, small but very fierce, being of
a sort that preys upon little birds, swooped
downwards upon the swallows. One of
them saw it, and slid from the bough, but
the other the hawk caught in its talons, and
mounted with it high into the air. In vain
did its mate circle round it swiftly, uttering
shrill notes of distress; up it went steadily,
as pitiless as death.

" Oh, my swallow! " I cried aloud in grief;
" the accursed hawk has carried away my
swallow."

" Nay, look! " said Sihamba, pointing up
wards.

I looked, and behold! a black crow, that
appeared from behind the house, was wheel
ing about the hawk, striking at it with its

THE THUNDERSTORM.

745

beak until, that it might have its talons free
to defend itself, it let go the swallow, which,
followed by its mate, came fluttering to the
earth, while the crow and the falcon passed
away, fighting, till they were lost in the blue
depths of air.

Springing from the stoep I ran to where
the swallow lay, but Sihamba was there be
fore me and had it in her hands.

" The hawk s beak has wounded it," she
said, pointing to a blood stain among the
red feathers of the breast ; " but none of its
bones is broken, and I think that it will live.
Let us put it in the nest and leave it to its
mate and nature."

This we did, and there in the nest it
stayed for some days, its mate feeding it
with flies as though it were still unfledged.
After that they vanished, both of then to
gether, seeking some new home, nor did
they ever build again beneath our eaves.

" Would you speak with me, Sihamba? "
I asked, when this matter of the swallows
was done with.

" I would speak with the baas, or with
you. it is the same thing," she answered,
" and for this reason. I go upon a journey;
for myself I have the good black horse
which the baas gave me after I had ridden
to warn you in Tiger Kloof yonder, the
one that I cured of sickness; but I need an
other beast, to carry pots and food and my
servant Zinti, who accompanies me. There
is the brown mule which you use little be
cause he is vicious, but he is very strong
and Zinti does not fear him. Will you sell
him to me for the two cows I earned from
the Kaffir whose wife I saved when the
snake bit her? He is worth three, but I
have no more to offer."

" Whither do you wish to journey, Si
hamba? " I asked.

" I follow my mistress to the dorp," she
answered.

Did she bid you follow her, Sihamba? "

" No! Is it likely that she would think of
me t such a time, or care whether I come
or go? Fear not, I shall not trouble her, or
put her to cost; I shall follow, but I shall not
be seen until I am wanted."

Now, I was about to gainsay Sihamba
not that I could find any fault with her plan,
but because if such arrangements are made,
I like to make them myself, as is the busi
ness of the head of the house. I think Si
hamba guessed this; at any rate, she an
swered me before I spoke, and that in an odd
way, namely, by looking first at the swal
lows nest, then at the blooming bough of
the peach tree, and lastly into the far dis
tances of air.

" It was the black crow that drove the
hawk away," she said reflectively, as though
she were thinking of something else,
" though I think, for my eyes are better
than yours, that the hawk killed the crow, or
perhaps they killed each other; at the least,
I saw them falling to the earth beyond the
crest of the mountain."

Now, I was about to break in angrily, for
if there was one thing in the world I hated
it was Sihamba s nonsense about birds and
omens and such things, whereof, indeed, I
had had enough on the previous night, when
she made that lump Jan believe that he saw
visions in a bowl of water. And yet I did
not for the black crow s sake. The cruel
hawk had seized the swallow which I had
loved, and borne it away to devour it in its
eyrie, and the crow it was that saved it.
Well, the things that happened among birds
might happen among men, who also prey
upon each other, and but I could not bear
the thought.

"Take the mule, Sihamba," I said; "I
will answer for it to the baas. As for the
two cows, they can run with the other
cattle till your return."

" I thank you, Mother of Swallow," she
answered, and turned to go.

(To be continued.)

THE THUNDERvSTORM.

A MUFFLED cannonading ! Boom on boom
Aquiver in the air ! A warning hush
Now broken by a loud and louder roll
Of fast oncoming conflict through the clouds
Grown black with fury !

Hist ! the charge, the charge !
The shock of meeting legions peal on peal
Of terrible artillery, cutting through
The inky murk in jagged lines of fire !

Catharine Young Glen.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

NOTES AND PICTURES OF THE CAMPAIGN ON SEA AND T y AND A GAI y L.ERY OF MEN AND
SCENES FAMOUS IN CONTEMPORARY HISTORY.

SOME HEROES OF SANTIAGO.
It certainly was not strange that Lieu
tenant Commander Wainvvright, as he
stood on the bridge of the Gloucester, and
saw the flames roaring through the shat
tered decks of Spain s finest ships, should
have remarked, as the newspapers say he

did, "The Maine is avenged!" Five
months before, Commander Wainwright
was in Havana harbor as executive officer
of the doomed American vessel ; and it
was one of the strange ironies of fate that
he should be in the thick of the struggle
that ended in so terrible a retribution for

ADMIRAL MOXTOJO, COMMANDER OF THE SPANISH FLEET AT MANILA, WHICH WAS
DESTROYED BY ADMIRAL DEWEY MAY I, 1898.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

747

ADMIRAL CKRVERA, COMMANDER OF THE SPANISH FLEET AT SANTIAGO DE CUBA, WHICH
WAS DESTROYED BY SAMPSON AND SCHLEY JULY 3, 1898.

her destruction, and should be the man
to receive the surrender of the foremost
vSpanish admiral.

The captain of the Gloucester has had
little love for Spain since the fateful isth
of last February. For two months after
the explosion that sank the Maine he
stayed at Havana, in charge of the wreck,
but he never set foot in the city, making
his quarters aboard the despatch boat
Fern. He declared that he would not go
ashore until he did so at the head of a
landing party of American bluejackets.

Nevertheless, Commander Wainwright
can recognize a gallant foe, and when

Cervera came on board his ship as a pris
oner he generously congratulated the
veteran admiral on the gallantry he had
displayed. For suicidal as it proved, the
Spaniards dash for escape deserves the
honor that attaches to a forlorn hope.
Hemmed in by an overwhelming force,
they might have surrendered without a
fight, they might have blown Up their
ships, the}* might have clung inglori-
ously to the temporary safety that the
fortified harbor of Santiago still offered
them ; but they deliberately chose to
make their last fight "under the clear
sky, upon the bright waters, in noble,

748

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

honorable battle." And the admiral,
who if the reports at hand are correct
went into battle aboard his least efficient
cruiser in order to give his fine flagship
an added chance of escape, displayed a

open question over which experts waged
word\- and heated battle. Now, however,
her friends are sure that they were right.
The Vesuvius pneumatic guns charged
with dynamite were repeatedly fired at

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RICHARD WAINWRIGHT, FORMERLY EXECUTIVE OFFICER OF THE
MAINE, AND NOW CAPTAIN OF THE GLOUCESTER, WHO RECEIVED THE SURRENDER

OF ADMIRAL CERVERA.

heroism worth}- of Spain s best day*, now
long past.

TWO REMARKABLE vSHIPS.

Brief as the war with Spain has been,
it has thrown light upon several mooted
and interesting problems. One of these
is the use, with safety, of high explosives
in naval warfare. The dynamite gunboat
Vesuvius was completed and placed in
commission so long ago as June, 1890, but
until the blockade of Santiago her avail
ability for practical service remained an

the Spanish batteries without harm to
her officers and crew, and with tremen-
dousl}- destructive results to the eneni} r .
It has long been said that it would be a
momentous thing in war to be able to
carry an effective dynamite gun from
place to place on shipboard.

Another vessel whose career in Cuban
waters has been watched with keenest
interest by naval experts, is the English
built cruiser New Orleans, formerly the
Amazonas of the Brazilian nav}-. The
New Orleans has proved herself a splendid

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

749

THE AUXILIARY CRUISER GLOUCESTER, FORMERLY MR. J. PIERPONT MORGAN S YACHT CORSAIR,
WHICH SUCCESSFULLY ENGAGED TWO SPANISH TORPEDO BOAT DESTROYERS IN THE

BATTLE WITH ADMIRAL CKRVERA S FLEET.
From a photograph by J . C. llemment, Nciv 1 ork.

fighting ship, and in rapidity and accu
racy of fire she has shown herself to be
perhaps the most effective of all the great
fighting machines under Admiral Samp
son s orders.

THE CAPTAIN 01 THE CHARLESTON.

A typical officer of our navy is Cap
tain Henry Glass, commander of the
Charleston, who, while convoying the
first American expedition to Manila,
stopped long enough on the way to hoist
the Stars and Stripes over the Ladrones.
Those who met Captain Glass while com
mander of the Texas a year or so ago,
and who recall his abounding love for his
ship, are sure that the Charleston will

give a splendid account of herself in his
hands. Captain Glass was the honor
member of the famous class of 62 at
Annapolis, which included Gridley,
Barker, Kvans, Crowninshield, Ludlow,
Clark, Barclay, Coghlan, and Sigsbee,
and saw active service in the Civil War.
He has held the rank of captain since
January, 1894.

COLONEL HOOD AND HIS IMMUNES.

Colonel Dvincan Norbert Hood, of
the Second United States Volunteers, is
probably the youngest commissioned
colonel in the American army. Herein
he is the son of his father, the celebrated
Confederate general, who, when he faced

i j: ftf. f \

^BCljL

SOME TYPICAL SCKNKS FROM THE DAILY CAMP LIFE OF OUR AMERICAN VOLUNTEER SOLDIER BOYS

THERE IS MORE WORK THAN PLAY IN IT, AS IS SHOWN IN THKSE SKETCHES, DRAWN BY E. NADHERNY.

752

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THI-: VESUVIUS, WHOSE

TIIKEE DYNAMITIC GTNS HAVE BEKN "THROWING EARTHOUAKES " INTO
THE SPANISH DEFENSES OF SANTIAGO HARBOR.

From a photograph by Johnston, New York.

Sherman in Georgia, was the }"oungest
officer who commanded an arm}- in the
Civil War.

Both of Colonel Hood s parents, and
two or three other members of his family,
died of 3 ellow fever in the great epidemic
of 1879. Young Hood was adopted by
the late John A. Morris, well known in
New Orleans and New York. He gradu
ated at West Point with honor in the
class of 1896, but resigned from the army

to take up the profession of mining
engineering. It was no doubt the re
membrance of the terrible ordeal of his
boyhood days that inspired him with the
idea of raising a regiment of immunes
from yellow fever, when hostilities with
Spain seemed imminent. He went at
once to Governor Foster of Louisiana.
The Governor at the time had his hands
full in organizing the State militia into
two regiments of infantry, according to

THE NEW ORLEANS (FORMERLY THE BRAZILIAN CRUISER AMAZONAS), WHICH HAS DONE

ESPECIALLY EFFECTIVE WORK IN BOMBARDING THE SPANISH FORTIFICATIONS.

From a photograph Copyright, 1898, by A. Loejfler, Toinpki&gt;:st ille. Neiv York.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

753

orders received from Washington, and
advised young Hood to abandon his plan
and accept a commission as lieutenant in
the State troops. Hood declined, went
straight to Washington, and secured an
interview with the President, who was
so much impressed that he commissioned
Hood as a colonel and promised to take

so often, and often so thoughtless!} ,
made in this country, than the recent
conduct of a young man who is quite or
nearly the richest living American.
When the government, in the sudden
emergency of a war for which we were
utterly unprepared, issued its first appeal
to the country, John Jacob Astor was one

CAPTAIN HENRY GLASS, COMMANDER OK THE CHARLESTON, WHO HOISTED THE AMERICAN FLAG
IN THE LADRONE ISLANDS ON HIS WAY TO JOIN ADMIRAL DEWEY AT MANILA.

From ti photograph by Rlillnn, I allejo, California.

up the matter of forming an immune
regiment. The necessary bill was passed
by Congress, and the Second United
States Volunteers are the result. The
regiment represents a thousand men who
have lived through the disease that is so
terrible a menace to strangers in Cuba,
and who are regarded as yellow fever poi
son proof." It is the colonel s own idea
that they should be ordered to the most
unhealthy post where men are needed.

A SIGNAL INSTANCE OF PATRIOTISM.

There could be no better answer to
the sneers at the " idle rich " which are

of the first to respond, and his response
was a remarkable one. Not only did he
proffer his personal services, but he offered
to raise and equip, at his own expense, a
complete battery of light artillery. Both
offers were accepted, and as this is written
the Astor battery is on its way to Manila,
while Colonel Astor is in Cuba, serving on
General Shafter s staff.

Colonel Astor first received his militarj-
title by peaceful service upon the staff of
Governor Morton of New York. His
present experience is very different, for
though a commanding general s aide may
not have to stand in the trenches or

754

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

COLONEL DUNCAN N. HOOD, OF NEW ORLEANS, ORGANIZER AND COMMANDER OF THE REGIMENT
OF YELLOW FEVER IMMUNES (SECOND UNITED STATES VOLUNTEERS).

Front n photograph by Moore, New Orleans.

charge the enemy s works, yet his duty
involves the hardships and something of
the danger inseparable from the life of an
army in the field. But whether he finds
an opportunity to win military laurels or
not, John Jacob Astor is a man from
whom his countrymen are likely to hear
again. He is young, capable, ambitious
a multimillionaire who is not content
to be nothing more than a rich man. He
has often been credited with political

aspirations, and it would not be surpris
ing to see them gratified.

TWO BRAVE YOUNG SOUTHERNERS.

Although each day of the present war
has produced its hero, a grateful country
has already set its seal upon the work
and career of Ensign Worth Bagley.
One of the torpedo boats lately author
ized by Congress is to bear his name,
and he will be held in such honor as has

COLONEL JOHN JACOB ASTOR, WHO RAISED AND EQUIPPED A BATTERY OF ARTILLERY FOR THK
GOVERNMENT, AND WHO IS NOW SERVING IN CUBA ON THE STAFF OF MAJOR

GENERAL SH AFTER.
From a photograph by Prince, AVrc } &lt;{.

756

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE LATK ENSIGN WORTH BAGLKY, OF THE WINSLOW, KILLED OFF CARDENAS, CUBA,
MAY 12, 1898 THE FIRST AMERICAN OFFICER WHO FELL IX THE
WAR WITH SPAIN.

been accorded to Winthrop and Ellsworth,
those two brave spirits who were the first
to perish in the Civil War.

When he fell in the gallant dash into
Cardenas harbor, Ensign Bagley was only
twenty four years old, and had been less
than seven years in the service, but he
had already learned how to face danger
with a smile, and to die as became an
American naval officer.

It is a speaking token of a reunited

country that Bagley, the first American
officer to fall in Cuba, was a native of the
South. The same section claims as its
own another of the earliest heroes of the
present war Lieutenant Richmond Pear
son Hobson. There is little that can be
added to Admiral Sampson s official
account of the sinking of the Merrimac
at the mouth of Santiago harbor by Hob-
son and his men. "A more brave or
daring thing, " writes the admiral, a man

753

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

LIEUTENANT RICHMOND PEARSON HOBSON, WHO SUGGESTED AND EXECUTED THE DARING FEAT
OF TAKING THE COLLIER MERRIMAC INTO THE MOUTH OF SANTIAGO HARBOR AND
SINKING HER IN THE CHANNEL.

always rather sparing of praise, "has not
been done since Gushing blew up the
Albemarle."

Nearly every illustrated periodical in
America has published a portrait of Hob-

son, and almost invariably he has been
represented as a smooth faced 3 outh just
out of Annapolis. Our engraving, made
from a recent photograph, shows him as
he is at the present time manly and

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER ADOLPH MAKIX, CAPTAIN OF THE AUXILIARY CRUISER SCORPION
OF THE CUBAN BLOCKADING SQUADRON.

mature of aspect, and
pard. "

bearded like the

THE CAPTAIN OF THE SCORPION.

Few naval officers are better known in
New York than Lieutenant Commander
Adolph Marix, who served on the Maine
board of inquiry, and who is now com
manding the Scorpion in Cuban waters.
The Scorpion, formerly the Sovereign, is
the most heavily armed of the converted
yachts, and has taken a lively and ven
turesome part in the task of peppering
the Cuban coast, for Marix is a righting
captain with a fighting crew behind him.
One day his ship was opposed to a small

battery at the mouth of the San Juan
River. She quickly silenced the guns,
but her own gun crews became so excited
that when the order to "cease firing"
was given, they did not obey it. The
officers yelled themselves hoarse, but the
guns continued to bark defiance at the
Spaniards, until each crew had been
separately informed that it must stop
firing, because there was nothing left to
shoot at.

Captain Marix, who is a native of New
York, and the husband of Grace Filkins,
the well known actress, has been thirty
four years in the navy, and will soon
reach the grade of commander.

THE CASTLE INN.*

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Mr. "Weyman, whose " Gentleman of France * created a new school of
historical romance, has found in the England of George ffl a field for a story
that is no less strong in action, and much stronger in its treatment of the
human drama of character and emotion, than his tales of French history.

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

IN the spring of 1767, while detained at the Castle Inn, at Marlboi ough, by an attack of the gout,
Lord Chatham, the great English statesman, sends for Sir George Soane, a young knight who has
squandered his fortune at the gaming tables, to inform him that a claimant has appeared for the
^"50,000 that was left with him by his grandfather in trust for the heirs of his uncle Anthony
Soaue, and which, according to the terms of the will, would have become Soane s own in nine
months more. The mysterious claimant is a young girl known as Julia Masterson, who has been
reputed to be the daughter of a dead college servant at Oxford, and who is already at the Castle
in company with her lawyer, one Fishwick. Here Sir George, quite ignorant as to her identity,
falls in love with her and asks her to be his wife. She promises to give him his answer on the
morrow, but before Soane has returned from a journey he has taken, she is abducted by hirelings
of Mr. Dunborough, a man whom Sir George has recently worsted in a duel, and who is himself an
unsuccessful suitor for Julia s hand. The Rev. Mr. Thomasson, a tutor at Oxford, who has discovered
Julia s identity, attempts to interfere and is carried off for his pains. Sir George and Fishwick set
out in pursuit, meeting on the road Mr. Dunborough, who has been prevented by an accident from
joining his helpers, and who, thoroughly cowed by the dangerous situation in which lie now finds
himself, sullenly agrees to aid them in effecting the girl s release. When not far from Bastwick, on the
road to Bristol, the abductors become alarmed at the nearness of the pursuers and set their captives
free. Julia and Thomasson apply at the house of a man known as Bully Pomeroy for shelter for the
night, and after the girl retires the tutor acquaints his host and Lord Almeric Doyley, a dissolute young
nobleman who is a guest there, with the true state of affairs. The desirability of recouping their
fortunes by an alliance with the heiress dawns on them simultaneously, and each signifies his in
tention of marrying her. The result is a heated argument until Lord Almeric, noticing the cards
on the table, suggests playing for her. To Mr. Pomeroy s great disgust, the young nobleman wins,
and the following morning he goes to the girl and offers her his heart and hand. Unaware of the
real identity of her abductor, Julia has supposed him to be Soane, and moved by a desire to be in a
position where she can revenge herself on her recreant lover, she accepts Lord Almeric s offer. He
is celebrating his success with Pomeroy and Thomasson when, later in the day, a message is brought
to him from Julia asking for an interview.

XXVII.

\ A /E left Sir George Soane and his com-
* panions stranded in the little ale
house at Bathford, waiting through the small
hours of the night for a conveyance to carry
them on to Bristol, Soap and water, a good
meal, and a brief dog s sleep, in which Soane
had no share he spent the night walking up
and down and from which Mr. Fishwick
was continually starting with cries and
moans, did something to put them in better
plight, if in no better temper. When the

dawn came, and with it the chaise and four
for which they had sent to Bath, they issued
forth haggard and unshaven, but resolute ;
and long before the shops in Bristol had
begun to look for custom, the three, with Sir
George s servant, descended before the old
George Inn in Temple Mead.

The attorney held strongly to the opinion
that they should not lose a second in seeking
the persons Mr. Dunborough had employed;
the least delay, he said, and the men might
be gone into hiding. But on this a wrangle
took place in the empty street before the

* Copyright, 1898, by Stanley J. IVeyman.

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half aroused inn, with a milk girl and a
couple of drunken sailors for witnesses.
Mr. Dunborough, who was of the party
willy nilly, and asked nothing better than to
take out in churlishness the pressure put
upon him, stood firmly on it he would take
no more than one person to the men. He
would take Sir George, if he pleased, but no
one else.

" I ll have no lawyer to make evidence! "
he cried boastfully. And I ll take no one
but on terms. That s flat. I ll have no
Jeremy Twitcher with me."

Mr. Fishwick, in a great rage, was going
to insist, but Sir George stopped him. " On
what terms?" said he to the other.

" If the girl is unharmed, we go unharmed,
one and all! " Mr. Dunborough answered.
" Damme, do you think I m going to peach
on em! " he continued, with a great show
of bravado. " Not I ! There s the offer,
take it or leave it! "

Sir George might have broken down his
opposition by the same arguments addressed
to his safety which had brought him so far.
But time was everything, and Soane was on
fire to know the best or worst. " Agreed! "
he cried. "Lead the way! And do you,
Mr. Fishwick, await me here."

" \Ve must have time," Mr. Dunborough
grumbled, looking askance at the attorney
he hated him. " I can t answer for an hour
or two. I know a place, and I know another
place, and there is another place. And they
may be at one, or another, or the other.
D you see? "

" I see that it is your business," Sir
George answered, with a glance that lowered
the other s truculence. " Wait until noon,
Mr. Fishwick. If we have not returned at
that hour, be good enough to swear an in
formation against Mr. Dunborough and set
the constables to work."

Mr. Dunborough muttered that it was on
Sir George s head if ill came of it; but that
said, swung sulkily on his heel, defeated.
Mr. Fishwick, when the two were some way
down the street, ran after Soane to ask, in a
whisper, if his pistols were primed; then
stood to watch them out of sight. When he
turned, the servant whom he had left at the
door of the inn had vanished. The lawyer
made a shrewd guess that he would have an
eye to his master s safety, and retired into
the house better satisfied.

He got his breakfast early, and afterwards
dozed a while, resting his aching bones in a
corner of the coffee room. It was nine and
after, and the tide of life was roaring through
the city, when he roused himself, and to
divert his suspense and fend off his growing
stiffness went out to look about him. All
was new to him, but he soon wearied of the

main streets, where huge drays laden with
puncheons of rum and bales of tobacco
threatened to crush him at every corner,
and tarry seamen, their whiskers hanging in
ringlets, jostled him at every crossing.
Turning aside into a quiet court, he stood
to gaze at a humble wedding which was
leaving a church. He watched the party
out of sight, and then, the church door
standing open, he took the fancy to stroll
into the building. He looked abo,ut him,
at the maze of dusty, high paneled pews,
with little alleys winding hither and thither
among them; at the great three decker with
its huge sounding board; at the royal
escutcheon, and the faded tables of the law,
and was about to leave as aimlessly as he
had entered when he espied the open vestry
door, and, popping in his head, saw a folio
bound in sheepskin lying open on a chest,
a pen and ink beside it.

The attorney was in that state of fatigue
of body and languor of mind when the
smallest trifle amuses. He tiptoed in, his
hat in his hand, and, licking his lips at
thought of the law cases that lay enshrined
in the register, he perused a couple of en
tries with a kind of enthusiasm. He was
beginning a third, which was a little hard to
decipher, when a black gown that hung on
a hook over against him swung noiselessly
outward, and a little old man emerged from
the door it masked.

The lawyer, who was stooping over the
register, raised himself guiltily. " Hallo! "
he said, to cover his confusion.

" Hallo! "said the old man, with a wintry
smile. "A shilling, if you please," and he
held out his hand.

"Oh! " said Mr. Fishwick, much chap-
fallen, " I was only just looking out of
curiosity."

" It is a shilling to look," the newcomer
retorted, with a chuckle. " Only one year,
I think? Just so, anno domini seventeen
hundred and sixty seven. A shilling, if you
please."

Mr. Fishwick hesitated, but in the end
professional pride swayed him; he drew out
the coin, and grudgingly handed it over.
" Well," he said, " it is a shilling for
nothing; but I suppose, as you have caught
me, I must pay."

" I ve caught a many that way," the old
fellow answered, as he pouched the shilling.
" But there, I do a lot of work upon them.
There is not a better register kept than that,
nor a parish clerk that knows more about
his register than I do, though I say it that
should not. It is clean, and clean from old
Henry eighth, with never a break except at
the time of the siege, and there is an entry
about that that you could see for another

THE CASTLE INN.

763

shilling. No? Well, if you would like to
see a year for nothing? No. Now, I know
a lad, an attorney s clerk here, name of
Chatterton, would give his ears for the offer.
Perhaps your name is Smith?" the old fel
low continued, peering curiously at Mr.
Pishwick. " If it is, you may like to know
that the name of Smith is in the register of
burials just five hundred and eighty three
times was last Friday. It is not Smith?
Well, if it is Brown, it is there four hundred
and seventy times and one over! "

" That is an odd thought of yours," said
the lawyer, staring at the conceit.

" So many have said," the old man
chuckled. " But it is not Brown? Jones,
perhaps? That comes four hundred and
oh, it is not Jones? "

" It is a name you won t be likely to have
once, let alone four hundred times," said the
lawyer, with a little pride Heaven knows
why.

" What may it be, then? " the clerk asked,
fairly put on his mettle; and he drew out a
pair of glasses and, settling them on his
forehead, looked fixedly at his companion.

" Fishwick."

" Fishwick! Fishwick? Well, it is not a
common name, and I cannot speak to it at
this moment. But if it is here, I ll wager I ll
find it for you. D you see, I have them here
in A B C order," he continued, bustling with
an important air to a cupboard in the wall,
whence he produced a thick folio bound in
roughened calf. " Aye, here s Fishwick, in
the burial book, do you see, volume two,
page seventeen, anno domini 1750 seven
teen years gone, that is. Will you see it?
Twill be only a shilling. There s many
pays out of curiosity to see their names."

Mr. Fishwick shook his head.

" Dods! man, you shall! " the old clerk
cried generously, and turned the pages.
" You shall see it for what you have paid.
Here you are: Fourteenth of September,
William Fishwick, aged eighty one, barber,
West Quay, died the eleventh of the month.
No, man, you are looking too low. Higher,
higher! Here tis, do you see? Eh, what
is it? What s the matter with you? "

" Nothing," Mr. Fishwick muttered
hoarsely. But he continued to stare at the
page with a face struck suddenly sallow, and
the hand that rested on the corner of the
book shook as with the ague.

" Nothing? " said the old man, staring
suspiciously at him. " I do believe it is
something. I do b lieve it is money. Well,
it is five shillings to extract. So there! "

That seemed to change Mr. Fishwick s
view. " It might be money," he confessed,
still speaking thickly, and as if his tongue
were too large for his mouth. " It might

be," he repeated; " but I am not very well
this morning. Do you think you could get
me a glass of water? "

" None of that! " the old man*retorted
sharply, with a sudden look of alarm. " I
would not leave you alone with that book
at this moment for all the shillings I have
ever taken! No! So, if you want water,
you ve got to get it."

" I am better now," Mr. Fishwick an
swered; but the sweat which stood on his
brow went far to belie his words. " I yes,
I think I ll take an extract. Sixty one, was
he?"

" Eighty one, eighty one, it says. There s
pen and ink, but you ll please to give me five
shillings first. Thank you, kindly. Eh, but
that is not the one! Ye re taking out the
one above it."

" I ll have em all for identification," Mr.
Fishwick replied, wiping his forehead
nervously.

" No need."

" I think I will."

"What, all?"

" Well, the one before and the one after."

" Dods, man, but that will be fifteen shil
lings! " the clerk cried, aghast at such ex
travagance.

" You ll only charge for the one I want,"
the lawyer said, with an effort.

" W r ell we ll say five shillings for the
other two."

Mr. Fishwick closed with the offer, and
with a hand which was still unsteady paid
the money and extracted the entries. Then
he took his hat, and hurriedly, his eyes
averted, turned to go.

" If it s money," said the old clerk, staring
at him as if he could never satisfy his in-
quisitiveness, " you ll not forget me?"

" If it s money," said Mr. Fishwick, with a
ghastly smile, " it shall be some in your
pocket."

" Thank you kindly. Now who would
have thought when you stepped in here
you were stepping into a fortune so to
speak? "

" Just so," said Mr. Fishwick, a spasm
distorting his face. " Who d have thought
it! Good morning! "

"And good luck! " bawled the clerk after
him. " Good luck! "

Mr. Fishwick fluttered a hand backwards,
but made no answer. He hastened to turn
the corner; thence he plunged through a
stream of traffic, and, having thus covered
his trail, he went on rapidly, seeking a quiet
corner. He found one in a court among
some warehouses, and standing, pulled out
the copy he had made from the register. It
was neither on the first nor the second entry,
however, that his eyes dwelt, while the hand

764

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

that held the paper shook as with the ague.
It was the third fascinated him: ...

September loth, at the Bee in Steep Street,
Julia, daghter of Anthony and Julia Soane of
Estcombe, aged three, and buried the 2ist of the
month.

Mr. Fishwick read it thrice, his lips quiv
ering; then he slowly drew from a separate
pocket a little sheaf of papers frayed and
soiled with much and loving handling. He
selected from these a slip; it was one of
those Mr. Thomasson had surprised on the
table in his room at the Castle. It was a
copy of the attestation of birth " of Julia,
daughter of Anthony Soane, of Estcombe,
England, and Julia, his wife; " the date, Au
gust, 1747; the place, Dunquerque.

The attorney drew a long, quivering
breath, and put the papers up again, the
packet in the place from which he had taken
it, the extract from the Bristol register in
another pocket. Then, after drawing one or
two more sighs, as if his heart were going
out of him, he looked dismally upwards as in
protest against Heaven. At length he turned
and went back to the street, and there, with
a strangely humble air, asked a passer by the
nearest way to Steep Street.

The man directed him; the place was near
at hand. In two minutes Mr. Fishwick
found himself at the door of a small but
decent grocer s shop, over the portal of
which a gilded bee seemed to prognosticate
more business than the fact performed. An
elderly woman, stout and comfortable look
ing, was behind the counter. Eying the at
torney as he came forward, she asked him
what she could do for him, and before he
answered reached for the snuff canister.

He took the hint, requested an ounce of
the best Scotch and Havana mixed, and
while she weighed it asked her how long she
had lived there.

" Twenty six years, sir," she answered
heartily, " old style. For the new I don t
hold with it, nor them that meddle with
thir -5 above them. I am sure it brought
me no profit," she continued, rubbing her
nose. " I have buried a good husband and
two children since they gave it us."

" Still, I suppose people died, old style? "
the lawyer ventured.

" Well, well, may be."

" There was a death in this house seven
teen years gone this September, if I re
member rightly," he said.

The woman pushed away the snuff and
stared at him. " Two, for the matter of
that," she said sharply. " But should I re
member you? "

" No."

"Then, if I may make so bold, what is t

to you? " she retorted. " Do you come
from Jim Masterson?"

" He is dead," Mr. Fishwick answered.
She threw up her hands. " Lord! And
he a young man, so to speak! Poor Jim!
Poor Jim! It is ten years and more aye,
more since I heard from him. And the
child? Is that dead, too? "

" No, the child is alive," said the lawyer,
speaking at a venture. " I am here on her
behalf, to make some inquiries about her
kinsfolk."

The woman s honest red face softened and
grew motherly. " You may inquire," she
said; " you ll learn no more than I can tell
you. And there is no one left that s akin to
her. The father was a poor Frenchman, a
monsieur that taught the quality about here;
the mother was one of his people she came
from Canterbury, where I am told there are
French and to spare, but according to her
account she had no kin left. He died the
year after the child was born, and she came
to lodge with me, and lived by teaching, as
he had, but twas a poor livelihood, you may
say, and when she sickened she died just
as a candle goes out."

"When?" said Mr. Fishwick, his eyes
glued to the woman s face.

" The week Jim Masterson came to see us,
bringing the child from foreign parts that
was buried with her. Twas said his child
took the fever from her and got its death
that way. But I don t know. I don t know.
It is true they had not brought in the new
style then; but "

You knew him before Masterson, I
mean? "

" Why, he had courted me! " was the
good tempered answer. " You don t know
much if you don t know that. Then my
good man came along and I liked him bet
ter, and Jim went into service and married
Oxfordshire way. But when he came to
Bristol after his journey in foreign parts,
twas natural he should come to see me,
and my husband, who was always easy,
would keep him a day or two more s the
pity, for in twenty four hours the child he
had with him began to sicken, and died, and
never was man in such a taking, though he
swore the child was not his, but one he had
adopted to serve a gentleman in trouble, and
because his wife had none. Any way, it was
buried along with my lodger, and nothing
would serve but he must adopt the child she
had left. It seemed ordained-like, they be
ing of an age, and all. And I had two chil
dren and was looking for another, which
never came, and the mother had left no more
than buried her with a little help. So he
took it with him, and we heard from him
once or twice how it was, and that his wife

THE CASTLK INN.

765

took to it, and then well, writing s a bur
den. But " with renewed interest " she s
a well grown girl by now, I guess? "

" Yes," said the attorney absently; " she s
she s a well grown girl."

" And is poor Jim s wife alive? "

" Yes."

"Ah! " the good woman answered
thoughtfully. " If she were not, I d think
about taking to the girl myself. It s lonely
at times without chick or child. And
there s the shop to tend. She could help
with that."

The attorney winced. He was looking
wretched. But he had his back to the light,
and she remarked nothing, save that he
seemed to be a somber sort of body and
poor company. " What was the French
man s name? " he asked, after a pause.

" Parry," said she; and then, sharply,
" don t they call her by it? "

"It has an English sound," he said doubt
fully, evading her question.

" That is the v/ay he called it. But it was
spelled Pare, just Pare."

"Ah!" said Mr. Fishwick. "That ex
plains it." He wondered why he had asked
what did not in the least matter; since, if she
were not a Soane, it mattered not who she
was. " Well, thank you," he continued
after an interval, recovering himself with a
sigh, " I am much obliged to you. And
now for the moment good morning,
ma am. I must wish you good morning,"
he repeated hurriedly, and took up his snuff.

"But that is not all?" the good woman
exclaimed in astonishment. " At any rate,
you ll leave your name? "

Mr. Fishwick pursed up his lips and stared
at her gloomily. " Name? " he said, at last.
" Yes, ma am Brown. Mr. Peter Brown,
the the Poultry

"The Poultry! " she cried, gaping at him
helplessly.

" Yes, the Poultry, London. Mr. Peter
Brown, the Poultry, London. And now I
have other business and shall shall return
another day. I must wish you good morn
ing, ma am. Good morning; " and thrust
ing his face into his hat Mr. Fishwick hur
ried precipitately into the street, and with
singular recklessness hastened to plunge
into the thickest of the traffic, leaving the
good woman in a state of amazement.

Nevertheless, he reached the inn safely;
and when Mr. Dunborough returned from a
futile search, the failure of which condemned
him to another twenty four hours in that
company, the first thing he saw was the at
torney s gloomy face awaiting them in a
dark corner of the coffee room. The sight
reproached him subtly, he knew not why; he
was in the worst of tempers, and for want of

a better outlet vented his spleen on the law
yer s head.

"Damn you!" he cried brutally, "your
hang dog phiz is enough to spoil any sport!
Hang me if I believe that there is such an
other mumping, whining, whimpering sneak
in the varsal world! D you think any one
will have luck with your tallow face within a
mile of him? " Then, longing but not dar
ing to turn his wrath on Sir George, What
do you bring him for? " he cried.

" For my convenience," Sir George re
torted, with a look of contempt that for the
time silenced the other; and that said, Soane
proceeded to explain to Mr. Fishwick, who
had answered not a word, that the rogues
had evaded them and got into hiding; but
that by means of persons known to Mr.
Dunborough it was hoped they would be
heard from that day or the next. Then,
struck by the attorney s sickly face, " I am
afraid you are not well, Mr. Fishwick," Sir
George continued, more kindly. " The
night has been too much for you. I would
advise you to lie down for a few hours and
take some rest. If anything is heard I will
send up to you."

Mr. Fishwick thanked him, without look
ing in his face; and after a minute or two he
retired. Sir George looked after him and
pondered a little on the change in his man
ner. Through the stress of the night Mr.
Fishwick had shown himself alert and eager,
ready and not lacking in spirit; now he had
depression written large in his face, and
walked and bore himself like a man sinking
under a load of despondency.

All that day the messenger from the slums
did not come, and between the two men
down stairs strange relations prevailed. Sir
George dared not let the other out of his
sight; yet there were times when they came
to the verge of blows, and nothing but the
knowledge of Sir George s swordsmanship
could have kept Mr. Dunborough s temper
within bounds. At dinner, at which Sir
George insisted that the attorney should sit
down with them, Dunborough drank a good
deal of wine, and in his cups fell into a strain
peculiarly provoking.

" Lord! you make me sick! " he said.
" All this bother about a girl that a month
ago your high mightiness would not have
looked at in the street. You are vastly vir
tuous now, and sneer at me, but damme,
which of us loves the girl best? Take away
her money, and will you marry her? I d a
done it, without a rag to her back. But take
away her money, and will you do the same,
Mr. Virtuous? "

Sir George, listening darkly and putting a
great restraint on himself, did not answer.
But in a moment Mr. Fishwick got up sud-

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

denly and hurried from the room so ab
ruptly that he left his glass in fragments on
the floor.

XXVIII.

LORD ALMERIC continued to vapor and
romance as he mounted the stairs. Mr.
Pomeroy attended sneering at his heels. The
tutor followed, and longed to separate them.
He had his fears for the one and the other,
and was relieved when his lordship, at the
last moment, hung back, and with a foolish
chuckle proposed a course that did more
honor to his vanity than his taste.

" Hist! " he whispered. " Do you two stop
outside a minute, and you ll hear how kind
she ll be to me. I ll leave the door ajar, and
then in a minute do you come in, and roast
her! Lord, twill be as good as a play! "

Mr. Pomeroy shrugged his shoulders.
"As you please," he growled. " But I have
known a man go to shear and be shorn! "

Lord Almeric smiled loftily, and waiting
for no more, winked to them, turned the
handle of the door, and simpered in.

Had Mr. Thomasson entered with him the
tutor would have seen at a glance that he
had wasted his fears, and that trouble threat
ened from a different quarter. The girl, her
face a strange blaze of excitement and shame
and eagerness, stood in the recess of the
farther window seat, as.far from the door as
she could go, her attitude that of one driven
into a corner. And from that about her her
lover should have taken warning. But Lord
Almeric saw nothing. Crying, " Most
lovely Julia! " he tripped forward to em
brace her, the wine emboldening him. She
checked him by a gesture unmistakable even
by a man in his flustered state.

" My lord," she said hurriedly, yet in a
tone of pleading, and her head hung a little
and her cheeks began to flame, " I ask your
forgiveness for having sent for you. Alas, 1
have also to ask your forgiveness for a more
serious fault, and and one which you may
find it less easy to pardon! "

"Try me! " the little beau answered with
ardor, and struck an attitude. " What would
I not forgive to the loveliest of her sex? "
And under cover of his words he endeavored
to come within reach of her.

She waved him back. " No! " she said.
" You do not understand."

" Understand? " he cried effusively. " I
understand enough to but why. my Chloe,
these alarms? This bashfulness? Sure," he
spouted,

" How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening east are fair ?

"While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love and not despair? "

And then in wonder at his own readiness,
" S help me, that s uncommon clever of
me! " he said. " But when a man is in love
with the most beautiful of her sex "

" My lord," she cried, stamping the floor
in her impatience, " I have something seri
ous to say to you. Must I ask you to return
to me at another time, or will you be good
enough to listen to me now? "

" Sho, if you wish it, child!" he said easily,
taking out his snuff box. " And, to be sure,
there is time enough. But between us, sweet
one "

" There is nothing between us!" she cried
impetuously, snatching at the word. " That
is what I wanted to tell you. Do you not
understand? I made a mistake when I said
there should be. I was mad I was wicked,
if you like. Do you hear me, my lord? " she
continued passionately. " It was a mistake.
I did not know what I was doing. And now
I do understand, I take it back."

Lord Almeric gasped. He heard the
words, but the meaning seemed incredible,
inconceivable; the misfortune, if he heard
aright, was too terrible; the humiliation too
overwhelming! He had brought listeners
and for this! " Understand? " he cried,
looking at her in a confused, chapfallen
way. " But hang me if I do understand?
You don t mean to say oh, it is impossible;
stuff me, it is! you don t mean that that
you ll not have me? After all that has come
and gone, ma am?"

She shook her head, pitying him; blam
ing herself for the plight in which she had
placed him. " I sent for you, my lord," she
said humbly, " that I might tell you at once.
I could not rest until I had told you. And
believe me, I am very, very sorry."

" But do you really mean that you you
jilt me? " he cried, still fighting off the
dreadful truth.

" Not jilt," she said, shivering.

" But that you won t have me? "

She nodded.

"After after saying you would?" he
wailed.

" I cannot," she answered, her face scarlet.
Then, " Cannot you understand? " she cried
impatiently. " I did not know until until
you went to kiss me."

" But oh, I say but you love me ?" he
protested.

"No, my lord," she said firmly; ; and there
you must do me the justice to acknowledge
that I never said I did."

He dashed his hat on the floor ; he was
almost weeping. " Oh, damme!" he cried,
" a woman should not should not treat a
man like this! It s low! It s

A knock on the door stopped him. Rec
ollections of the listeners, whom he had mo-

THE CASTLE INN.

767

mentarily forgotten, overwhelmed him. He
sprang with an oath to shut the door; before
he could intervene Mr. Pomeroy appeared
smiling on the threshold, and behind him
the reluctant tutor.

Lord Almeric swore, and Julia, affront
ed, drew back, frowning. But Bully Pome
roy would see nothing. " A thousand par
dons, if I intrude," he said, bowing low that
he might hide a lurking grin, " but his lord
ship was good enough to say down stairs
that he would present us to the lady who had
consented to make him happy. We little
thought last night, madam, that so much
beauty and so much goodness were reserved
for one of us! "

Lord Almeric looked ready to cry. Julia,
darkly red, was certain that they had over
heard, and glared at the intruders, her foot
tapping the floor. No one answered, and
Mr. Pomeroy, after looking from one to the
other in assumed surprise, pretended to hit
on the reason. " Oh, I see, I spoil sport! "
he cried, with coarse joviality. " Curse me
if 1 meant to! I fear we have come
malapropos, my lord, and the sooner we are
gone the better!

"And though she found liis usage rough,
Yet in a man twas well enough ! "

he continued, with his head on one side and
an impudent leer. " We are interrupting
the turtle doves, Mr. Thomasson, and had
better be gone."

" Curse you, why did you ever come? "
my lord cried furiously. " But she won t
have me! So there! Now you know!"

Mr. Pomeroy struck an attitude of as
tonishment. " Won t have you! " he cried.
" Oh, stap me, you are biting us! "

" I m not! And you know it! " the poor
little blood cried, tears of vexation in his
eyes. " You know it, and you are roasting
me!"

" Know it? " Mr. Pomeroy answered, in
tones of righteous indignation. " I know
it? So far from knowing it, my dear lord,
I cannot believe it! I understood that the
lady had given you her word."

" So she did! "

" Then I cannot believe that a lady would
anywhere, much less under my roof, take it
back! Madam, there must be some mistake
here," Mr. Pomeroy continued warmly.
" It is intolerable that a man of his lordship s
rank should be so treated. I m forsworn if
he has not mistaken you! "

" He does not mistake me now," she an
swered, trembling and blushing. " What
error there was I have explained to him."

" But, damme

" Sir! " she said, her eyes sparkling,
" what has happened is between his lordship

and myself. Interference on the part of any
one else is an intrusion, and I shall treat it
as such. His lordship understands

" Curse me, he does not look as if he un
derstood! " Mr. Pomeroy cried, allowing
all his native coarseness to appear. " Sink
me, ma am, there is a limit to prudishness!
Fine words butter no parsnips. You
plighted your troth to my guest, and I ll
not see him thrown over in this fashion.
I suppose a man has some rights under his
own roof, and when his guest is jilted before
his eyes " here Mr. Pomeroy frowned like
Jove " it is well you should know, ma am,
that a woman, no more than a man, can play
fast and loose at pleasure! "

She looked at him with disdain. " Then
the sooner I leave your roof the better,
sir! " she said, with spirit.

" Not so fast there, either! " he answered,
with an unpleasant smile. " You will leave
it when we choose, and that is flat, my girl.
This morning, when my lord did you the
honor to ask you, you gave him your word.
Perhaps tomorrow morning you ll be of the
same mind again. Any way, you will wait
until tomorrow and see."

" I shall not wait on your pleasure," she
cried.

" You will wait on it! Or twill be the
worse for you."

Burning with indignation, she looked to
the other two, her breath coming quick;
but Mr. Thomasson gazed gloomily at the
floor and would not meet her eyes, and Lord
Almeric, who had thrown himself into a
chair, was glowering sulkily at his shoes.
" Do you mean," she cried, " that you will
dare to detain me? "

" If you put it so," he answered, grinning,
" I think I dare take it on myself."

His voice full of mockery, his insolent
eyes, stung her to the quick. " I will see if
that is so! " she cried, fearlessly advancing
on him. " Lay a finger on me if you dare.
I am going out. Make way, sir."

" You are not going out! " he cried be
tween his teeth; and held his ground in
front of her.

When she was within reach of him her
courage failed her, and they stood a second
or two gazing at one another, the girl with
heaving breast and cheeks burning with in
dignation, the man with cynical watchful
ness. Suddenly, shrinking from actual
contact with him, she sprang nimbly aside
and was at the door before he could inter
cept her. But, with a rapid movement, he
turned on his heel and, seizing her round
the waist before she could open the door,
dragged her shrieking from it, and with an
oath flung her panting and breathless into
the window seat. " There! " he cried fero-

768

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ciously, his blood fired by the struggle, " lie
there! And behave yourself, my lady, or
I ll find means to quiet you. For you,"
he continued, turning fiercely on the tutor,
whose face the sudden scuffle and the girl s
screams had blanched to the hue of paper,
" did you never hear a woman squeak be
fore? And you, my lord? Are you so
dainty? But to be sure tis your lordship s
mistress," he continued ironically. " Your
pardon! I forgot that. There, she is none
the worse, and twill bring her to reason."

But the struggle and the girl s cries had
shaken my lord s nerves. Damn you! "
he cried hysterically, " you should not have
done that."

"Pooh, pooh!" Mr. Pomeroy answered
lightly. " Do you leave it to me, my lord.
She does not know her own mind. Twill
help her to find it. And now, if you ll take
my advice, you ll leave her to a night s re
flection."

But Lord Almeric only repeated, " You
should not have done that."

Mr. Pomeroy s face showed his scorn for
the man whom a cry or two and a struggling
woman had frightened. He could only
look at it one way. " I understand that is
the right line to take," he said, and he
laughed unpleasantly. " No doubt it will
be put to your lordship s credit. But now,
my lord," he continued, " let us go. You
will see she will have come to her senses by
tomorrow."

The girl had remained passive since her
defeat; but at that she rose from the window
seat where she had sat slaying them with
furious glances. " My lord," she cried pas
sionately, " if you are a man, if you are a
gentleman, you ll not suffer this."

But Lord Almeric, who had now recov
ered from his temporary panic and was as
angry with her as with Pomeroy, shrugged
his shoulders. "Oh, I don t know! " he
said resentfully. " It has naught to do with
me, ma am. I don t want you kept, but you
have behaved uncommon low to me, sink
me, you have! And twill do you good to
think on it! Stap me, it will! "

And he turned on his heel and sneaked
out.

Mr. Pomeroy laughed insolently. " There
is still Tommy," he said. " Try him. See
what he ll say to you. It amuses me to
hear you plead, my dear, you put so much
spirit into it. As my lord said, tis as good
as a play."

She flung him a look of scorn, but did not
answer. Mr. Thomasson shuffled his feet
uncomfortably. " There are no horses," he
faltered, cursing his indiscreet companion.

But Mr. Pomeroy means well, I know.
And as there are no horses, even if nothing

prevented you you could not go tonight,
you see."

Mr. Pomeroy burst into a shout of laugh
ter, and clapped the stammering tutor
(fallen miserably between two stools) on
the back. "There s a champion for you! "
he cried. " Beauty in distress! Lord, how
it fires his blood and turns his look to flame!
What, going, Tommy? "he continued, as Mr.
Thomasson, unable longer to bear his rail
lery or the girl s fiery scorn, turned and fled
ignobly. " Well, my pretty dear, I see we
are to be left alone. And damme, quite
right too, for we are the only man and the
only woman of the party, and should come
to an understanding."

Julia looked at him with shuddering ab
horrence. They were alone; the sound of
the tutor s retreating footsteps was growing
faint. She pointed to the door. " If you do
not go," she cried, her voice shaking with
rage, "I will rouse the house! I will call
your people! Do you hear me? I will so
cry to your servants that you shall not for
shame dare to keep me! I will break this
window and cry for help! "

" And what do you think I should be do
ing meanwhile? " he retorted, with an ugly
leer. " I thought I had shown you that two
could play at that game. But there, child, I
like your spirit! I like you for it! You are
a girl after my own heart, and, damme, we ll
live to laugh at those two old women yet!"

She shrank farther from him with an un
mistakable expression of loathing. He saw
it and scowled, but for the moment he kept
his temper. " Fie! the little Masterson play
ing the grand lady!" he said. "But there,
you are too handsome to be crossed, my
dear. You shall have your own way for to
night, and I ll come and talk to you to
morrow, when your head is cooler and those
two fools are out of the way. And if we
quarrel, my beauty, we can but kiss and
make it up. Look on me as your friend,"
he continued, with a leer from which she
shrank, " and I vow you ll not repent it."

She did not answer she only pointed to
the door; and, finding that he could draw
nothing from her, he went at last. But on
the threshold he turned, met her eyes with a
grin of meaning, and took the key from the
inside of the lock. She heard him put it in
on the outside and turn it, and had to grip
one hand with the other to stay the scream
that rose in her throat. She was brave be
yond most women, but the ease with which
he had mastered her, the humiliation of con
tact with him, the conviction of her helpless
ness in his grasp, were on her still. They
filled her with dread, which grew more defi
nite as the Hp:ht, already low in corners,
failed and the shadows thickened about the

THE CASTLE INN.

769

dingy furniture; and she crouched alone
against the barred window, listening for the
first tread of a coming foot and dreading
the night.

XXIX.

MR. POMEROV chuckled as he went down
the stairs. Things had gone so well for him
he owed it to himself to see that they went
better. He had gone up determined to
effect a breach, even if it cost him my lord s
enmity. He descended, the breach made,
the prize open to competition, and my lord
obliged by friendly offices and unselfish ser
vice!

Mr. Pomeroy smiled. " She is a saucy
baggage, but I ve tamed worse," he mutter
ed. " Tis the first step is hard, and I have
taken that. Now to deal with old Mother
Olney. If she were not such a silly old fool,
or if I could get rid of her and Jarvey, and
put in the Tamplins, all would be easy. But
she d talk! The kitchen wench need know
nothing; and for visitors, there are none in
this damp old hole! So win over Mother
Olney and the parson, and I don t see where
I can fail. The wench is here safe and tight,
and bread and water, damp and loneliness,
will do a great deal. And she don t deserve
better treatment, hang her impudence! "

But when he appeared in the hall an hour
later, his gloomy face told a different story.
" Where s Doyley? " he growled; and,
stumbling over a dog, kicked it howling into
a corner. " Has he gone to bed?"

The tutor, brooding sulkily over his wine,
looked up. " Yes," he said, as rudely as he
dared he was sick with disappointment.
" He is going in the morning."

"And a good riddance! " Pomeroy cried,
with an oath. " He s off it, is he? He
gives up? "

The tutor nodded gloomily. " His lord
ship is not the man," he said, with an at
tempt at his usual manner, " to to

" To win the odd trick unless he holds six
tricks," Mr. Pomeroy cried. " No, by God,
he is not! You are right, parson. But so
much the better for you and me."

Mr. Thomasson sniffed. " I don t follow
you," he said stiffly.

" Don t you? You weren t so dull years
ago," Mr. Pomeroy answered, filling a glass
as he stood. He held it in his hand and
looked over it at the other, who, ill at ease,
fidgeted in his chair. " You could put two
and two together then, parson, and you can
put five and five together now. They make
ten thousand."

" I don t follow you," the tutor repeated,
steadfastly looking away from him.

" Why? Nothing is changed since we

talked except that he is out of it, and that
that is done for me for nothing which I of
fered you five thousand to do. But I am
generous, Tommy. I am generous."

" The next chance is mine," Mr. Thomas-
son cried, with a glance of spite.

Mr. Pomeroy, looking down at him,
laughed a galling laugh. " Lord, Tommy,
that was a hundred years ago! " he said
contemptuously.

" You said nothing was changed."

" Nothing is changed in my case," Mr.
Pomeroy answered confidently, ." except for
the better. In your case everything is
changed for the worse. Did you take her
part up stairs? Are your hands clean now?
Does she see through you, or does she not?
Or, put it in another way, Mr. Parso-. It
is your turn. What are you going to do? "

" Go," said the tutor viciously. "And
glad to be quit."

" You withdraw? "

Mr. Thomasson shrugged his shoulders.

Mr. Pomeroy sat down opposite him.
You ll withdraw, but you ll not go," he
said, in a low voice; and, drinking off half
his wine, set down the glass and regarded
the other over it. " Five and five are ten.
Tommy. You are no fool, and I am no
fool."

" I am not such a fool as to put my neck
in a noose," the tutor retorted; " and there is
no other way of coming at what you want."

" There are twenty," Pomeroy returned
coolly. " And, mark you, if I fail, you are
spun, whether you help me or no. You are
blown on, or I can blow on you! You ll
get nothing for your cut on the head."

"And what shall I get if I stay? "

" I have told you."

The gallows? "

" No, Tommy; eight hundred a year."

Mr. Thomasson sneered increduously,
and. making it pla ; n that he refused to think,
thought! He had risked so much in this
enterprise, gone through so much; and to
lose it all! He cursed the girl s fickleness,
her coyness, her obstinacy! He hated her.
And, do what he might for her now, he
doubted if he could cozen her or get much
from her. Yet in that lay his only chance,
apart from Mr. Pomeroy. His eye was cun
ning and his tone sly when he spoke again.

" You forget one thing," he said. " I
have only to open my lips after I leave."

" And I am nicked? " Mr. Pomeroy an
swered. " True; and you will get a hundred
guineas and have a worse than Dunbor-
ough at your heels."

The tutor wiped his brow. " What do
you want? " he whispered.

" That old hag Olney has turned rusty,"
Pomeroy answered. " She has got it into

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

her head something is going to be done to
the girl. I sounded her, and I cannot trust
her. I could send her packing, but Jarvey
is not much better, and talks when he is
drunk. So the girl must be got from here."

Mr. Thomasson raised his eyebrows
scornfully.

" You need not sneer, you fool! " Pome-
roy said, with a little spurt of rage. Tis
no harder than to get her here?"

" Where will you take her? "

" To Tamplin s farm, by the river. There
you are no wiser, but you may trust me. 1
can hang the man, and the woman is no
better. They have done this sort of thing
before. Once get her there, and sink me,
she ll be glad to see the parson! "

The tutor shuddered. The water was
growing very deep. " I ll have no part in
it! " he said firmly. " No part in it, so help
me God! "

" There s no part for you! " Mr. Pomeroy
answered, with grim patience. " Your part
is to thwart the scheme."

Mr. Thomasson, half risen from his chair,
sat down again. " What do you mean? " he
muttered.

" You are her friend. Your part is to
help her to escape. You ll sneak to her
room, and tell her that you ll steal the key
when I m drunk after dinner. She ll be
ready at eleven, you ll let her out, and have a
chaise waiting at the end of the avenue. It
will be there, you ll put her in, you ll go back-
to the house. I suppose you see it now? "

The tutor stared in stupefaction. She ll
get away," he said.

" Half a mile," Mr. Pomeroy answered
dryly, as he filled his glass. " Then I shall
stop the chaise with a pistol if you like
jump in a merry surprise for the nymph
and before twelve we shall be at Tamplin s.
And you ll be free of it."

Mr. Thomasson pondered, his face flushed,
his eyes moist. " I think you are the dev
il! " he said at last.

" Is it a bargain? And see here: his lord
ship has gone silly on that girl. You can
tell him before he leaves what you are going
to do. He ll leave easy, and you ll have an
evidence of your good intentions! " Mr.
Pomeroy added with a chuckle.

" I ll not do it! " Mr. Thomasson cried
faintly. " I ll not do it! "

But he sat down again, their heads came
together across the table; they talked long
in low voices. Presently Mr. Pomeroy
fetched pen and paper from a table in one of
the windows, where they lay along with odd
volumes of Crebillon, a tattered Hoyle on
whist, and Foote s jest book. Something
was written and handed over, and the two
rose.

Mr. Thomasson would have liked to say
a word before they parted as to no violence
being contemplated or used; something
smug and fair seeming that might go to
show that his right hand did not understand
what his left was doing. But even his im
pudence was unequal to the task, and, with
a shamefaced good night, he secured the
memorandum in his pocketbook and
sneaked up to bed.

He need have lost no time in carrying out
Pomeroy s suggestion to make Lord Al-
meric his confidant, for he found his lord
ship awake, tossing and turning in the shade
of the green moreen curtains, in a pitiable
state between chagrin and rage. But the
tutor s nerve failed him. He had few
scruples, but he was weary and sick at heart,
and for that night felt that he had done
enough. So. to all my lord s inquiries, he
answered as sleepily as consisted with re
spect, until the young roue s suspicions
were aroused, and on a sudden he sat up in
bed, his nightcap quivering on his head.

" Tommy," he cried feverishly, " what is
afoot down stairs? Now, do you tell me the
truth ! "

" Nothing," said Mr. Thomasson sooth
ingly.

" Because well, she s played it uncom
mon low on me, uncommon low she s
played it," my lord repeated pathetically;
" but fair is fair, and willing s willing! And
I ll not see her hurt. Pom s none too nice,
I know, but he s got to understand that.
I m none of your Methodists, Tommy, as
you are aware no one more so! But s help
me, no one shall lay a hand on her against
her will! "

" My dear lord, no one is going to," said
the tutor, quaking in his bed.

" That is understood, is it? Because it
had better be! " the little lord continued,
with unusual vigor. " I vow and protest I
have no cause to stand up for her. She s a
saucy baggage, and has treated me with
with cursed disrespect. But oh, Lord,
Tommy! I d have been a good husband to
her. I would, indeed. And been kind to
her! And now she s made a fool of me.
She s made a fool of me! "

And my lord took off his nightcap and
wiped his eyes with it.

XXX.

JUUA passed such a night as a girl in
structed in the world s ways might be ex
pected to pass in her position and after the
rough treatment of the afternoon. The
room grew dark, the dismal garden and
weedy pool that closed the prospect faded
from sight, and still as she crouched by the

THE CASTLE INN.

771

barred window or listened breathlessly at
the door all that part of the house lay silent;
not a sound of life came to the ear.

By turns she resented and welcomed this.
At one time, pacing the floor in a fury of
rage and indignation, she was ready to dash
herself against the door, or scream and
scream and scream until some one came to
her. At another the recollection of Pom-
eroy s sneering smile, of his insolent grasp,
returned to chill and terrify her; and she hid
in the darkest corner, hugged the solitude,
and, scarcely daring to breathe, prayed that
the silence might endure forever.

But the hours in the dark room were long
and cold, and at times the fever of rage and
fear left her in a chill. Of this came an
other phase that she had, as the night wore
on and nothing happened. Reverting bit
terly to him who should have been her pro
tector, but had become her betrayer, and by
his treachery plunged her into all this mis
ery, a sudden doubt of his guilt flashed into
her mind and blinded her by its brilliance.
Had she done him an injustice? Had all
been a plan concerted not by him, but
by Mr. Thomasson and his confederates?
The setting down near Pomeroy s gate the
reception at his house, the rough, hasty suit
paid to her were all these parts of a cun
ningly arranged drama? And was he inno
cent? Was he still her lover almost her
husband?

Oh, God, if she could think so! She rose
and softly walked the floor, tears raining
down her face. Oh, God, if she could be
sure of it! At the mere thought she glowed
from head to foot with happy shame. And
fear? If this were so, if his love were still
hers, and hers the only fault of doubti-ig
him, she feared nothing! Nothing! She
felt her way to a tray in the corner where
her last meal remained untasted, and ate and
drank humbly, and for him. She might
need her strength.

She had finished and was groping her
way back to the window seat when a faint
rustle, as of some one moving outside the
door, caught her ear. In the darkness,
brave as she had fancied herself an instant
before, a great horror of fear came on her at
that. She stood rooted to the spot and
heard the noise again. It was followed by
the sound of a hand passed stealthily over
the door, feeling, as she thought, for the key;
she could have shrieked in her helplessness.
But while she stood, her face turned to
stone, came relief. A cautious voice, sub
dued in fear, whispered, " Hist, ma am,
hist! "

She could have fallen on her knees in
thankfulness. " Yes? " she cried eagerly.
" Who is it? "

" It is me Olney! " was the wary answer.
" Keep a heart, ma am! They are gone to
bed. You are quite safe."

" Can you let me out? " Julia cried. " Oh,
let me out! "

" Let you out! "

" Yes, yes! "

" God forbid, ma am! " was the horrified
answer. " He ll kill me. And he has the
key. But "

"Yes? Yes?"

" Heart up, ma am! Jarvey ll not see you
hurt. Nor will I. So you may sleep easy.
And good night! "

She stole away before Julia could answer;
but she left comfort behi d her. In a glow
of thankfulness the girl pushed a heavy chair
against the door, and, wrapping herself for
warmth in the folds of the shabby curtains,
lay down on the window seat. She was will
ing to sleep now, but the agitation of her
thoughts, the whirl of fear and hope, as she
went again and again over the old ground,
kept her long awake. The moon had risen
and run her course, decking the old garden
and sluggish pool with a solemn beauty as
of death, and was beginning to retreat be
fore the dawn, when Julia slept at length.

When she awoke it was broad daylight. A
moment she gazed upwards, wondering
where she was and how she came there; the
next a harsh, grating sound and the last
notes of a mocking laugh brought her to
her feet in a panic of remembrance.

The key was still turning in the lock
she saw it withdrawn; but the room was
empty. And while she stood staring, heavy
footsteps retired along the passage. The
chair which she had set against the door had
been pushed back, and milk and bread stood
on the floor beside it.

She drew a deep breath; he had been
there then. But her worst terrors had
passed with the night. Outside the sun was
shining, and all was light and cheerfulness.
Through the morning she thought scorn of
her jailer. She even panted to be face to
face with him, that she might cover him with
ridicule, overwhelm him with the shafts of
her woman s wit and her woman s tongue;
show him how little she feared and how
greatly she despised him.

But he did not appear, and with the after
noon came a clouded sky, and weariness
and reaction of spirits; and fatigue of body
and something like illness; and on that a
great terror. If they drugged her? If they
tampered with her food? The thought was
like a knife in her heart, and while she still
writhed under it her ear caught the creak of
a board in the passage without, and a furtive
tread that came and softly went again, and
once more returned. She stood, her heart

772

MUNSKY S MAGAZINK.

beating, and fancied she heard the sound of
breathing on the other side of the door.
Then her eye alighted on a something white
at the foot of the door that had not been
there a minute earlier. It was a note. While
she gazed at it the footsteps stole away
again.

She pounced on the note and opened it,
thinking it might be from Mrs. Olney,
though it seemed unlikely that that g ood
woman could write. But the opening lines
smacked of other modes of speech than hers,
and though Julia had no experience of Mr.
Thomasson s epistolary style, she felt no
surprise on finding the initials " F. T." ap
pended to the message.

" Honored lady," it ran: " You are in
danger here, and I in no less of being held
to account for acts which my soul abhors.
Openly to oppose myself to Mr. P., the
course my soul dictates, were dangerous for
us both, and another must be found. If he
drinks after dinner tonight I will, Heaven
assisting, purloin the key and release you at
ten, or as soon after as may be possible.
Jarvey, who is honest, and fears the turn
things are taking as too serious, will have a
carriage waiting in the road. Be ready,
hide this, and when you are free, though I
ask no return for services attended by some
risk, yet if you should desire to seek it, an
easy way may appear of requiting,

" Madam, your devoted obedient servant,

" F. T."

Julia s face glowed. " He cannot do even
a kind act as it should be done," she thought.
" But, once away, it will be easy to reward
him. And at least he shall tell me how I
came here."

She spent the rest of the day divided be
tween anxiety on that point for Mr. Thom
asson s intervention, welcome in other re
spects, went some way to weaken the theory
she had built up with so much joy and im
patience for night to come and put an end
to her suspense. She was now as much
concerned to escape the ordeal of Mr. Pom-
eroy s visit as she had been, earlier in the
day, to see him. And she had her wish. He
did not come; she fancied he was not unwill
ing to let the dullness and loneliness, the
monotony and silence of her prison, work
their due effect on her mind.

Night, as welcome today as it had been
unwelcome the previous day, fell at last,
hiding the dingy familiar objects, the worn
furniture, the dusky outlook. She counted
the minutes, and before it was really nine
o clock was the prey of impatience, thinking
the time past and gone and the tutor a poor
deceiver. Ten was midnight to her; she
h oped against hope, walking her narrow
bounds, in the darkness. Eleven found her

lying on her face, heaving dry sobs of de
spair, her hair disheveled. And then sud
denly she sprang up; the key was grating in
the lock. While she stared, half demented,
scarcely believing her happiness, Mr. Thom-
asson appeared on the threshold, his head
he wore no wig muffled in a woman s
shawl, and a small shaded lanthorn in his
hand.

" Come! " he said. " There is not a mo
ment to be lost."

" Oh! "she cried hysterically yet kept her
shaking voice low, " I thought you were not
coming! I thought it was all over."

" I am late," he answered hurriedly. " It
is eleven o clock, but I could not get the key
before. Follow me close and silently, child,
and in a few minutes you will be safe."

" Heaven bless you! " she cried, almost
weeping; and would have taken his hand.

He turned from her so sharply that she
marveled, for she had not judged him a
man averse to thanks. But she set his
manner down to the need of haste, and, tak
ing the hint, prepared to follow him in
silence. Holding the lanthorn before them
so that its light fell on the floor, he listened
an instant, then led the way on tiptoe down
the corridor. The house was hushed round
them; if a board creaked, it seemed to her
scared ears a pistol shot. At the entrance
to the gallery, which was partly illumined
by lights still burning in the hall below, the
tutor paused an instant to listen, then turned
quickly from it, and by a narrow passage on
the right gained a back staircase. Descend
ing the narrow stairs, he guided her by devi
ous turnings through dingy offices and ser
vants quarters until they stood in safety be
fore an outer door. To withdraw the bar
that secured it, while she held the lanthorn,
was for the tutor the work of an instant.
They passed through and he softly closed
the door behind them.

After the confinement of her prison room
the night air that chilled her temples was
rapture to Julia, for it breathed of freedom.
She turned her face up to the dark boughs
that met and interlaced above her head, and
whispered her thankfulness. Then, obedient
to Mr. Thomasson s impatient gesture, she
hastened to- follow him along a dank path
that skirted the wall of the house for a few
yards, then turned off among the trees.

They had left the house no more than a
dozen paces behind when Mr. Thomasson
paused, as if in doubt, and raised his light.
They were in a little beech coppice that grew
close to the walls of the offices. The light
showed the dark, shining trunks, standing in
solemn rows on this side and that, and more
than one path trodden across the roots. The
lanthorn disclosed no more; but it was

THE CASTLE INN.

773

enough. Mr. Thomasson pursued his path,
satisfied, and less than a minute s walking
brought them into the avenue.

Julia drew a breath of relief and looked
behind and before. " Where is the car
riage? " she whispered, shivering with ex
citement.

Before he answered he raised the lanthorn
thrice to the level of his head, as if to make
sure of his position, and lowered it again.
Then, " In the road," he answered. "And
the sooner you are in it the better, child, for
I must get back and replace the- key before
he sobers or twill be worse for me," he
added snappishly, "than for you! "

" You are not coming with me? " she ex
claimed, in surprise.

" No, I I can t quarrel with him," he
answered hurriedly. " I am under obliga
tions to him. And once in the carriage
you ll be safe enough."

" Then, please to tell me this," Julia re
joined, her breath a little short. " Mr.
Thomacson, did you know anything of my
being carried off before it took place? "

" I? " he cried. " Did I know? "

" I mean were you employed to bring
me to Mr. Pomeroy s? "

" I employed? Good heavens, ma am,
what do you take me for? " cried the tutor,
in righteous indignation. " No, ma am; cer
tainly not! " And then, blurting out the
truth in his surprise, " Why, twas Mr. Dun-
borough! " he said. "And like him, too!
Heaven keep us from him! "

"Mr. Dunborough?" she exclaimed.

" Yes, yes."

" Oh," she said, in a helpless, foolish kind
of way. " It was Mr. Dunborough, was it? "
And she begged his pardon so humbly, in a
voice so broken by feeling and gratitude,
that, bad man as he was, his soul revolted
from the work he was upon; he stood still,
the lanthorn swinging in his hand.

She misinterpreted his movement. "Are
we right? " she said anxiously. " You don t
think we are out of the road? " Though the
night was dark and it was difficult to make
out anything beyond the circle of light
thrown by the lanthorn, it struck her that
the avenue they were traversing was not the
one by which she had approached the house
two nights before. The trees seemed to
stand farther from one another and to be
smaller. Or was it her fancy?

At any rate, it wa"s not that which had
moved him to stand; for presently, with a
curious sound between a groan and a curse,
he led the way on, without answering her.
Fifty paces brought them to the gate, and
the road. Thomasson held up his lanthorn
and looked over the gate.

(To be

" Where is the carriage? " she whispered,
startled by the darkness and silence.

" It should be here," he answered, his
voice betraying his perplexity. " It should
be here at this gate. But I I don t see it."

" Would it have lights? " she asked anx
iously. He had opened the gate; as she
spoke they passed through, and stood look
ing up and down the road. The moon was
obscured, and the lanthorn s rays were of
little use to find a carriage which was not
there.

" It should be here, and it should have
lights," he said, in evident dismay. " I don t
know what to think of it. I ha! What is
that? It is coming, I think. Yes, I hear it.
It must have drawn off a little for some rea
son, and now they have seen the lanthorn."

He had only the sound of wheels to go
upon, but he was right; she uttered a sigh
of relief as the lights of a closed chaise, ap
proaching round a bend of the road, broke
upon them. They drew near and nearer,
and he waved his light. For a brief sec
ond the driver appeared to be going to pass
them; then, as Mr. Thomasson again
waved his lanthorn and shouted, he drew up.

" Halloa! " he said.

Mr. Thomasson did not answer, but with
a trembling hand hurriedly opened the
door and pushed the girl in. " God bless
you! " she murmured. " And

slammed the door, cutting short the sen
tence.

" Well! " the driver said, looking down,
his face in shadow, " I am "

" Go on! " Mr. Thomasson cried per
emptorily, and, waving his lanthorn again,
so startled the horses that they plunged
away wildly, the man tugging vainly at the
reins. The tutor fancied that he caught a
faint scream from the inside of the chaise,
but set it down to fright caused by the sud
den jerk; and after standing long enough
to assure himself that the carriage was
keeping the road, he turned to retrace his
steps to the house.

He was opening the gate, his thoughts
no pleasant ones for the devil pays scant
measure when his ear was surprised by
the sound of wheels approaching from the
direction whence the chaise had come. He
stood to listen, thinking he heard an echo;
but in a second or two he saw lights ap
proaching precisely as the others had ap
proached. Once seen, they came on so
swiftly that he was still gaping in wonder,
when a carriage and pair, a post boy riding,
and a cloaked man sitting in the rumble,
swept by, dazzling him a moment; the next
it was gone, whirling away into the dark
ness.
continued.}

THE ANNOUNCEMENT DINNER.

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

How a young couple who had ideals, and were determined to live up to
them, celebrated the anniversary of their engagement.

THEY were intensely modern. And
so, when they decided to break off
their engagement, it was not because
they had had a lover s quarrel, or a third
person had made trouble, or they had ceased
to care for each other; or for any of the old
fashioned reasons that prevailed in the fool
ish days when twas love that made the
world go wrong. They came to their con
clusion not via tears and reproaches, but by
a reasonable and temperate process of anal
ysis, sitting side by side on the studio divan.

" The year will be up next week," said
Mildred sadly, " and we ve failed."

" It isn t that we don t still love each
other," Ernest protested. " I think, perhaps,
in some ways

" But we ve come down to affection and
friendship and esteem and things like that,"
she broke in. " What we condemn in
people who ve been married several years,
we ve come to ourselves in one year s en
gagement. We ve grown humdrum, used
to each other. Do you know what Aunt
Flora said of us the other day? "

" Something unpleasant and practical, I
suppose."

" She said we seemed suited to one
another, and would probably jog along very
comfortably zvhen we were over our first silli
ness! "

" The old bird of ill omen! "

" But, Ernest, the worst of it is " Mil
dred s voice dropped impressively " it s
true! We ve almost begun to jog already."

" I know it, Mildred," he admitted, in a
discouraged tone.

" Life without thrills ordinary, every day
companionship, with no excitement, no im
pulses, no complications oh, Ernest, we
couldn t stand it! " she exclaimed. " We d
fall to such a bourgeois level. When we
went on journeys, people would know we
were married because we didn t talk to each
other."

" I suppose we d get to sitting on opposite
sides of the table and reading all the eve
ning," he said listlessly.

" We d find it was not worth while to do
little things or be clever and amusing just

for us," she went on. " There would always
have to be a third person present to stimu
late us."

" We d get sleepy at nine o clock. And
people would invite us to chaperon things."

" And we d never discuss anything but the
children." Mildred s voice was almost tear
ful. " We d be twice as interested in them
as we were in each other."

" I would not call you mamma, " he ex
claimed, with an emphatic thump at the
cushions.

" Oh, yes, you would," she said sadly.
" That or my dear. I feel it. The prose
is closing around us. We must break out
at any cost. I d rather give you up than see
all the romance dulled out of you."

" I don t see why we can t make things
exciting again," he said. " Think of those
first six months whew! I lost twenty
pounds."

" And I had insomnia so that I nearly
went crazy."

" We never just sat down and visited, as
we do now. We couldn t be together five
minutes without having a scene of some
kind."

" Wasn t it lovely? " sighed Mildred.
" Everything was so nice and complicated. I
don t see how we ever became so brother-
andsistery."

" Still, we always kiss each other if there
aren t any people in the way," he protested.

" Yes; but if there are, we can wait. We
don t sneak off, we don t even telegraph with
our eyes. Even though we hold hands, like
this, it doesn t mean what it did."

" We almost forget we re doing it," he ad
mitted. " And now, when I see you fooling
with some other fellow, I don t feel a tinge
of jealousy. I m even glad that you re hav
ing a good time. It s contemptibly tame.
I ve failed you dreadfully, Mildred."

" We ve both been to blame," she an
swered, and they relapsed into thoughtful
silence.

" The worst of breaking it off is the way
people will talk," she went on presently.
" They ll think we ve quarreled or done
something equally stupid. How can we let

THE ANNOUNCEMENT DINNER.

775

them know that we parted in perfect friend
liness? "

" We might give a dinner to announce the
breaking of our engagement," he suggested,
after a pause.

"Oh, beautiful!" she exclaimed. "The
very thing. We ll sit together at the head
of the table, and you can make a little speech.
And oh, Ernest, it s just a year next Friday
since we gave our engagement dinner and
announced it! "

" A year next Friday," he echoed.
* * * *

When Ernest came Friday night he found
the studio glimmering with wax candles
under crimson shades, and Mildred in a pale
green gown, with her shoulders bare, putting
cards with names beside each place at the
table. He stopped and straightened several
of the shades, then bent down to kiss her.
She lifted her face for it absently, her eyes
still studying the list she held.

" Would you put Helen by " she was
beginning when there was a sound of voices
in the corridor and the studio knocker rat
tled cheerfully. Their eyes met with a start
led look of recollection. They had kissed
each other for the last time!

When everybody "had come, and talk was
going gaily around and across the table,
she took a thoughtful survey of the faces,
then turned to him with a smile.

" Won t they be surprised when we tell
them? " she said.

" We ve about an hour and a half more,"
he said. " How shall we spend it? Have
you worked up any last words? "

" Of course not. We re going to be just
as good friends and see just as much of each
other, aren t we? There won t be so very
much difference."

" I don t suppose we can chase around
together any more. We ll have to think of
chaperons and things."

" What nonsense! I don t see why I
don t know, though." She had begun val
iantly, but doubt set in and her voice weak
ened. " Perhaps it wouldn t do to take
luncheon together very often."

" No more little Italian dinners, I sup
pose. Do you remember the night I taught
you to wind spaghetti around your fork? "

" And no more fricasseed crab and beer
after the theater. We ve been deliciously
free, haven t we? I had forgotten I was
ever anything else. Why, Ernest, I can t
give up all our dear little bats. Surely we
can keep them up some? "

" Unless one of us should marry some one
else. That always spoils everything."

" Oh, I shan t marry," she exclaimed
quickly. " If I couldn t keep out of the
humdrum with you, there isn t a soul on

earth I d dare try it with. Would you, after
a failure like this? "

" I shouldn t want to. Still, men are such
fools. I wouldn t bet on myself," he an
swered, with an air of reluctant honesty.

She looked troubled.

" It s too bad we can t be merely engaged,
without being engaged to be married," she
said.

A general silence framing a single em
phatic voice made them look up.

" Even if they are in love, they might an
swer their guests questions," some one was
saying.

Mildred colored a little, perhaps from
force of habit, and they both plunged duti
fully into the general conversation. The
minutes went by very fast. She felt as
though the big clock behind her were a tele
graph instrument ticking off with its muf
fled beats a message that would shock that
laughing throng into silence when it was
read out to them; a message that would
make this day one of the few great dates of
her life. Once Ernest dropped his napkin, a
favorite trick of his when love was new to
them, and, smiling to herself, she slipped her
hand down where he might kiss it as he
stooped. But he, apparently, was intent
only on the napkin this time, and came up
without noticing the friendly fingers. She
lifted her head a little higher and threw a
shade more animation into her voice.

Salad was on the table before the talk
drifted away again and left them free.

" Mildred, you ll only be engaged to me
about fifteen minutes more," he whispered.
" Please make love to me."

Her eyes relented into a smile.

" I should think I could do that even if we
weren t engaged," she said. "I used to!"

" But then we knew we were going to be,
so that made it all right. Otherwise, I
shouldn t have allowed it for a minute." His
eyes were at their old tricks, shining straight
down into hers. His voice had gone back
six months.

" I ve forgotten how," she said, though
any one could see she was lying. " What
did I use to begin with? "

" Two words, very little ones, apropos of
nothing at all. As I remember, they
were He broke off.

"Do you?" she finished, half under her
breath.

" Mildred, I ve had a quarrel with Helen,"
some one called out. " May I go and sit
at the other end of the table? There s a girl
there I like a great deal better."

The talk closed up around them again, and
did not leave them till the ices were half
over. Then Ernest s mood seemed to have
changed.

776

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

" Shall I do my speech before the coffee
or after? " he asked in a businesslike tone.

" Oh, after don t you think so? " she
answered nervously. " What are you going
to say? "

" Just what we planned. I ll begin with
the fact that this is tho anniversary of our
engagement dinner."

" Didn t we have fun that night? " she
said, with a quick breath.

" That though our engagement has been
an extremely happy one

" Indeed it has, Ernest! "

" And we have cared for each other as
much as two mortals could

" More, ever so much more."

" We have decided to sever the engage
ment."

" To sever the engagement," she repeated
in a little whisper.

" We do this as a protest against the flat
monotony of the married state as we have
seen it. We thought at first we could re
cord our protest most effectively by marry
ing and showing the world the interesting
possibilities it was missing. But the last
year has convinced us is that about what
you wanted? "

" It s very good," she faltered.

" I ll tell them we found we were in dan
ger of sliding into the utterly tame and com
monplace relationship

" Worse than that, of of almost getting
to like it best," she said, tracing the pat
tern of the table cloth with the tip of her
coffee spoon.

" Perhaps," he admitted.

" We might even grow to prefer life with
out thrills, and comradeship, and affection,

and things. I don t say that we d really
come down to that level, but still, you know,
we might."

" Yes, we might."

" When all your ideals were one way, it
would be dreadful to find you liked another
way best," she went on, dropping the sugar
slowly into her coffee.

" Yes," he assented.

" We ll we ll still be very fond of each
other." The coffee spoon shook so that she
laid it down again.

" The best friends in the world, Milly."
His voice had gone back twelve months
now, and she pressed her clenched fingers
against her lips.

" Let s drink their health, to remind them
we re still here," broke in a voice. The
glasses were held up to them, and they
laughed and nodded back.

"Speech, Ernest! Speech! " came next.

" Now? " he whispered to Mildred. She
opened her lips, then suddenly lowered her
head without answering. He rose slowly.

" A year ago tonight," he began, " you
were all here in honor of our engagement,
which was announced that evening. To
night we have invited you again, to an
nounce He paused and glanced down
at Mildred, whose hands were tightly locked
in her lap. " To announce that we are to
be married next month," he concluded, sit
ting down.

There was a joyous noise, and Mildred
turned to him, showing flushed cheeks and
wet eyes.

"The minute that knocker sounded, I
knew that we couldn t do it," he whispered,
stooping for his napkin.

THE SONG OF THE OLD MILL WHEEL.

I SING you a song of the summer time,

I sing ! I sing !
Of rainbows, of sunshine, and of showers,

I sing ! I sing !

Of the bees and birds and babbling brooks,
Of the bright bine skies and the shady nooks,
Of the fields and forests, the fruits and flowers,
I sing i

I sing you a song of vacation time,

I sing i I sing !
Health, happiness, and long life to thee !

I sing ! I sing !

Of peace and love and blessed rest,
Of the Giver of all that is good and best
I sing you a song of eternity !
I sing i

Ogden Ward.

THE STAGE

AN OVERCROWDP:D MARKET.

Viola Allen, looking toward her starring
venture of the coming autumn, has more to
think of than the possibility of success or
failure. Her new departure means putting an
entirely new company into the dramatic field,
and opening another avenue of employment
for the hundreds indeed, we might more
truthfully say the thousands of players de
siring positions.

Now Miss Allen has a personal acquaintance
with many deserving girls who have taken up
the stage, and it would give her great pleasure
to find parts for all of them ; but casts are
not elastic, and aside from this she is con
scientious enough to realize that her managers

are risking a considerable sum of money on
the enterprise, and that much depends on
making the entertainment to be offered the
public first rate at every point. Thus there
is duty on the one side and inclination on the
other for Miss Allen to contend with during
this period of preparation. Almost all women
on the stage have a soft spot in their hearts
for others of their sex trying to get a foothold
further up the ladder.

Among our portraits this month are those
of two American girls, both graduates of
dramatic schools, which more and more ap
pear to be the source of supply for companies
needing recruits. Sara Perry hails from St.
Louis, and adopted the stage, neither because

FRANCES DRAKE, OF THE CASTLE SQUARE SARA 1 ERRY, OF THE CHARLES FROHMAN
COMEDY COMPANY, BOSTON. STOCK COMPANY.

From a. photograph by Dintnrjfjf, Syracuse. Front a pJiotcgrapli fry Strauss, Si. Louis.

77 8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MARY VAX BURKN, A MEMBER OF THE E. S. WILLARD COMPANY.
From a photograph by Baker, Columbus.

her family -were connected with the pro
fession, nor for the reason that it was neces
sary for her to earn her living, but simply
from a genuine love for the career. She is
scarcely out of her teens, and has already
made marked progress. She graduated from
the Wheatcroft school of acting two years ago,
and since then has played through a season
as leading woman with William Gillette in
"Secret Service, * and this spring took Ida
Conquest s place as Babiole in "The Con
querors.

The other portrait is that of Mary Van
Buren, a Brooklyn girl, whose theatrical edu

cation was obtained in Boston. She played
in " Tom Pinch " and " The Professor s Love
Story" with E. S. Willard last winter, and
Mr. Willard has engaged her for the coming
season.

It is not just certain when this new season
of Mr. Willard s will begin. It was arranged
that he should open the Madison Square
Theater late Hoyt s in September, but his
severe illness has necessitated a change in his
plans. Mr. Willard is an actor who is a
modern instance of the scriptural condition of
the prophet who is not without honor save in
his own countrv. For the last three or four

THK STAGK.

779

years he has confined his tours to America
almost exclusively. Though he seems to be
unappreciated in England, he is a good artist,
and we are glad to have him with us. Last

view on this subject, he stated that " if at the
end of an act, in response to terrific applause,
the artist should step from the stage picture
to appear before the curtain, the illusion must

VIRGINIA KARL, LEADING WOMAN IN AUGUSTIN DALY S MUSICAL PRODUCTIONS.
From her latest photogroph by Saro/ty, New York.

winter he was hampered by an uninteresting
play, "The Physician," although it was one
that observed most strictly certain canons of
dramatic construction.

SHATTERING THE ILLUSION.
Mr. Willard is a stickler about preserving
the atmosphere of a piece even after the cur
tain has fallen. Some time ago, in an inter-

suffer. Of course," he added, "while nuclei 1
another man s management I had to submit
to his rules, but as soon as I secured a theater
of my own I was enabled to put my theories
into practice."

It is a pity that more of our players are not
of I\Ir. Willard s way of thinking in this re
spect. At a recent performance of " Diplo
macy," Frank Mordaunt, playing Baron

780

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Stein, utterly ruined the famous scene of his
exit in the third act by reappearing in re
sponse to long continued applause. The
baron, as the playgoer may remember, is
requested to leave the apartment, and his

his players, among whom he and Mr. Block
had some capital actors during their summer
stock season at the Columbus and Herald
Square Theaters.

Amelia Bingham, of whom we give a new

MARGUERITE LEMON, AN INDIANAPOLIS GIRL, A MEMBER OF THE DALY COMPANY.
From a photograph Co/yright, 1808, ly A hue Dupout, Neiu York.

departure is made in impressive fashion. His
reappearance utterly ruins an effective climax.
If audiences cannot be relied upon to exercise
discretion in the matter of applause, managers
might educate them up to a sense of the fitness
of things by a line or two on the program, just
as women have been brought to see the
justice of removing their obstructing head
gear. The fact that Mr. Mordaunt was one of
the proprietors of the company is no excuse
for him. He should set a better example to

portrait, appeared in the opening play at the
Herald Square, " Pink Dominos." Miss
Bingham spent last winter at the Academy of
Music in "The White Heather." It was
probably owing to this lengthy period of em
ploy ment in a big, barn-like house that her
Lady }] agslaff\\\ "Pink Dominos " spoke in
tones so deeply bass as to be positively jar
ring. This was the more noticeable as the
same play brought forward Gertrude Gheen,
whose voice possesses the magic quality of

THE STAGE.

1KKGON G1KU LATI-.LV LKADIXG WOMAN WITH E. S. WILLARD.

her latest photografik by Davis &* Saiiforil, New York.

being agreeably distinct in all parts of the
auditorium without appearing to be raised
above the ordinary conversational tone.

THE CRITICS AND THK PUBLIC.
Nothing is so amusing when it is not dis
tracting to the theatergoer who really wishes

to ascertain the merits of a piece as the
spectacle of dramatic critics at loggerheads.
A notable incident is furnished by two Chicago
opinions of "The Circus Girl," which Mr.
Daly presented there for the first time last
month. The Tribune man asserted that " the
two acts are strangel v contrasted in tone. The

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

AMELIA BINGHAM, WHO PLAYED THROUGHOUT LAST SEASON WITH "THE WHITE HEATHER."

From a pliotograph by Hall, Ne~&lt;v York.

first act is really delightful." The reviewer
for the Chronicle said that "nearly all of act
one is simply tiresome wind and costumes ;
nobody does anything ; nobody says or sings
anything that might not just as well be com
pressed into a short scene."

It may be recalled that " The Circus Girl "
was rather shabbily treated by the critics on
its first production in New York in May, 1897.
If we should subject it to an analysis to dis
cover just why the people liked it well enough
to warrant Mr. Daly in reviving it on two
different occasions, simplicity of plot would
seem to be the keynote to the explanation.
The story practically begins in sight of the
audience and finishes there. In its successor

at the London Gaiety, " A Runaway Girl,"
the same rule appears to have been observed,
and an unmistakable hit is the result.

Virginia Earl should be admirably suited
with the title part in this new concoction of
music and fun although, to be sure, it docs
not matter much what the part, as Miss Earl
possesses that dramatic talisman, a quality
which if it is not inherent can never be
acquired magnetism.

Besides one of Miss Earl, we give a portrait
of another member of the Daly forces, Mar
guerite Lemon, who was the one redeeming
bright spot in that dreary Japanese curtain
raiser " Lili Tsi," and whose Mimosa San in
" The Geisha " was a pleasant sight for the

THE STAGE.

733

eye and a melodious feast for the ear. Miss
Lemon went on the stage some three years
ago, but the failure of the opera in which she
appeared caused her to beat a hasty retreat,
and she confined herself to church choir sing-

way measures in this matter of prices generally
meet with disaster. The Herald vSquare stock
advertised popular rates, but held the eleven
front rows of the orchestra at a dollar and
there was always plenty of sitting room in the

E. H. SOTHERX.

From /it s latest photograph by ll itideatt,

spring.

NO MIDDLK GROUND.

Stock companies are persistently forcing
themselves to the front again. To be sure,
they are associated, more or less, with cheap
prices and old plays, but the public surely
will not quarrel with the first condition, and
it is much more satisfactory to see a good old
play twice than a new poor one once.

It is a fact worth remembering that half

house. In Boston the Castle Square Comedy
Company has been filling the theater of that
name for more than a year at 50 cents for the
best seats. There is a matinee every day in
the week (with 25 cents the highest price)
and there are actors of established reputation
in the casts such as J. H. Gilmour, Walter
Perkins, Maude Odell, and Frances Drake.
Among the plays produced are such universal
favorites as " The Charity Ball," " An Enemy
to the King," "Charley s Aunt," and "All
the Comforts of Home."

784

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

GLADYS WALLIS, WHO LATELY PLAYED THE TITLE ROLE IN "THE LADY SLAVEY."
Front her latest photograph by Falk, AYw 1 ork.

We may add that this organization has no
connection with the Castle Square Opera
Company, which sprang into being at this
same theater some five rears ago.

SOTHERX AS A YII.LAIX.
Ill all his plays E. H. Sothern figures as a
hero of heroes ; it is difficult to imagine him

as the villain of a piece, and yet it was his
playing of such a role that set his feet in the
pathway to success. He had been having
bitter experiences on the road with various
companies when on his return to New York
he met a friend, who, as the capsheaf to the
} oung actor s tribulations, asked him to listen
to the reading of a play by a new author.

THE STAGE.

7*5

Sothern consented, and revenged himself
by telling the dramatist that his play was a
very poor one ; but when, a year later, the
piece was produced, the writer of it heaped
coals of fire on his critic s head by offering
him the part of the villain.

" You had such a wicked look in your eye
while you were listening to the reading,"
the playwright explained, " that I never
forgot it."

Sothern pocketed his pride, accepted the
part, and so pleased Helen Dauvray with his
acting of it that she engaged him as low
comedian in the company that finally carried
him to the attention of Dan Frohman.

Mr. Sothern is not only the star of his
company, but the " realizer " of his plays as
well. In other words, when a new produc
tion is decided on, he personally oversees the
conversion of the author s directions into the
settings and properties that make up the
stage picture. And on tour he will not use a
stick of furniture that he does not carry
himself; all he asks of the theaters visited is
a clear stage.

THE SRASON IN PROSPKCT.

In printing a forecast of the New York
season in this place just a year ago, we quali
fied our announcements with the statement
that there would almost certainly be many
changes of plan. This is an inherent con
dition of the theatrical business. Nothing
can be determined in advance of the public s
verdict. An unexpected success may over
turn as many arrangements as an unlocked
for failure. Maude Adams, with her " Little
Minister," tore the Garrick s booking sheet
to tatters.

However, plans of some sort managers
must have, and here is a sumnKiry of metro
politan probabilities for at least the opening
months of the season now just under the
horizon.

Melodrama will lead off, as it iisually does,
in the latter part of August at the Academy
of Music. "Sporting Life" is the name
assigned to it this time, and Robert Hilliard
is to have the role in which Leonard Boyne has
been starring in England.

The reopening of the American may be
looked for in the first half of September, with
the Castle Square Opera Company in a reper
toire which will doubtless contain a greater
proportion of grand than light opera. The
competition of the Metropolitan will tend to
increase the audiences at the American rather
than diminish them.

May Irwin s career as a manager begins at

the Bijou early in September, when she stars

Sam Bernard in " The Marquis of Michigan,"

following him at this house herself in " Kate

Kipp, Buyer," her new play by Glen Mc-
Donough, which, with her wonted habit of
flaunting defiance in the face of superstition,
she tested on Friday, May 13, at Kansas
City.

Francis Wilson is again the inaugural at
traction at the Broadway, bringing forward a
new opera on September 19. It is happily
dubbed " The Little Corporal," and is by the
men who were so successful in providing him
with " Half a King." The scenes are laid in
Brittany, Alexandria (Egypt), and the Desert
of Sahara. An incident in the piece is Mr.
Wilson s assumption of the character of
Napoleon, brought about by a case of mis
taken identity.

The annual review, having been presented
much later than usual, will probably hold
the stage at the Casino*far into the autumn.
Owing to the success of " The Belle of New
York " in London, the shows prepared in
future for this house will be built on the
double barreled plan that is to say, with a
commercial eye on the British market.

Early in June a newspaper squib announced
August 15 as the reopening date for Daly s,
with R. A. Barnet s newest extravaganza,
"The Queen of the Ballet," as the attraction.
But although this is Mr. Daly s property, it
is not certain that it will be his first offering
of the season. This may be either " A Greek
Slave," the successor to "The Geisha" at his
London house, or " A Runaway Girl," the
new and decided Gaiety hit. Ada Rehan s
return is set down for November, as
usual, when the long deferred " Madame
Sans Gene" may be produced.

Gillette will open the Empire with revivals
of his London triumphs, " Too Much John
son " and " Secret Service," followed by John
Drew in "The Liars." In January will come
the stock company, possibly in the recent
success at the London St. James John Oliver
Hobbes "The Ambassador," which appears
to be a " Princess and Butterfly " compound
of smart sayings and stunning gowns.

At the Fifth Avenue, Charles Coghlan will
revive "The Royal Box" on September 12,
and then bring out a new play, after which
comes the Joseph Jefferson season of "The
Rivals," with Elsie Leslie and Wilton
Lackaye in the cast. Mr. Daly has secured
fourteen weeks at this house, and Mrs. Fiske
is also booked there with " Vanity Fair. "

Nobody believes that Richard Mansfield
will carry out his recently expressed intention
of abandoning the country where he claims
to have been badly used. So we are pretty
certain to see him in the fall at the Garden
in " Cyrano de Bergerac," in which Coquelin
has been playing at the Porte St. Martin,
Paris.

786

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

The Garrick s opening is set down for the
middle of August, with Hoyt s "A Day and
a Night " as the bill.

"Hotel Topsy Turvy," a farce from the
French, starts things at the Herald Square,
with "Charles O Malley " booked to follow.
This is the play by the young dramatist,
Theodore Burt Sayre, announced by Wilton
Lackaye for last season, but not pre
sented until late in the spring at Washing
ton. It received not a single adverse criti
cism, while the author already has a lawsuit
on his hands against another playwright who
has appropriated a novel effect in his dueling
scene, two contributory "booms" which no
theatrical person can afford to despise.

De Wolf Hopper opens the Knickerbocker
September 5 with " The Charlatan," his new
opera by Sousa and Klein. N. C. Goodwin
will come later with " Nathan Hale," and by
that time Crane may be ready with " The
Treasure Seeker," by Louis N. Parker.

The Lyceum will open as usual about Sep
tember i with Sothern in a new play. It is
possible that "The Adventures of Lady Ur
sula," by Anthony Hope, played on tour last
season, will be reserved for Virginia Harned.
" Rose Trelawny," by Pinero, which recently
finished a long run at the London Court
Theater, is billed for the stock company s
inaugural, November 22.

The most important dramatic event of the
autumn will be Viola Allen s de"but as a star,
scheduled for October 3 at the Lyric. The
play is Hall Caine s own dramatization of his
latest novel, "The Christian," with Miss
Allen of course as Glory, and Frank Worth
ing, once leading man at Daly s, for Jolm
Storm, who, in the play, does not die. Drake
is to be impersonated by Jack Mason, and
Lord Robert Ure by Jamison Lee Finney, last
season one of the German officers in "The
Conquerors." The play is in five acts, open
ing in the courtyard of the Brotherhood.
Glory does not appear until the second act,
which takes place in the Coliseum Music
Hall. Act three shows the club room of the
mission church in Soho, act four Glory s
apartments in Clement s Inn, while for the
finale the scene returns to the Soho club
room.

Charles Frohman assumes control of Hoyt s
in September, changing the name back to the
Madison Square, and starting out with an
English farce called " A Brace of Par
tridges."

A comedy from the French whose English
name is "The Turtle " will light up the Man
hattan about September 3, with Lottie Blair
Parker s "Cuban War Correspondent" to
follow. Burr Mclntosh has gone to the
front for the summer in order to invest

the title role with a realism of a truly vivid
type.

Wallack s reopens at the end of August
with Stuart Robson, who has not visited the
city for some time. Alice Nielsen follows
with her opera company, and then, on October
31, Julia Arthur will appear, probably in a
round of Shakspere s heroines.

The Kendals and Olga Nethersole will be
the only stars visiting us from the other side.
Of course it counts for nothing that when
the Kendals were here last they positively
announced that they would not return again.
But unless they bring a very good play they
may not want to change their minds next
time.

Gladys Wallis is a clever little actress, and
a great favorite with the public, and yet she
is seldom seen nowadays. Her petite figure
requires a special line of parts, and these are.
not always to be had. As the child Elsie in
"The Squire of Dames," she was capital, but
such a role could not carry a piece, so a star
ring venture in a special play will not remedy
matters. In fact, the experiment has already
been tried.

* # * #

If you are visiting a strange city and wish
to attend a certain theater, do not trust to a
single newspaper in looking up its announce
ment. Managers have a way of cutting out
their advertisements when a critic displeases
them. A party of fourteen was lost to a house
last spring because, not seeing the notice of it
in the only newspaper consulted, they con
cluded that the theater had closed for the
season, and went elsewhere. We may add,
as perhaps pertinent to the matter, that this
manager is one of the few who are sparing in
their use of billboard publicity.

* * * *

The Hammerstein collapse makes pertinent
the inquiry : W T hat do men see in the the
atrical business that makes so many of them
anxious to enter it ? There is no calling that
can be mentioned so beset with the pitfalls of
uncertainties. You may be on the top of the
wave today, and down in the depths tomor
row. It must be that managers live on ex
citement ; many of them get little else whereby
to eke out their existence. Small wonder
that most of them are wild of eye and restless
of limb. A gambler risks no more on the
throw of a dice than do they on producing a
new play. Even with the profits of a big hit
in their coffers, they are haunted by visions
of their dissipation in the next venture.

It was after " Trilby " that A. M. Palmer
failed, and men waiting in line all night to
buy Bernhardt seats could not keep Abbey
from eventually going under.

STORIETTES

AN AMERICAN MADE IN
FRANCE.

WAR had not yet been declared, and the
President s hand was still wavering between
the iiik well and the paper that would plunge
the country into turmoil and possible dis
aster ; but the spirit of unrest hovered low
over the land, and from one end of the con
tinent to the other a feeling of uncertainty
and disquiet prevailed.

But Mrs. Donald Martin mentioned none of
these war symptoms when, suddenly deciding
to go abroad for an indefinite time, she pre
vailed upon her husband to accompany her.
Mr. Martin s father was an officer of high
rank in the army, his great grandfather had
signed the Declaration of Independence ;
martial spirit and patriotism were inherited
from a long line of martial and patriotic an
cestors, so perhaps Mrs. Martin s fears were
not altogether groundless. They had no
children, his fortune was well over the million
dollar mark, and Mrs. Martin was the only
child of a deceased multimillionaire. From
such people the country has an undoubted
right to claim something.

Donald was, of course, tremendously in love
with Mrs. Donald, and was rather in the habit
of forming his opinions on hers. So when in
reply to the universal question she answered,
"A war? Why no, of course not! It s all
rubbishing nonsense, this talk of war," he,
too, was inclined to think that there would
not, could not, be a war. In this way Mrs.
Martin successfully carried him off, eloped
with him, as it were, before his country had
laid upon him the restraining hand of duty.

Fear for her husband s safety was not the
only thing that made Mrs. Martin take this
sudden departure. She was not lacking in
martial spirit, but she was sadly lacking in
patriotism ; that is, if patriotism means a
rigid adherence to the government, under all
circumstances, in spite of all its actions. Mrs.
Martin reserved to herself the right not only
to criticise the powers in Washington, but to
disapprove of them absolutely and entirely.

When they arrived in England the first
news that met their eyes was the declaration
of war, the details of blockaded towns and
captured boats, and the call for volunteers.

"There, you see ! " cried Mrs. Martin, but
Donald did not seem to understand her allu
sion. He was reading, with a hot pain in his
head and a eold pain in his heart, the news
from home, and the foreign comments there

on some friendly, some sarcastic, some
openly hostile. All he said to his wife was :

"If you don t mind, Florrie, I think I
would rather go to Paris. You don t partic
ularly care what people think if you don t
understand what they say."

The days moved on, slowly to some people,
with lightning rapidity to others. A bril
liant victory had been gained on one side of
the world, broken hearted farewells were being
said on the other, and by this time the Donald
Martins were cozily established in a little
apartment in Paris. Donald read novels and
avoided the newspapers. Mrs. Donald read
all the newspapers and thanked Pleaven daily
and hourly for the forethought which insured
her husband s safety ; but the war was rarely
discussed in her little drawingroom. On one
occasion, however, when M. Henri Desroches,
ex secretary of the French legation at Wash
ington, was calling upon her, the subject was
introduced. Fortunately Donald was not
present, so Mrs. Donald did not mind very
much.

She listened to the Frenchman s comments,
and in a half jesting manner expressed her
own views on a " country s honor," " a na
tional dishonor," and a "disgraced flag."
The words did not originate in her mind, but
formed themselves on her lips. They were
not thoughts, but simply words.

"Is it because your ideas of honor do not
coincide with those of the present government
that you have brought your big blond giant
out of harm s way ?" the Frenchman asked
after one of these uttered flippancies. "So
that if he does not choose to lay down his life
for what you consider an unworthy cause, his
bravery shall not be questioned? "

Now, Donald was big, standing some six
feet four in his stockings, and possessing a
corresponding girth a veritable giant in
health and strength. But the allusion to his
size, the suggestion that followed it, did not
please Mrs. Donald.

" We left hqine before the war began," she
answered haughtily, "and fortunately an in
dividual s honor is in his own keeping and
not at the mercy of every wire pulling poli
tician who happens to be in control at the
moment."

A week later the Martins were dining at an
English house, and M. Desroches was Mrs.
Martin s vis-a-vis. Mr. Martin, who also sat
across the table from his wife, though quite
at the other end, could hardly keep his eyes
from her face. Her gown of coquelicot red

788

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

intensified the milky whiteness of her neck
and shoulders. She was very beautiful, and
the sight of her sparkling eyes and happy,
smiling lips was a solace to a little gnawing
pain that was deep in his heart.

The war was one of the first subjects intro
duced, and M. Desroches made some sarcastic
comment on the doings of the American
fleet. Mrs. St. John, the hostess, called his
attention by means of an ocular telegram to
the presence of her American guests.

" It is not necessary to veil such ideas in the
presence of Mrs. Martin," the ex secretary
answered, with a slight shrug. We owe the
pleasure of her residence in Paris to her dis
approval of her country s actions."

" One doesn t need to live in a country to
show one s love and approval of it," Mrs. St.
John answered, "or one s regard for its
honor. I am English to the heart s core, but
I live in Paris."

"A country s honor, yes," answered the
Frenchman ; " but in Mrs. Martin s interpre
tation of the present situation, that is not
involved. I have her own words to prove
you do not mind if I quote your words? "

Mrs. Martin answered this question with an
almost imperceptible inclination of the head,
and then sat dumb and wretched while the
voluble little Frenchman repeated her dread
ful words. How could she have said such
things? She did not dare to meet her
husband s eyes ; but Donald was not look
ing at her now. He was holding a glass of
rub} wine in his hand, and thinking of another
red, a red that was perhaps flowing from
thousands of loyal hearts on distant battle
fields. Not once did Mrs. Martin s eyes
meet her husband s, even when the ladies
were leaving the room, but he saw that she
had taken a bit of blue cornflower and pinned
it across her breast above her flaming gown.
It might have been the merest chance, an
accidental combination, but the national
colors so combined brought comfort to his
troubled heart.

When they left the St. Johns , ostensibly to
go to the opera, Mrs. Martin asked her hus
band if he would mind going home. He gave
the order to the coachman, and they rode
through the quiet streets in silence for a little
while. Then Mrs. Martin spoke.

" How much does a cruiser cost, Donald ; a
big one, I mean? "

" I don t know ; a million or so, I suppose.
Rather out of proportion with the services of
one volunteer, don t you think?" This last
sentence he added after he had seen his wife s
face in the light of several street lamps that
they passed, but she made no reply to the
thought in her husband s mind.

Arrived at their little apartment, she wan

dered restlessly from room to room, and then,
standing behind Donald s chair, she said :

"I think we will go home tomorrow, Don,
if you don t mind."

He did not answer ; she could not see his
eyes and the glad look that flashed in them.

" I don t think it s quite right to be living
abroad when when your country -when
things are happening this way, do you ? "

Still no answer.

" It takes too long to build ships, I suppose,
and and just money isn t worth much, but
but Tommy Caufield has raised a regiment,
and all the people we know are doing some
thing of that sort. Don t you think we might
equip some troops or or something, Don ? "

" I can t send men to fight for their country,
to be wounded and killed perhaps, when I
won t go myself." Donald could not quite
keep the bitterness out of his voice.

" But I mean for you to lead them. That s
what I want."

Now he turned to her and took her in his
arms, crushing the red, white, and blue to his
heart. " Then you do care for our country s
honor, my love, niy wife? "

"Not for the country s honor, Don at
least, that is not what I am thinking of now.
I m thinking of yours, Don."

Thomas Cady.

"OH, PROMISE ME."

winter she had looked from the West
Pointer in the cadet cap, to the militiaman
with the soft broad brimmed hat pulled over
his eyes, and from these to the boy in the
sailor s uniform of the Naval Reserves. They
all loved her, but she did not know, she
could not tell, which one she liked best.
Then the war came, and she was obliged to
bid them each good by. She meant to give
each one a keepsake. " For I want them all
to remember me," she mused. "Was ever
a girl so unfortunate ? Three of them, and
all soldiers ! If I only knew which I liked
best!"

And the time came to bid the first good by.

" I shall think of you as I wear it, always," .
said the West Pointer, pinning the tiny favor
in his cap jauntily. " If I am killed, it will
be sent back to you with my dying words."
He took her hands in both of his. "And.
you promise to remember me you will write
to me very often ? "

The tears brimmed in the girl s gray eyes,
and she promised. Then the West Pointer
was called away. Clatter of sword and glint
of spur.

* * # #

And the time came to tell the second one
good by.

STORIKTTES.

789

"I shall wear it and think of you every
day," said the militiaman, pinning the tiny
favor above his heart, to the lining of his
uniform. Then he unclasped his sharp
shooter s medal and handed it to her. " Will
you promise to wear this for me? "

The tears brimmed in the girl s eyes as she
fastened the medal to her little new army
jacket. He saw the tears and caught both
her hands in his, and he was going to ask her
something more, but the train started and he
was obliged to spring on board. And the
regiment had gone away. Flutter of flags
and roll of drums. Every one cheered a
great deal, except the girl, and the people
who were crying.

* * * *

And the time came to bid the last good by.

" For me ? " asked the naval reserve. " I
feel too dirty to touch such a bit of a thing.
And my clothes are so dirty that I hate to ask
you to pin it in my cap." Pie was indeed
dirty and unshaven, grimy with the unsavory
grime of new and oily ropes, and his white
working clothes were past all description,
muddy and paint daubed and tar smeared.
But the girl reached up, and he leaned down
a great deal, and she fastened the little favor
in his cap. The rain fell drearily and the
raw east wind blew in gusts across the des
olate Navy Yard, and the great guns of the
crniser near them looked on grimly from the
long, gray hull. On board the ship six men
in dirty white uniforms stood at attention be
side the forecastle gun ; six men against the
grim, gray sky.

" Tra-la-la ; tra-la-la ; tra-la-la ! " sang the
bugle.

"You ll have to excuse me," said the
Reserve hastily. " They re going to give out
the watches. I m awfully ashamed you saw
me in this plight, but I ve been rigging all
day "

" It s so dreary," murmured the girl,
shivering as the raw wind swept her face.
" There s no glitter, there s no triumph or
anything ! "

" Wait till we get into action," he laughed,
"and show our teeth." He was starting to
run back to the ship, but she caught the
grimy coat sleeve and held him back.

"You you haven t promised to remem
ber me," she cried, with a little sob.

"Of course I will! Don t stop me, for
goodness sake ! " he cried, springing to the
gangplank. Then a little whistle sounded
and three hundred dirty white uniforms were
shuffled as by magic into groups at attention.
The girl looked at them a moment, and then
her eyes fell on a tiny bit of color lying in
the mud. She went over and picked it up,
and the tears of grief and mortification

blinded her deep gray eyes. It was her favor.
She made her way slowly through the love
less old Navy Yard, past the captured British
guns, past the stiff guard at the gate, and
slowly, slowly, farther on through the cheer
less, pitying, enfolding rain. She had for
gotten the West Pointer and the militiaman.

" He didn t even ask me to remember
him," she thought brokenly.

As if it were necessary !

Marguerite Tracy.

PUNCH AND JUDY.

JUDY had been left behind, lying on the
ground where the booth had been. She was
such a dilapidated Judy, not worth taking on,
the showman said, while, with a little fresh
paint and some new tinsel, Punch could be
made quite presentable for his mimic stage.
Judy did not mind much not at first. Punch
was nasty, always quarreling with her when
there was no reasonfor quarreling ; andnow he
could see how he could get on without her.
She thought that she had been forgotten, and
that they would come back for her ; but, in
stead, some children found her in the grass.

" Oh, see this beautiful doll," they cried.
" Why, it is Judy ! We will make a Punch,
and then we can do the show ourselves."

They carried her home, tied some rags to a
stick, right before her, and gave it to her for
Punch. They made it hit her, and they
screamed at her in loud, shrill voices and pre
tended that she answered them. She would
not have spoken for worlds. They said that
perhaps her springs were broken, but she
knew that they were not. She was waiting
for Punch. She waited and waited, but he
never came, and one day, when the children
were determined that she should associate
with their horrible, make believe Punch, she
threw her arms arid legs off and let her eyes
fall back into her head. The children threw
her away, and the end of Judy was that the
ragman burned her.

* * * *

They had always been lovers. When she
was a little tot of three, and he was six, he
fetched and carried for her and protected her.
When she was ten he took her books to and
from school, brought her the first fruits and
nuts from the forest, and the prettiest birds
eggs he could find. There were lots of
quarrels between these child lovers, but they
were short lived, and her choicest possessions
were peace offerings from him, while he had
a lot of bits of ribbon and scraps of things
trifles in grown up eyes, but dear to him,
because each one meant that at some time
Judith had been sorry that she had hurt him.

When she was sixteen, he told her that

790

MUNSKY S MAGAZINE.

he was going away to college. His father
who, by the way, was Judith s guardian
thought it a pity to waste a talented lad on a
village life, and decided that a college educa
tion was all that he needed to give him a
career out among men in the great world.

Judith sat on a stile leading into the forest
path, and Arthur leaned against it. He was
idly twisting some blades of grass, making a
little green braided ring.

" Four years isn t so long, Judy," he said,
but he did not look up, for there was an un
manly moisture in his blue eyes.

" It s an eternity," she answered, and a tear
splashed on his hand ; she was only a girl,
and tears did not matter.

"Good by, Judy, sweetheart," he said,
slipping the grass green ring on her tiny
brown hand.

"Good by, I/addie," she whispered, fling
ing both arms round his neck.

So Arthur was taken away, and Judy was
left alone. Life moved smoothly on for some
time. She knew that he would not forget
her, and thought that when he had made his
name in the great world he would come back
to her. Long, intimate letters came and
went incessantly through the little village
post office. The years passed. The letters
grew fewer in number, but none the less
were the} love letters, and none the less were
the lovers sure of themselves and each other.

One day, Mrs. Arniorley, an aunt of
Judith, arrived in the village home. She
had not seen her niece since she had outgrown
pinafores, and was agreeably surprised to
find her a beautiful girl.

"We must make something of Judith,"
said Mrs. Armorley to her brother, Arthur s
father. "Let me have her for a little while,
and I ll find a nice, suitable husband for her.
That s the best thing to do for girls nowadays
marry them off in spite of their fads and
fancies.

Not a word did the father speak of Arthur
and his love for the little playmate ; not a
word did he speak to Judith of the plans in
preparation for her. He simply consented to
the visit, and Judy was carried off to Mrs.
Armorley s home.

And now the wires were pulled while the
puppets danced to the tune whistled by
Arthur s father and Judith s aunt. The in
tentions of these showmen were not bad, but
each had set himself up to be a special prov
idence in the destiny of his particular pro
tege and neglected to consider the will or
the wishes or the inherent human qualities of
his puppet. Arthur s father was not opposed
to Judith ; he would not have forbidden his
son to marry her. Indeed, if the motion had
been so made to him, he would have seconded

it. But it was not. Arthur s destiny was to
be a man among men. That he should ever
marry had not entered into the father s cal
culations. Now, thanks to Mrs. Armorley,
the idea of Judith s career was put before him.
She was to be married not to marry, but to
be married to a nice, respectable husband.
In this idea he acquiesced.

A few words in a letter from the father to
the son made the foundation for the separate
stages upon which the lovers, who had hith
erto had but one world, one life, one exist
ence, were now to perform a part. "Judith
has gone home with her aunt, and the next
thing we hear will be that she is engaged to
be married."

The son, reading, as he supposed, between
the lines of the letter, grew hot, then cold.
Why, if Judith was almost engaged, had she
not told him ? Why, if she was to be married
soon, had she written to him as if he were
still her sweetheart ?

For a long time Arthur did not write to
Judith at all, and in her new surroundings
she did not miss his letters not at first. He
was her lover, she was his sweetheart. Were
words necessary between them ? It was only
when she received a cold, formal acknowl
edgment from him of some little gift she
had sent him that she was roused to wonder.
Then she wrote at length, begging for some
explanation, asking if she had hurt him, and
beseeching him to kiss and make up in the
old childish way. But the same mail brought
him a letter from his father, inclosing one
from Mrs. Armorley.

Mr. Forant, a dear friend of mine, is com
pletely devoted to Judith, and has asked her
hand in marriage. She, dear girl, does not wish
to throw herself at him or seem too eager in her
acceptance, but it is only a question of time. He
is rich, well born, and well bred ; he occupies a
prominent place in the eyes of the world, and,
what is still more important, in Judith s own
eyes. You will hear again from me on this
subject in a few days.

Arthur flung both letters into the fire, and
the next day sailed for Liverpool, merely
sending Judith a message of farewell in a let
ter to his father. She was not to blame, he
told himself. She was not bound to him
and old Forant ! Everybody knows that a
girl s heart may be bought with gold, that a
girl s eyes inay be blinded by gold, that

Still Judy was Judy, and Arthur could not
stay in the same half of the world with his
boyhood s sweetheart bought for gold. So
he carried his troubles across the sea, and
like many other lovers before him he left
them there. But while he rushed from place
to place, leaving bits of his burden on his
toric rtiins, on the banks of world famous

STORIETTES.

791

rivers, and at the feet of momentary, frag
mentary loves, he was followed in his pil
grimage by a passionate, pleading little letter
from Judith. That it never reached him was
one of those curious, inexplicable, impish
acts of fate.

It was only an appeal to him to come back
to her, to save her from a fate she dreaded but
could not ward off. It assured him of her
everlasting and undying love, and told him
that if she could not live for him, she could
not live at all ; that he was her life, her heart,
her soul, and that separated from him mere
physical existence could not endure.

She was only a weak girl, helpless before
conventional law, and in the strong hands
that held her. So it came about that Judith
Armorley s engagement was announced, and
that she received congratulations from her
friends. Mr. Forant s ring was on her finger.
He had put it there even while she told him
that, though she would marry him, she would
never, never love him.

" L/ove will come," said the determined
lover.

"Love is not an essential factor in mar
riage," said the worldly aunt.

The wedding festivities were hurried on.
Judith sat pale and cold, listlessly hearing
and seeing what was going on, waiting for
but one thing a letter, a word, a message
from Arthur. None came, and the days
passed by.

It was almost time for Judith to be given
over to her new liege lord, when suddenly,
with no apparent cause, she became violently
ill. One morning she could not appear at
breakfast ; that night she was in a high fever,
and all night long tossed to and fro, speaking
in quick, hurried words, now confused and
rambling, now incisive and clear, but the
burden was always the same : "I will not, I
will not, I will not ! "

In the morning she grew calm her fever
died away. On her bed lay a bunch of
violets left for her by her lover, and beside
her sat Mrs. Armorley. In Judith s eyes was
a far away look, and on her lips was the first
semblance of a smile that they had worn for
many days. But she did not speak or move
throughout the livelong day.

Just as the evening twilight filled the room
she asked her aunt for a box containing some
old letters and childish trinkets. A little
later she turned her head toward the wall
and seemed to sleep, she was so still. Once
her lips moved and she whispered, " Good by,
Laddie."

Soon she raised her hand to her lips. It
fell heavily back upon the bed. Her aunt
saw that Mr. Fcrant s ring was gone, and
in its place was a tiny strand of faded

grass ; but it was too late for questioning or
reproach.

"The end of Judy was that the ragman
burned her."

Kathryn Jarboe.

SHOT.

BRADFORD had three weaknesses at Lenox
that summer, each one excellent in its way ;
but combined they combined against him.
There s no harm in a camera, except to a
pocketbook ; there s no harm in a bicycle ;
there s surely no harm in a girl.

But the girl had said : " Do you know, Mr.
Bradford, you look unusually well on a
wheel."

That was why Bradford had been busy
for two days with his best instantaneous
shutter and a very long string.

He chose an old road, little frequented by
riders and drivers, where he would not be
liable to interruption, and spent a great deal
of time in choosing the best point of view
and fixing the tripod firmly. The focusing
was again a matter for the nicest judgment.
Then he set the shutter, drew the slide, and
laid the long string which he had attached to
the shutter lightly across the road, and
fastened the string s end to a little bush in
such a way that the pressure of the wheel
across it would set the shutter off without
jarring the camera. Then he gave a few
touches to his hair, mounted his wheel, and
took a short run through the trees, coming
back and passing neatly across the string.
He had scowled at the camera !

"I ll try it again," said Bradford, setting
the shutter and putting in another plate.
" I ll keep my mind on her, and then I won t
worry about the shutter so much."

He thought of her as he wheeled off to
take another start, and in thinking he leaned
forward and passed the brown string at a
scorching gait. " And she hates scorching,"
he murmured discouragedly.

He set the camera once more. "It s the
last time I can try today," he mused, glanc
ing at the long shadows and the fading sky.
" I ll take a good long run, and come back
easily in a graceful position, with my face
neither turned to the lens nor quite away
from it, and I won t do any thinking, ad
that way I may get a telling shot."

But as Bradford came along he saw a little
basket phaeton in front of him pass slowly
across the brown string in the roadway and
disappear among the shadows of the woods.
And Bradford spoke about it feelingly.

" I ll just see what I ve got," he remarked
to the men as he went into the dark room
after dinner, "because I promised one to a

792

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

friend, but a carriage came along and spoiled
my only good chance. Say you want to
come in with me? Well ; " and he and an
idler entered the stuffy little closet.

"They re just what I expected," he con
tinued, as the first two exposures came up
swiftly out of the mysterious fog. "The
first has a beastly expression, you ll see, and
the second is John Gilpin s ride to Ware.
The third is a little slower in coming, be
cause the light got so thin, and I don t care
about it, any way. It s a wonder that horse
cleared the string. He might t have tangled
his foot in it, and brought the camera down
smash. People oughtn t to go driving care
lessly like that along an unfrequented road.
Ah, here it comes ! Gad, but it s going to be
a pretty negative ! As soft as velvet ; focus
was a little too sharp on those others, and
here they ve had the brass to come along and
take my plate. It s a man and a girl, of
course." The disdain increased in Bradford s
tone. "I might have known it was a man
and a girl. He s got his arm round her, too.
Bah ! Gad ! I believe he s kissing her ! "
Bradford smote the table in delight. "If it s
only some one round here, won t this be a
treasure ! Yes ; I ll take it out of my hypo in
a minute. Just pour the developer back into
the big bottle on your left that s it."

The sound of the bath poured from the
tray into the graduate, and from the graduate
into the bottle, was the only sound in the
dark room, except the little drip of hypo
into the tray, as Bradford finally lifted the
plate full to the red light. It was a beautiful
picture the best one he had ever taken.
He gazed at it searchingly an instant, and
then, as he recognized the girl s features, he
let it fall shivering on the hard stone floor.

"That s the end of it," he mumbled, as
the idler gave an exclnmation of dismay,
spilling developer over his flannels as he
turned.

"What a pity," said the idler, "and you
hadn t found out who they were ! Well, you
have your pictures the ones you promised
anyhow."

" That s so, I have my pictures ; " and, as
the idler led the way out of the dark room,
Bradford s heel ground into atoms all that
was left of his telling shot.

Mary A. King.

THE SOCIAL ATTEMPT OF THE
YUENGENFELDT FAMILY.

IF it had not been for the stubborn resist
ance of the elder Yuengenfeldt, the family
would have knocked at the portals of society
long before they did ; but the worthy Ger
man brewer resisted the pleadings of his wife

and daughters until at last he realized that
life was becoming unendurable to him simply
because he would not rent a country house in
one of the most fashionable regions of New
Jersey and allow his daughters to have what
his wife described in the numerous curtain
lectures that she gave him as a " chance to
do something for themselves."

"After all," the old brewer said to himself,
1 old country ways may be good enough for
me certainly I have grown rich by them
but my children are American, and there is
no reason why they should not accustom
themselves to American ways, and find
American husbands, too, for all I care. Let
them do as they will, and I ll agree to pay
the piper. All I ask is my beer fresh every
day from my own brewery, and a corner of
that big shady piazza where I can drink it
out of my own stone mug and smoke my
long pipe and imagine that the. river that
flows below me is the Rhine."

So the big, old fashioned country house,
with its broad acres of park and lawn and
garden, was taken, and for weeks Mrs.
Yuengenfeldt and her two plump and rosy
daughters were busy with dressmakers and
milliners ; for they had heard a great deal
about the summer festivities popular in he
place to which they were going, and simple,
kindly souls that they were the} never
doubted for a moment that they would be
bidden to join in them, just as they them
selves would have welcomed any neighbor to
their own board.

It was during the first week in June that
they took possession of their summer home,
which was situated on high ground over
looking the river and surrounded on every
side by beautiful, well kept estates, occupied
for the most part by wealthy and fashionable
people. Mrs. Yuengenfeldt saw from the
very first that her husband was destined to
be a veritable thorn in the family flesh dur
ing the entire summer, for he would smoke
his big, long stemmed pipe in the shady
corner of the piazza, and he would have his
daily keg of beer sent up from the big city
brewery that had yielded him his great for
tune. The girls did not mind the long pipe
so much, but the beer keg with the family
name across it in letters of exasperating size
was more than they could bear with equani
mity, and they gave secret orders to Hans,
the stableman, to be sure and throw the lap
robe over it when he took it to or from the
station. They even made a strong appeal to
their father to give it up altogether and take
to champagne, which, they assured him, was
not only much better for his health, but a
far more fashionable beverage.

But the old brewer simply laughed at their

STORIETTES.

793

entreaties, and told them that it was beer that
had made the family, in every sense of the
term, and that beer would continue to be his
favorite beverage so long as he lived.

Meantime, the pleasant month of June was
fast slipping away and as yet not one of the
swell neighbors had taken the trouble to call
on the newcomers. This circumstance was
beginning to prey heavily upon Mrs. Yuen-
genfeldt s mind, and she firmly believed that
it was the daily keg of beer that had dis
graced them in the eyes of their fashionable
neighbors. She made a final and almost
hysterical appeal to her husband one warm
afternoon, as he sat in his shirt sleeves in
his favorite corner on the shady, vine hung
piazza, but his only reply was to summon the
maid from the diningroom and bid her refill
his big stone mug ; and this having been
brought to him, he gravely emptied it to the
health of his aristocratic neighbors, bowing
ironically as he did so to a family group that
could be seen on the piazza of the Scar
borough mansion a few hundred yards away.

Now it happened that at the very moment
of the interview between the brewer and his
wife, the Scarboroughs, assembled in family
council on their own broad and vine hung
piazza, were discussing the advisability of
calling on their new neighbors.

"I m sure I don t see why we should
trouble ourselves to be polite to them, espe
cially as we never can know them in town,"
said the elder Miss Scarborough disdainfully.
" You can see that old man now, sitting in
his shirt sleeves like a saloon keeper."

" Well, he makes mighty good beer him
self, and I have drunk enough of it to know
what I am talking abovit, " remarked Mr.
Scarborough. " What s more, I think I d
walk a half a mile this hot afternoon if I
could find a good big, cold stone mug full of
it at the end of the journey."

"So would I ! " cried his son, a senior in
Princeton college. "And, by Jove ! it looks
as if they were having some of it at this very
moment. I suppose it s bottled, though."

"No, it isn t, either!" piped up the
twelve year old boy of" the family. "They
have a keg sent up from the brewery every
day, and Mrs. Yuengenfeldt makes the man
throw a lap robe over the name on the keg
for fear folks will see it."

" A fresh keg every day ! " cried the senior
Scarborough. " Well, if I d known that be
fore there wouldn t have been any argument
about calling on them. In fact, I think we d
better all stroll over there this very afternoon,
for, to tell the truth, I haven t had a glass of
good beer since I left New York."

"I m with you ! " cried the Princeton stu
dent, and within five minutes the Scarborough

family was on its way down the long graveled
walk that led to their neighbors domain.

It was Mrs. Yuengenfeldt who first noted
their approach and uttered a warning cry
that sent the two daughters away to the re
gions up stairs to hurl themselves into their
new and as yet unused summer finery. Their
mother followed them, but not until, by the
exercise of an almost superhuman will power,
she had literally forced her perspiring hus
band into his coat, and removed from the
piazza every trace of the vulgar beverage in
which he had been indulging. Then, having
with her own hands deposited two quart bot
tles of champagne in the ice chest, she went
to prepare herself for her guests.

The visitors were cordially greeted and
conducted to the drawingroom, where they
remained for several minutes in pleasant con
versation with the young ladies, who were so
overcome with the honor that had been done
them that they found it difficult to talk
rationall) on any topic. Mrs. Yuengenfeldt
found them thus occupied when she ap
peared, a few minutes later, her face flustered
with excitement, and one disarranged wisp
of hair falling down behind her ear. The
father did not come in at all, although Mr.
Scarborough politely inquired for him, and
very thankful indeed were his daughters that
he kept out of sight. At the end of fifteen min
utes the faces of the two male Scarboroughs
brightened perceptibly at the sound of the
suppressed clinking of glasses in the next
room, and then the door opened and Hans
appeared bearing a large tray containing
glasses and two bottles of what Mrs. Yuengen
feldt and her daughters considered was the
only drink that appealed to the taste of
fashionable society. Father and son ex
changed significant glances, and from that
moment a mysterious cloud of discontent
seemed to hover over the scene.

"It s luck} we saw them coming in time
to get the beer mug out of sight and father
into a coat," remarked Mrs. Yuengenfeldt
complacently, after their guests had gone.

"Well, the next time you catch me walk
ing half a mile in the broiling sun to call on
people who don t know enough to know how
good their own beer is, and think they must
bring out that nasty, sweet champagne, why
just let me know it," remarked the elder
Scarborough, as he mopped his brow.

" I m afraid the Yuengenfeldts will not
prove any great addition to our little com
munity," said Mrs. Scarborough, who was
fond of beer herself.

And this is the true story of why the
Yuengenfeldts utterly failed to get into
society. Its moral is obvious.

James L. Ford.

LITERARY CHAT

A TREAT IN PROSPECT.

London publishers are said to be tum
bling over one another in their eagerness to
secure Mr. Savage Lander s history of his
travels in Tibet. The booksellers are
clearing their foremost counters in joyful
anticipation. The public is fingering its
money and getting into line ready to run
out the first edition while it is still hot from
the press.

All this is not because Mr. Landor travels
well, and knows how to make a charming
book about it, nor because he has a name,
nor because the public is interested in
Tibet. It is simply the bright yellow
result of the fact that while he was among
the Tibetans the writer was most cruelly
tortured.

The public is like a little boy who will give
his best marble to see your smashed finger.
It wants to know just what happened to
Mr. Landor s limbs and back and features,
and how he felt, and what he thought of.
Not one detail of the pain need be sup
pressed, for mankind revels in shudders,
and finds delicious excitement in the sym
pathetic twinges that shoot through the
frame in response to the sufferings of others.
The fact that the book will contain a picture
of Mr. Landor taken shortly after his tor
tures, showing him haggard and broken and
apparently forty years older, will double the
sale. That the author s back and eyes may
never completely recover will triple it.

MRS. WARD S NEW BOOK.

In medieval days the schoolmen devoted
their lives to deciding how many angels
could stand on the point of a needle. Phil
osophers of a later day spent their time in
solving the problem whether a soul might
be more successfully saved through the
immersion believed in by one set of theo
rists or by means of the confessional and
penance of another set. It is almost as hard
to imagine a modern young woman throw
ing her life away for the beliefs of the
schoolmen as for those of their successors
in the philosophical arena.

Assuredly Miss Laura Fountain, the
heroine of Mrs. Humphry Ward s new
novel, " Helbeck of Bannisdale," is in
tended to be an exponent of modern
womanhood. She was brought up in
Cambridge, an acknowledged center of
modern thought, by a father whose claim
to recognition by his coworkers at that
university was a mild sort of atheism. He

was not even a devout atheist, if one may
connect those opposite terms. He made no
effort to impress his non belief on this
daughter of his, and yet, for the sake of his
inability to believe in the tenets of any faith,
she ruthlessly threw away God s two most
precious gifts, life and love.

In real life, death does not come as a
solution of every problem that may present
itself to struggling human beings. For
tunately, however, the novel writer, after he
has presented his problem, after he has
dragged his actors through the various
vicissitudes of solution or non solution,
can kill them off without incurring any
penalty save the possible prick of the critic s
pen. Mrs. Ward is rather fond of this plan
of cutting her knots, and doubtless she is
hardened -to the critical pen pricks, but one
cannot help realizing that in real life Miss
Fountain would have lived many happy
and useful years as the wife of Alan Helbeck.

The ambition of the modern writer is not
satisfied in simply pleasing his public; he
does not care to instruct or entertain ; his
aim, in all that he does, is to attract attention
to his wares. The surest way to accomplish
this is to excite pulpit criticism, and in this
Mrs. Ward is preeminently successful. In
her latest book, while the story as a whole
may not be looked upon as an attack upon
the Catholic church, the expressions
throughout the work are grievously offen
sive to adherents of that faith. And it is
doubtful whether the ordinary reader can
force himself to remember that these ex
pressions are probably intended simply as
gauntlets flung into the religious arena, the
combats issuing therefrom being desired as
advertisements of the author and her wares.

THE PLAYS OF BERNARD SHAW.

Almost every newspaper printed in the
English language has found space for a
quotation from Bernard Shaw s preface to
his " Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant." It
is worth reading, not so much for the truths
therein as for tke exceeding cleverness of it
all. It is amusing to the dullest intellect,
even to those people toward whom Mr.
Shaw takes the superior position.

But the plays are the thing. They are if
anything cleverer than their prefaced essays.
Yet are they truly worth while ? The " un
pleasant " plays were written for the Inde
pendent Theater in London, which did so
much to popularize Ibsen. Mr. Shaw
plainly links Ibsen with Shakspere, and at

LITERARY CHAT.

795

times he has such -decided leanings toward
the Norwegian that he loses some of his
own individuality, pungent as it is. But
even the Independent Theater was obliged
by the queen s reader of plays to draw the
line at " Mrs. Warren s Profession."

We congratulate that queen s reader for
having saved England something. The
play is too unpleasant to review, much less
to act!

" Arms and the Man," our old favorite,
as given to us by Mr. Mansfield, is in the
second volume. But even it leaves a bad
taste in the mouth. Mr. Shaw is brilliant,
clever, witty, intellectual, but he has not
that normal vision which he claims for him
self. He does not see things as they
exist. He sees only one little corner of the
real thing. He sees intellectually, with the
eye of the mind, and not sympathetically,
with the eye of the heart. He has only
one eye, instead of the two that nature
gives to her favorites, those who in reality
see things as they truly are.

Mr. Shaw s plays will never do more than
set a soul doubting. They are comedies, if,
as George Meredith says, " Comedy is that
which leaves you filled with thoughtful
laughter ; " but the thoughts are not pleasant,
and the laughter is not sweet."

And yet the books are dazzlingly clever.

" THE MAIDENS OF THE ROCKS."

A pool in the corner of a green meadow,
if it be fed by streams of doubtful purity,
gathers upon its surface a substance, bright,
glittering, half metallic, half liquid. Upon
this substance the sun shines, and it sparkles
with brilliant iridescent color; the waves
ripple it, and it has a sheen more beautiful
than the purer water of the brook. All day
long it shimmers and glistens in the sun
light, and at night it gives back the radiance
of the moon, but more radiantly still in
rainbow colors; but on tlie surface of the
pool there is nothing living, nothing but
this beautiful iridescent film which glitters
in the sunlight, gleams and glows in the
moonlight, and, day or night, gives forth
noxious exhalations.

By the literary fascination of just such an
iridescent beauty, Gabriele D Annunzio s
work has gained an audience an audience
which, for the most part, dislikes but
admires; which absorbs the exhalations of
a fetid atmosphere redolent of heavy per
fumes, sensuous music, and the decay of
death. D Annunzio has set himself to write
the " history of the soul in all its phases "
and we have " The Triumph of Death,"
The Intruder," and " The Maidens of the
Rocks " beautiful, iridescent scum upon a
stagnant pool.

Divested of verbiage, and freed from the
haze thrown up by a skilful craftsman,
" The Maidens of the Rocks " is simply the
expression of D Annunzio s idea of what he
calls the " desire to create." It deals with
the members of a family bound, apparently,
to celibacy by an overhanging curse of
hereditary insanity; the introduction into
this family of that same being with eyes
turned inward made familiar in D Annun
zio s former volumes in this case, Claudia;
the effect produced by Claudia on each of
the three maidens as he makes violent
D Annunzio love really a sickly, putrescent
affair to each in turn; and the effect upon
Claudia of these women, separately and col
lectively, before he makes up his mind that
it is to Anatolia that he will offer his
loyalty," the " companionship of his
heart." Anatolia refuses him being still
sane and Claudia departs.

Over our heads the sky preserved only light
traces of its clouds, like the tiny white ashes of
wasted funeral piles. The sun fired in turn the
summits of the rocks that reared their solemn
lineaments against the azure, and a great sad
ness and a great sweetness fell from on high into
the solitary cloister, like a magic drink in a
coarse bowl. In this spot the three sisters
rested, and in this spot I enjoyed their last
union.

That is the " story " of the " Maidens
of the Rocks." D Annunzio can no more
faithfully reflect the phases of the soul than
does the pool the purer waters of mountain
brooks. The phases of the senses, yes;
and to this category belongs " The Maidens
of the Rocks." The master of a style of
great poetic beauty, yet the reader rises
from the perusal of one of D Annunzio s
volumes with a feeling as of one who might
have been present at a feast of vultures or
jackals.

HOW VERNE REVISES PROOFS.

Jules Verne has almost as indulgent a
publisher as Balzac used to have. The au
thor of the "Comedie Humaine" was in the
habit of entirely rewriting his books after
they were in print, generally inscribing the
new "copy" on the proof itself, to the mis
ery of the printers. Verne says that he ap
pears to have no grasp of his subject until
he has seen it in print. He makes out a
scheme for a story, planning it from begin
ning to end, even to the division of chap
ters, before he writes a line. Then he sets
down a first rough draft of his story, and
sends it to the printers. With his first proof
his real work begins. He corrects and
changes, altering almost every sentence
and sometimes rewriting whole chapters.
The proofs come back and back for this

796

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

revision until he has often had them as
much as nine times.

Every author feels the itching to revise
proofs. The idea which has been so clear
and plain as he thought of it, becomes thick
and crude when it is put into words. It
needs new expression to carry its real
message.

But the publishers who will set up a dozen
books to get one, wait only on the great
Balzacs and popular Vernes.

A NEW LITERARY STAR.

A total eclipse of the sun is a rare event,
but it is a common, every day occurrence in
comparison with the discovery of a new
star of distinct brilliancy and magnitude.
During the past quarter of a century a
great many of the most splendid suns in our
literary firmament have been eclipsed by
death, while the number of new stars which
have arisen in that time has been pitifully
small. Nor can it be admitted for a moment
that any such bodies have appeared in the
heavens and are shining there unseen, for
every magazine and publishing office in the
land has its own observatory in which sits
a highly trained astronomer watching with
tireless eyes for the first glimmer of any new
star to which the whole world will accord
an eager welcome.

All this is worth taking into account when
we consider " The Celebrity," the book
which has introduced to the public a new
writer in the person of Mr. Winston
Churchill, for unless our judgment be very
much at fault its pages are illumined with
that very light for which the astronomers
have been looking so anxiously these dozen
years or more.

From cover to cover " The Celebrity " is
comedy of the very purest sort. Not once
does it lose its footing and descend into
farce or burlesque. It is true that the
author has been accused of caricaturing, in
the person of his principal comedian, a
certain well known writer of short stories,
but not even the most careful reading of the
book can be said to establish that fact be
yond all question. If, however, the charge
be true Mr. Churchill deserves the highest
praise for the lightness of his touch. There
is no attempt to " show up " his hero as a
scoundrel nor to belittle his talents.
According to the author he is simply a
short story writer who takes his fame very
seriously and pushes himself along in a
social way with skill and effrontery. This, for
example, is the Celebrity s manner of speak
ing of himself and his fame:

I am paying- the penalty of fame. Wherever I
go I am hounded to death by the people who
have read my books, and they want to dine and

wine me for the sake of showing rue off at their
houses. I am heartily sick and tired of it all ;
you would be if you had to go through it. I
could stand a winter, but the worst comes in the
summer, when one meets the women who fire all
sorts of socio-psychological questions at one for
solution, and who have suggestions for short
stories.

I ve been worried almost out of my mind with
attention -nothing but attention the whole time.
I can t go on the street but what I m stared at
and pointed out.

Certainly some surer means of identifi
cation than this is necessary in order to be
convincing, for there is scarcely a short
story writer in the land who does not talk,
or at least think, about in this fashion.

But the Celebrity is by no means the best
d*awn character in the book. Far more
amusing and consistently human is Mr.
Farquhar Fenelon Cooke, the wealthy owner
of the country seat at which most of the
scenes in the story are laid. There is
scarcely a city in the Union that cannot
boast and generally does boast, too of
its own particular millionaire of the Cooke
brand; and which one of us is there who
will fail to recognize him in Mr. Churchill s
description of the one whom he has
created?

His easy command of profanity, his generous
use of money, his predilection for sporting
characters, of whom he was king ; his ready
geniality and good fellowship alike with the
clerk of the I,ake House or the Mayor, not to
mention his own undeniable personality, all
combined to make him a favorite. He had his
own especial table in the diningroom, called all
the waiters by their first names, and they fought
for the privilege of attending him. He likewise
called the barkeepers by their first names and
had his own particular corner of the bar, where
none dared intrude, and where he could almost
invariably be found when not in my office.
From this corner he dealt out cigars to the de
serving, held stake moneys, decided all bets, and
refereed all differences. His name appeared in
the personal column of one of the local papers
on the average of twice a week, or in lieu thereof
one of his choicest stories in the "Notes about
Town " column.

The plot of " The Celebrity " is a new and
extremely clever rendering of one of the
oldest motives in fiction, that of a strong
resemblance between two men who have
nothing else in common. There is a re
freshing novelty in Mr. Churchill s treat
ment of this well worn theme. At the very
outset he frankly explains the circumstance
of the resemblance, instead of allowing us
to find it out ourselves in the second chap
ter, and learn it from the author in the very
last, in accordance with the most venerated
traditions of fiction.

Many people supposed, when the book

LITERARY CHAT.

797

appeared, that it was by the eldest son of
the late Lord Randolph Churchill, who was
already known to a somewhat limited circle
of readers as a writer on military subjects.
It seems, however, that there are more
Winston Churchills than one. A recent
letter from the author of " The Celebrity,"
dated from Nyack on Hudson, asserts an
emphatic claim to a separate identity, and
points out that his name was signed to a
magazine story published two years ago.
He is a native of St. Louis, and a graduate
of the Naval Academy at Annapolis.

AN EDITOR S ADVENTURE.

The editor of a prominent magazine had
an experience lately that he is not likely to
forget; there is one other person who is
not likely to forget it either. The other
person is a young woman well known in
New York City as an heiress and as an
accomplished horsewoman and a brilliant
wit. A few months ago she took it into her
head to write a novel and, being a person of
determination, she speedily carried her work
to an end. She showed the manuscript to
a well known writer of New York, who
liked it so much that he spoke of it to the
editor already mentioned, and the editor
expressed a desire to consider the story for
publication. The young woman, however,
said that she should prefer to read the tale
to him, so that she might profit by his sug
gestions, and he good naturedly agreed to
give up an evening for the purpose.

It happened that the night before the
appointed evening the editor attended a
banquet in honor of the seventieth birthday
of a popular American poet, which kept
him up till four o clock in the morning.
So, after a hard day at his office, he was
greatly disgusted at being obliged to put on
a dress suit and to take a journey up town.
When he arrived at the young novelist s
house, he was received with great ceremony
and ushered into the library, where his
hostess, in an elaborate evening frock, was
waiting for him. In a few moments she
began to read, and her musical contralto
voice soothed the rasped nerves of the
editor. In spite of all his efforts, he found
himself unable to fix his attention on the
narrative, and every few moments he had to
sit up quickly to keep his head from falling
forward. At last, however, he was grad
ually vanquished, his head nodded convul
sively, then drooped, and then rested peace
fully on his right shoulder.

When he woke up he found himself
alone in the room, the lights of which had
been extinguished. An electric bulb was
burning in the hall, however, and he hurried
out to look at his watch. Half past twelve!

He had been sleeping three hours and a
half. Not a sound could be heard save the
ticking of the colonial clock in the lower
hall. With a feeling of shame, the editor
walked softly down the stairs. In the hall
he met the solemn butler, who, without even
the suggestion of a smile, helped him on
with his coat, opened the door and closed
it noiselessly behind him.

Since that time, though the editor wrote
a letter of apology to the authoress, he has
received no communication from her.

A LITERARY LAWYER.

Several months ago a rather startling let
ter appeared in the Chicago Dial signed with
the name of John Jay Chapman. Mr. Chap
man openly accused the magazine editors
of this country with timidity and narrow
conservatism in the selection of articles for
publication, and declared that he had sub
mitted to several editors an article whi^ch
had been approved by competent critics,
and that the editors were afraid to accept
it because it presented a new view of a con
spicuous literary character.

Under ordinary circumstances, such a
letter would have excited only ridicule and
would have been dismissed as the work of a
disappointed and disgruntled contributor.
But on reading it, some people recalled the
name of John Jay Chapman as having been
signed a short time before to two clever
papers on Emerson in the Atlantic Monthly;
and those newspaper writers who com
mented on the letter, even if they disagreed
with the opinions expressed in it, treated it
with respect. Moreover, Mr. Chapman
received requests from at least two editors
for the privilege of examining the much
rejected essay, for when the second request
came he had the pleasure of replying that it
had already been solicited and accepted.
Since that time he has brought out a volume
entitled " Emerson and Other Essays,"
which has placed him among the most
promising of the literary critics of this
country, and made him an interesting
figure in American letters.

Mr. Chapman, as his middle name sug
gests, is connected with a well known New
York family. He is about forty years of
age. After his graduation from Harvard
nearly twenty years ago, he studied law,
and, since taking his degree, he has been in
active practice, with an office in Wall
Street. When he had been out of college
a few years he began to write critical essays,
and offered them to the periodicals, only to
receive them back with a disheartening
regularity. After a time he decided that his
literary views were too radical to please
editors, and in despair he stopped writing.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

It is only within the past two years that
lie took courage to resume the battle for
literary success, and this time his victory
was quick and decisive. He is still practis
ing law, but he finds time to continue his
critical work.

THE HAPPY YEARS OF YOUTH.

The New York Sun recently printed a
letter on its editorial page which asked an
interesting question. A mother desired a
list of books for her ten year olr! girl, who,
she said, " already evinces, in her childish
letters and compositions, the germs of a
literary style which I would give much to
possess myself, and I don t want to see her
lose it."

The idea that children need childish
books after they learn to read with any in
telligence is a fallacy that has grown up with
the last generation. A child of ten who has
a taste for reading is the most fortunate of
creatures. She has about eight years in
which to lay a solid foundation of literary
knowledge. Ask any man or woman who
knows the whole ground of English fiction
and poetry when he had the time to read
" everything." lie will tell you or, more
often, she will tell you " between the years
of ten and eighteen." Who after that has
time to read Scott, Dickens, " Don Quix
ote," Hawthorne, Charles Lamb, Dumas,
Victor Hugo, Thackeray ?

An imaginative reading child will tremble
with delight over these books. She will
miss the meanings of many things and in
some cases happily but like the rules in
arithmetic and grammar which she commits
to memory, the form will stay, and the
meanings will come. Helen Kellar, the
deaf, dumb, and blind girl, says that she
learned so readily because she had " read "
many raised books with her fingers before
she actually knew the meanings of twenty
words. But words and the forms of sen
tences were familiar things to her.

After eighteen, there comes such a press
of today s books that the old ones are
pushed into the background. And unhappy
is that child whose mind has been fed on
the milk and water of children s books,
generally written by mediore writers, when
the brilliant, vivid, simple work of the mas
ters lies dust collecting in the library.

A NEW BOOK OF MAPS.

An atlas that is comprehensive without
being back breaking is a welcome addition
to the student s library. " The Century
Atlas " neatly fills the bill. Its maps are
not of blanket sheet size, but they are
numerous, and accurately graded in pro
portion to the subject s requirements.

Issued during the spring, this companion
to the Century Dictionary places the world
before us as it was up to the breaking out
of the war with Spain. The history of the
recent Greco-Turkish war may be traced
in the battlefields, indicated by crossed
swords, with the dates, these latter coming
down as late as the fight at Dokomos, May
17, 1897. Indeed, almost as much his
tory as geography may be acquired
from this end of the century volume.
Underlying the modern names of countries
like Greece and Italy are those of the an
cient divisions made immortal in history
and verse.

Special attention is paid to the United
States, there being a separate index for it.
The divisions of Greater New York are
clearly set forth. But the map that will
perhaps be most frequently consulted this
summer is No. 116, showing the Philippine
Islands in their relation to the rest of the
East Indies. The population of the Philip
pines is put down as being 7,000,000 in the
estimate of 1897, and the cable to Hong
Kong, which brought the news of the
Dewey victory, is seen to land some distance
north of Manila. One may also note the
only railroad line in the group, running
from Manila to Lingayen, the nearest port
to China.

When a visiting English company pro
duced " Kitty Clive, Actress," as a curtain
raiser, very few people paid any attention
to the name of the author; and yet Frank
fort Moore is a well known and widely read
novelist in England. He is still a young
man, but he has been a journalist in every
part of the globe, turning many of his ex
periences in East Africa and India to
account in his novels. He is an Irishman,
educated in an Irish college, and married
to an Irishwoman, and his readers never
quite lose sight of his nationality. He has
brought out more than thirty novels and
two books of verse, and has had eight plays

produced.

* * * *

In looking over the list of Mr. Moore s
works we notice some coincidences. Like
Mr. Richard Harding Davis, he has pub
lished " A Journalist s Notebook." Like
Mr. Harold Frederic, he has found a title in
" A March Hare." Like Mr. Clyde Fitch,
he has seen what a clever name " The Moth
and the Flame " makes for a play. And like
Mr. Louis N. Parker, " The Mayflower "
has appealed to him as the theme of another.
It is only just to say that Mr. Moore s titles,
we believe, all appeared some years before
the other authors had occasion to use prac
tically the same ones.

ETCHINGS

THE ORIGIN OF HUMOR.

THE man had made a peculiar, significant,
and complex ass of himself, and he knew it.
Never before in all the world, perhaps, had
any one placed himself in such a miserably
absurd position, and he was morbidly sensi
tive to the ridiculousness of his conduct. The
idle onlookers howled with uncontrollable
laughter, and he could blame no one but
himself, though their mirth stung him like a
whip of scorpions. As soon as he could, he
sneaked away to hide his shame and chagrin,
and, while cursing himself with all the power
of a rich and flexible vocabulary, he vowed
that never again would he appear before or
hold communion with his fellow men.

Years afterwards, when his heart was be
numbed by many such shocks, and he could
laugh at his own miseries, he sat down and
wrote a full and desperate account of that
first exhibition of folly. He gave every de
tail, and in his recklessness spared not to
make the picture even more cruelly absurd
than it really was. The little story was pub
lished, and everv one who read was seized
with uncontrollable laughter.

From that hour his fame as a humorist was
assured, and everybody exclaimed, "How
witty he is, and how original ! " And no one
knew that he had written the foolish little
tale with his heart s blood, for every one but
himself had forgotten the hour of folly on
which it was based.

TOLERANCE.

I FOUND the poison hemlock by the stream
Down in a canyon, shadow flecked and

cool,
Where pale, pure lilies bent above the pool,

And leaned my Lady Iris in a dream.

Soft from the clasping firs the light came

through
On mint s sweet tangles and close netted

vines,

On snow white bells and starry colum
bines,
And myriad ferns that in the mosses grew.

High o er these graces stood this noxious

thing

With rank, low spreading leaves and flaunt
ing bloom,

Sought not by bee or bird usurping room
Wherein some all beloved flowermight spring.

But not less sweet were lilies by the stream ;
The vines threw out their bloom, their ber
ries red,

The butterfly its bright procession led,
And smiled the Iris still as in a dream.

Lillian H. Shuey.

AUGUST.

THE; cedar shadows break in tawny spangles
That lightly into banks of coolness close ;
And wilful breezes waste, in grassy tangles,
The crimson fragments of a shattered
rose ;

A deep, late rose, that knew not June s be
queathing
Of dripping dews and sweet, moist kiss of

dawn,
But rent, with dusk red fires, its mossy

sheathing,

And flamed in beating sunshine on the
lawn.

So, in the zenith of their rich completeness,
The warm, late, fragrant days of August

pass,

Drifting into the yesterdays dim sweetness
Like loosened rose leaves shaken in the
grass.

Hattie Whitney.

ROUNDEL.

MY thoughts are gauzy dragonflies
That woo the dark browed clematis ;
They press where honeyed treasure is

And never linger for good bys.

Blooms pale with yearning they despise
And deem unworthy of a kiss ;

My thoughts are gauzy dragonflies
That woo the dark browed clematis.

But soon her dusky fragrance dies,
They re off to taste a rose s bliss ;
So I may go, remember this,

My Clematis, no tears or sighs !

My thoughts are gauzy dragonflies.

Walter Winsor.

THE SILENT SUMMONS.

Y. T ITH fife and drum and farewell waving

hands

The volunteers are marching far away
From lands of peace with garniture of

May,
Across the frontiers of unfriendly lands.

8oo

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

And shall they fall upon Matanzas sands,
Or, o er the world, by famed Manila

bay ?

Or shall they come back from the ensan
guined fray
With streaming banners and triumphant

bands ?

God knows ! But they have heard the sub
tle call
To file with those armed legions that have

gone

Past Marathon, Bannockburn, and Lexing
ton,
Leaving their cairns and camp fires, as a

sign,

Along their way toward freedom s cap
ital,

Which they shall build beyond thought s
picket line !

Henry Jerome Stockard.

THE VINTAGE OF WAR.
i.

AH, not for me the wine of Thrasymene,
Grown on the field where Rome s grim le
gions stood

Until they drenched with gore the shudder
ing plain ;

To me to me, that wine still tastes of
blood !

S. R. Elliott.

ii.

Yet, know ye not where fire the soil hath

charred,
One moon shall scarcely fill her golden

round
Before the sweet white clover shall have

starred

With myriad beauty all the chastened
ground !

What if the rubric of the sword have

sealed

A more imperial harvest to yon plain?
Each soul hath, also, some such battle
field-
It hath the vintage, too, of Thrasymene !
Edith J\I. Thomas.

THEY WERE SEVEN.
I MET a pretty summer girl

Eighteen years old, she said ;
She seemed to be quite in the whirl,

A very thoroughbred.

" Have you a fiance, sweet maid ? "

I asked with courtesy.
" A fiance? I ve .seven," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"Two of them in Ch\pago lie

(In Rome as Romans doing)
And. in New York two others try

My patience with their wooing.

" And one in Boston writes each day

To keep me true ha, ha !
The other two, they simply stay

In Philadelphia.

" Now add them up," she said, " and you

Will find the number seven "
" Nay, five ! " said I. " Don t count the two

Who are in that Quaker Heaven.

" You see there are but five," said I,

" Alive and out of Heaven."
Quick was the summer girl s reply :

"Oh, mister, they are seven."

" But those in Philadelphia,

Are dead their sins forgiven
Like all else in that town." But still
The summer girl would have her will,
And said, " Nay, they are seven."

Tom Hall.

IN APPLE TIME.
IN apple pickin , years ago, my father d say

to me,
" There s jest a few big fellers, Jim, away up

in the tree.
You shinny up an git em. Don t let any

of em fall ;
Fur fallen fruit is scercely wuth the getherin

at all."
I d climb up to the very peak o that old

apple tree,
N find them apples waitin . My ! What

bouncin ones they d be !
Then, with the biggest in my mouth, I d

clamber down again,

N , tho I tore my pantaloons, it didn t mat
ter then.

Since then, in all my ups an downs, an trav-

elin around,
I never saw good apples, boys, a lyiii on the

ground.
Sometimes, of course, they look all right ;

the outside may be fair ;
But when you come to taste em, you ll find

a worm hole there.
Then leave behind the wind falls, an the

fruit on branches low,
The crowd grows smaller all the time, the

higher up you go.
The top has many prizes that are temptin

you an me,
But if we want to git em, , we ve got to

climb the tree.

Ernest Neal Lyon.

"EVENING."

From the painting by /!/ Nonnenbruch By permission oj tlie Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East

Street, New York.

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XIX.

SEPTEMBER, 1898.

No. 6.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

NOTES AND PICTURES OF THE WAR BETWEEN AMERICA AND SPAIN MEN WHO HAVE
CARRIED THE STARS AND STRIPES TO VICTORY ON I y AND AND SEA.

A MICHIGAN VETERAN.
It is safe to say that the peril of Span
ish bullets never gave the Washington
authorities half the concern that was
aroused by the report of the appearance
of yellow fever among the troops at
Santiago. One of the first to fall a
victim to the disease was Brigadier Gen
eral Henry M. Duffield, of Michigan.
General Duffield is a law}-er of high
standing in the West, and a distin
guished veteran of the Civil War. A
schoolbov fresh from college, he enlisted,

in the summer of 1861, as a private in
the Ninth Michigan Volunteers. He
served for a time on the staff of General
Thomas, and in the campaigns of the
Army of the Cumberland under Rose-
crans. He was also in the Atlanta cam
paign. He has long been a warm per
sonal and political friend of Secretary
Alger, and as a delegate to the Republican
national convention in 1888 had charge
of his canvass for the presidential nom
ination.

A few months ago General Duffield

r KKI.Il.K. I RKSKNTKI) To THE I NITED STATES GOVERNMENT BY THE
DArOHTKRS OK THK AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
From- a photograph by Bi ran, A eiv J ~ork.

MAJOR GENERAL JOSEPH WHEELER, COMMANDING THE CAVALRY DIVISION OF GENERAL

SHAFTER S ARMY.

From his latest photograph by W. F. Turner, Boston.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

805

BRIGADIER GENERAL HENRY M. DUFFIELD, A MICHIGAN VETERAN OF THE CIVIL

WAR, WHO SERVED WITH SHAFTER AT SANTIAGO, AND CONTRACTED

YELLOW FEVER THERE.

From a photograph by Hayes, Detroit.

volunteered for service in Cuba, was ap
pointed a brigadier general in June, and
soon afterward sailed from Newport News
in command of the Thirty Third Michigan
and other troops, reaching Santiago in
time to participate gallantly in the closing
operations of Shafter s army. Quickly
following came the attack of fever, from
which, happily, he is now recovering.

GENERAL MERRIAM S RECORD.
There are several officers of high rank
who, when the present war closes, will
figure in its history as "organizers of
victory. " One of these is Adjutant Gen
eral Corbin ; another is Major General

Henry C. Merriam, who, as commander
of the department of the Pacific, has borne
an important part in the organization,
equipment, and prompt despatch of the
arm} sent to Manila. General Merriam,
who is now sixty one years old, boasts a
record of which any soldier might well
be proud. Born and reared in Maine, he
went to the front in August, 1862, as a
captain of volunteers, and from March,
1863, till the end of the war served as
major, lieutenant colonel, and colonel of
colored troops. Brevets for Antietam,
the capture of Fort Blakely, and the
campaign against Mobile, and a medal
of honor for his bravery in the second

8o6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

named battle, bear witness to his services
and whereabouts between 1861 and 1865.
In the reorganization of the army in
1866 he was appointed major of infantry,
becoming lieutenant colonel in 1876, and
colonel nine years later. He attained
the grade of brigadier general in July,
1897, and was one of the first to be com
missioned major general of volunteers by

of the senior field officers of regulars.
For instance, Colonel James J. Van Horn,
of the Eighth Infantry, has been forty
four years in the army, but age and gray
hairs have not prevented him from taking
a very active part in the operations in
Cuba. Colonel Van Horn fought during
the Civil War in the regiment of which he
is now commander, and has since per-

MAJOR GENERAL HENRY C. MERK1AM, COMMANDING THE DEPARTMENT OF THE
PACIFIC, WHO HAS PLAYED AN IMPORTANT PART IN THE ORGANIZA
TION OF THE ARMY SENT TO MANILA.
From a photografli by Hyland, Portland, Oregon.

President McKinley. Several times since
the present war began he has asked to be
assigned to active service in the field, and
his wishes may yet be gratified if the war
should continue, and a campaign against
Havana should be undertaken in the fall.

TWO OFFICERS WITH LONG ARMY

RECORDS.

Some one whose memoiy travels back
to the days of 61 has lately called atten
tion to the fact that while a majority of
the commanders named by President
Lincoln were young men, man}- of them
under thirty, the American generals in
the present war are almost to a man well
past the middle age. The sair.e is true

formed much arduous duty on the
frontier.

Another officer who has a long record
of good service in the army, and who was
seriously wounded before Santiago, was
Lieutenant Colonel John H. Patterson, of
the Twenty Second Infantry. We give a
portrait of Colonel Patterson, who is a
brother of Supreme Court Justice Edward
Patterson, of New York.

OUR DEAD HEROES.

High on the list of heroes of the Span
ish war must be written the name of
Captain Charles Vernon Gridley, com
mander of the battleship Olympia in the
battle of Manila. He went into the fight

8o8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

a dangerously sick man, and came out of
it a dying one. " I think I am in for it,"
he said, "but I could not leave my ship
on the eve of battle." The price of this
act of quiet heroism was death at the
comparatively early age of fifty three.
He passed a\vaj r at sea less than a week

Captain Gridley was past middle life at
the time of his death, but some of the
heroes who fell before Santiago went
straight from the classrooms of West
Point to soldiers graves. Second Lieu
tenant Clarke Churchman, of the Thir
teenth Infantr}-, was graduated at the

MS^

LIEUTENANT COLOXEI, JOHN H. PATTERSON, OF THE TWENTY SECOND

INFANTRY. "WOUNDED AT SANTIAGO.
Drawn by C. H. Taie from a pliotograph.

after he had been invalided home, and his
remains, brought back to this country,
were buried with the honors due a hero
at Erie, Pennsylvania, on July 13. Cap
tain Gridley, a native of Indiana, had
been thirty eight years in the navy at
the time of his death, and in a year or so
would have reached the grade of commo
dore. As the first, and perhaps the only,
American naval officer of high rank whose
death is a direct result of the existing war,
he will long be held in grateful remem
brance.

Military Academy in June of the present
year. A classmate, Second Lieutenant
David L. Stone, was another whose first
battle was his last. Second Lieutenant
Thomas A. Wansboro, also killed at San
tiago, had been less than two years in
active service, and Second Lieutenant
Herbert A. Lafferty, dangerously wounded
at El Caney, received his first commission
less than three months ago.

A particularly promising career was
cut off when Second Lieutenant Dennis
Mahan Michie fell on those bloodstained

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

809

Cuban hillsides. Lieutenant Michie was
the son of Professor Michie of West Point,
and was named after his father s friend,
Professor Dennis Mahan, father of Captain
Alfred T. Mahan. He graduated at the

the history of New York. He was a
famous oarsman at college, and noted for
feats of strength and recklessness. En
listing- in the ranks of the famous Rough
Riders, he served so well and faithfully

CAPTAIN CHARLES VERNON GR1DLEY, WHO COMMANDED ADMIRAL DEWEY S

FLAGSHIP, THE OLYMPIA, IN THE BATTLE OF MANILA, AND WHO

DIED AT SEA ON HIS WAY HOME, JUNE 4, 1898.

From a photograph.

Academy six years ago, and has seen ser
vice during the labor troubles in Colorado
and at Chicago. He went to Cuba as aide
to General H. S. Hawkins, who com
manded a brigade of Shafter s corps.

No soldier s death evoked a more gen
eral expression of sympathy than that of
Sergeant Hamilton Fish, of the First
Volunteer Cavalry. Young Fish belonged
to a family that has been prominent in

that he won very early promotion. In
leading the very front of the advance
against the enemy he had his dearest
wish, and in falling at the beginning of
the fight he set a notable example of
courage and self sacrifice.

Captain William Owen O Neill, of the
same regiment, who also fell before Santi
ago, was a typical American of the West.
Born in St. Louis some fort3~ years ago,

8io

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

he had been cowboy, typesetter, editor,
lawyer, and lastly mayor of Prescott,
Arizona. Becoming converted to the
views of taxation held by the late Henry
George, he brought the council of the
little Ari/.ona city over to his views, and
proceeded to put them into operation, so

perils and privations of those inhospit
able regions. And when the war broke
out he resigned the mayoralty of Prescott,
and tendered his services to his country.
To brave danger was a second nature
with him.

He was strikingly handsome, with

CAPTAIN WILLIAM O NEILL, OF THK FIRST VOLUNTEER CAVALRY (ROUGH RIDERS),
FORMERLY MAYOR OF PRESCOTT, ARIZONA, KILLED IN THE ASSAULT

ON THE HILL OF SAN JUAX. NEAR SANTIAGO.
From a photograph by Hnrtwell, Phicni.r, Arizona.

far as the laws of the Territory would per
mit. Licenses and imposts on business
were abolished, and taxes on land values
increased. The initiative and referendum
were adopted for the town, together with
woman suffrage on all municipal ques
tions.

Captain O Neill s adventurous nature
was shown when the Klondike gold fever
began. Hastily leaving to others the
performance of his duties in Prescott, he
set out for the gold fields less to find the
yellow metal than to be a sharer in the

large dark eyes, and soft and gentle man
ners, like so many men of heroic person
ality. He is one of the lost heroes of
the war, and no braver and nobler man
ever fell in battle.

A SOLDIER S SOLDIER SON.
General William S. Worth, who came
back to Governor s Island to recover from
four wounds received while leading his
regiment in the attack upon San Juan, is
a son of Major General Jenkins Worth,
who distinguished himself in the Mex-

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

Si i

CLARK CHURCHMAN, SKCON I) LIEUTENANT THIR
TEENTH INFANTRY, KILLED AT EL CANEY.

From n photograph by Pacli, AVrc York.

THOMAS A. WANSBORO, SECOND LIEUTENANT
SEYENTH INFANTRY, KILLED AT SANTIAGO.

From a photograph by l\ich, AVrc York.

COLONiCL J. J. YAN HORN, EIGHTH INFANTRY, HEKHERT A. LAFMCRTY, SKCO.sD LIEUTENANT

WOUNDED AT SANTIAGO. SEVENTH INFANTRY, WOUNDED AT EL CANEY.

From a photograph ly Walker, Cheyenii". From a photograph by Pitch, AVrc York.

FOUR AMERICAN OFFICERS KILLED OR WOUNDED AT SANTIAGO.

Sl2

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

DENNIS MAHAN MICHIE, SECOND LIEUTENANT

SEVENTH INFANTRY, SON OF PROFESSOR

MICHIE OF WEST POINT, KILLED

BEFORE SANTIAGO.

ican War, and whose name is
made familiar to New Yorkers
by the shaft erected in his
honor in Madison Square.
The hero of San Juan is no
longer a j-oung man, for he
saw service in the Civil War,
but he is as active as ever,
and his orderly, in describ
ing the rush up the bullet
swept hill, declared that he
"couldn t see the colonel for
the dust he raised. He went
to Cuba as lieutenant colonel
of the Thirteenth Infantry,
and his promotion was the re
ward of gallantry on the field.
Like some of its very best
fighters, General Worth has
a reputation in the army as a
dandy. Admiral Dewey, has
the same sort of reputation
in the navy.

which followed the discovery of Cervera s
fleet and preceded its destruction, was
attended by at least one brilliant feat of
individual daring. Lieutenant Victor
Blue, of the New York, twice made his
way around the city of Santiago, and
brought back information of the first
importance to the militan- and naval
authorities.

Like Lieutenant Hobson of Merrimac
fame, Lieutenant Blue is a native of the
South. There is comfort for the nation
in the thought that every class graduat
ing at Annapolis has plenty of Blues and
Hobsons who need only the coveted
opportunity to prove their \vorth.

THE HEROES OF JOURNALISM.

The siege of Santiago developed other
heroes than those who wear the blue.
Rarely has courageous devotion to duty
been better exemplified than in the cases
of Edward Marshall and James Creelman,

LIEUTENANT BLUE S PERIL
OUS SERVICE.

The period of compara
tive idleness for the navy

SERGEANT HAMILTON FISH OF THE FIRST VOLUNTEER CAVALRY

(ROUGH RIDERS), A MEMBER OF A WELL KNOWN NEW YORK

FAMILY, KILLED AT LA GUASIMA, JUNE 24, 1898.

Frnm a fihntttgraph by Pack, Weto York.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

813

BRIGADIER GENERAL* WILLIAM S. WORTH, FORMERLY LIEUTENANT COLONEL OF THE
THIRTEENTH INFANTRY, WOUNDED IN THE ASSAULT ON THE HILL
OF SAN JUAN, NEAR SANTIAGO.

Fro n a fhotrgrn (&gt;h I V Rini-hart, Onmlid.

the two newspaper correspondents who
were wounded in the course of the opera
tions against that city. Though shot
through the spine and paralyzed from
his hips downward, Mr. Marshall, be
tween his paroxysms of pain, insisted on
dictating his report of the first fight of
Roosevelt s Rough Riders with the Span
ish troops. Not a whit less inspiring
was the bravery of Mr. Creelman, who was
shot down while accompanying General
Chaffee s brigade in the assault on the en
trenchments of El Caney. When he was
found lying upon the ground wounded
and covered with blood, his first thought
was for his newspaper. Disabled and
suffering as he was, he dictated his story
of the battle as he had seen it. Both Mr.

Marshall and Mr. Creel man were later
conveyed to New York, and both are now
well on the road to recovery.

A POLAIt IIKRO AT MANILA.
General Merritt, besides being a sterling
soldier himself, is an excellent judge of
the fighting qualities of other men, and
he has taken with him to Manila some of
the ablest as well as the bravest officers
of the regular army. Brigadier General
John B. Babcock, chief of the department
staff, holds a medal of honor and four
brevets for gallantry, three earned dur
ing and one since the Civil War ; Briga
dier General Robert P. Hughes, chief of
the corps .staff, is another fighting veteran
of 61, and one of the best all round officers.

814

MUNSKV S MAGAZINE.

in the army. General Merritt s chief
commissary of subsistence is Lieutenant
Colonel David L. Brainard, one of the
heroes of the Greely arctic expedition.
Colonel Brainard entered the army in

Following his return he was, in October,
1886, commissioned a second lieutenant
of cavalry, and ten years later was trans
ferred to the subsistence department with
the rank of captain. It was b3 General

LIEUTENANT VICTOR BLUE, OF THE NEW YORK, WHO DID VALUABLE SCOUTING
SERVICE DURING THE BLOCKADE OF SANTIAGO.

From a photograph by fiiiffliain, Annapolis.

1876, and during the following eight
years served as private, corporal, and
sergeant in Troop L of the Second Cav
alry. In 1 88 1 he went with Major Greely
to the arctic regions, where, with Sergeant
Lockwood for a comrade, he made the
farthest northing ever attained by an
American, 83 24 north latitude. He
was one of the seven men who survived
the hardships of the Greely expedition.

Merritt s especial request that he was
assigned to the Manila campaign.

TWO NEW YORK OFFICERS.
The fact that the typical modern Ameri
can, man of peace though he be, has not
lost the fighting instincts of his ancestors
is proved by the records of the men who
swell the ranks of the volunteer army.
Only a few months ago Hallett Alsop

WAR TIME vSXAP SHOTS

Borrowe was a peace loving
New York club man, but when
the war opened he hastened
to join the regiment of Rough
Riders, and in the assault
on the Spanish entrenchments
before Santiago he worked the
regiment s dynamite gun with
the coolness and precision of a
veteran artillerist. He has
since been promoted to the
rank of captain, and appointed
an assistant adjutant general
of volunteers.

In his new field of duty
Captain Borrowe may touch
elbows with Major A very D.
Andrews, a lawyer turned
soldier, whom New Yorkers
best remember as a member
of ex Mayor Strong s police
board. Soldiering, however,
is not a new thing for Major
Andrews. He is a graduate of
West Point, served for some
years in the regular arm} , and
has since been prominent in the
National Guard of New York
State. He succeeded General

EDWARD MARSHALL, CORRESPONDENT OK THE NEW YORK
JOURNAL, WOUNDED IN THE FIGHT AT LA GUASIMA,

JUNE 24, 1898.
Front a photograph by Eddowes, New York.

Charles F. Roe as command
ing officer of Squadron A.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL DAVID L. BRAINARD, ONE OF THE
HEROES OF GENERAL GREELY S ARCTIC EXPEDITION, NOW

CHIEF COMMISSARY OF SUBSISTENCE TO GENERAL
MERRITT S ARMY.

From a photcgraph I y Rice, Washington.

OUR FIRST FOOTHOLD IN CUBA.

The war has thus far pro
duced few pluckier passages
than the landing of Colonel
Hunting-ton s marines at
Guantanamo bay, a few days
before Shafter s arm}- sailed
from Tampa. The place of
landing was a low, round,
bush covered hill on the east
ern side of the bay. On the
crest of this hill was a small
clearing in the chaparral
occupied by an advanced post
of the enemy, who retreated
to the woods when the ma
rines landed and climbed the
hill. Unfortunately, the clear
ing occupied by the marines
was covered, save at its crest,
with a dense growth of
bushes and .scrub, and was

MAJOR AVERY I). ANDREWS, ASSISTANT ADJl TANT GENERAL A WEST POINT GRADUATE AND

A FORMER NEW YORK POLICE COMMISSIONER.

Front a photograph by Prince, AVw York.

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

817

commanded by a range
of higher hills a little
further to the eastward.
Thus the Spaniards, who
soon plucked up coxirage,
were able not only to
creep close up to our
camp under cover of the
bushes, but to fire upon
it from the higher slopes
of the wooded range. The
marines replied vigor
ously to the fire of their
hidden foe, and there en
sued a hit or miss en
gagement which con
tinued, with an occasional
intermission, for four
days and nights. Finally,
however, the marines
managed to cut away the
chaparral around the crest
of the hill so as to enlarge
the clearing, in which
they planted half a dozen
rapid fire guns ; and on
the fourth da3 r of the long

CAPTAIN HALLKTT
CAVALRY (ROUG
Fro

MAJOR HENRY CLAY COCHRANE, SECOND IN COM
MAND OF THE MARINES WHO OCCUPIED CAMP
MCCALLA, ON GUANTANAMO HARBOR.

Drawn by C. H. Tate /ram a filiptpzr.ifili.

ALSOP BORROWK, OF THE FIRST VOLUNTEER
H RIDERS), ASSISTANT ADJUTANT GENERAL.

in a fikotograph by Bassano, London.

fight the Spaniards gave up the
contest and abandoned the field.

Major Henry C. Cochrane, second
in command of the marines, says in
his official report that he slept only
an hour and a half in the four days,
and that many of his men became
so exhausted that they fell asleep
standing on their feet with their rifles
in their hands. Major Cochrane,
whose bravery in the face of des
perate and unseen odds is sure to be
duly and generously rewarded, is a
veteran of the Civil War, and has
been an officer of marines since 1863.
lie is a native of Chester, Pennsyl
vania, and entered the navy as a
mere bo} at the first call to arms in
1 86 1. As soon as he reached the
necessary age he was transferred to
the marine corps and saw active
service on blockade dut) along the
Atlantic coast, on the Mississippi
River, and in the Gull.

Since then his long cruises have
taken him to all the grand divi
sions of the earth. He was sent on

8i8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

shore from the Lancaster, at Alexandria,
with a detachment of marines to assist
in preserving order after the bombardment
of that city by the British. At the last
Paris Exposition, he commanded the
marine guard which won such high en
comiums from officials of all countries,
and was decorated by the French presi-

this rule. General Augustin, in his last
stand at Manila, proved himself a gallant
soldier, and a skilful one as well, but was
doomed from the first to defeat, while so
great were the odds against Admiral
Camara that it is doubtful if it was ever
seriously intended by his superiors that
he should seek out and give battle to an

ADMIRAL CAMARA, COMMANDER OF SPAIN S LAST REMAINING SQUADRON.
Drawn by C. H. Tate from a fhotogrtiph.

dent with the cross of the Legion of
Honor. He was orator on the occasion
of the promulgation of the present consti
tution in Hawaii, was in Moscow at the
coronation of the late Czar, and has
spent a summer in Behring Sea, helping
to guard the seals. Before starting for his
perilous service in Cuba, he was in com
mand of the Marine Barracks at Newport,
Rhode Island.

SPAIN S LUCKLESS COMMANDERS.
It has become the habit to associate
with disaster the names of the men hold
ing high command in the Spanish army
and navy. General Basilio Augustin, the
Spanish governor of the Philippines, and
Admiral Camara, commander of the rem
nant of Spain s navy, are no exceptions to

American fleet. As it is, his maneuvers
have only served to give a touch of
comedy to the war that has proved so
disastrous to his government.

According to a London contemporary,
Admiral Camara is English on his mother s
side, as his father, a Spanish sea captain,
married a Miss Livermore in Liverpool.
Like his comrade, Admiral Cervera, he
was educated at the naval academy of
San Fernando, which he entered in 1851,
the year in which Cervera graduated.
He reached the rank of captain in 1871,
and saw some active service in the ex
pedition against Morocco. In private
life he is said to be somewhat of a moody
recluse. In politics he is a stalwart sup
porter of the reigning dynasty, and was
prominent in the movement which wound

WAR TIME SNAP SHOTS.

819

up the turbulent regime of the Spanish
republic and restored the crown to the
present king s father, Alphonso XII.

Ramon Blanco, who is likely to go down
in history as the last Spanish captain gen
eral of Cuba, is a veteran soldier who for

distinction, and was promoted to a col
onel cy. From Santo Domingo he went
to the Philippines as governor of the
island of Mindanao. Recalled to Spain,
he served through the civil war between
the Alfonsists and the Carlists. He com-

DON BASILIO AUGl STIN, THE SPANISH CAPTAIN (iKXKRAL
OF THE PHILII PIXK ISLANDS.

fort}- years has shared the checkered for
tunes of the "flag of blood and gold."
He was born sixty five years ago at San
Sebastian, on the coast of the Bay of
Biscay one of the fortresses which
the British stormed during the Penin
sular War. His first service was in
Santo Domingo, with the army which,
on the invitation of Pedro Santana,
Spain sent to occupy the island that had
been her earliest colony. The inhabi
tants revolted, and the Spaniards, finding
it impossible to restore order, .finally
withdrew in 1865 ; but though the cam
paign was a failure, Blanco won some

manded the force that captured the Carlist
stronghold of Pena Plata, and in recogni
tion of his gallantry he was ennobled
with the title of Marquis of Pena Plata.

Marshal Blanco first went to Cuba as
captain general in 1879, at the close of
the long revolt known as the Ten Years
War. His policy was strictly military,
and he was charged with acts of cruelty
and oppression, though he achieved
nothing like the odium of the notorious
Weyler. It is only fair to add that the
Madrid press accused him of displaying,
both in Cuba and the Philippines, an
undue degree of lenity toward the dis-

820

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

MARSHAL RAMON BLANCO, MARQUIS OF PENA PLATA, WHO IS LIKELY TO GO DOWN IN HISTORY
AS THE LAST SPANISH CAPTAIN GENERAL OF CUBA.

affected. The honors and the emoluments
of a Spanish colonial governor may be
great, but his position has seldom been
an entirely happy one.

When the last revolution broke out in
Cuba, Blanco was captain general at
Manila, where he had another insur

rection to face. He succeeded in patch
ing up some sort of a peace with the
Philippine rebels, but it failed of any
lasting effect ; and the high .sounding
promises with which he began his second
administration at Havana, last October,
proved equally illusory.

BY THE BRASSARD OF MERCY.

BY MAUD HOWARD PETERSON.

The story of a Red Cress girl who was ordered to the front, and of the
difficult duty that faced her there Two sisters and a soldier lover.

CHE watched with a strange, white calm-
*-^ ness on her upturned face \vhile the
train pulled out; watched until the deep
blackness of the night had hid it from her
sight; until the rumble of its wheels had
faded quite away. Then she turned to her
cousin, who was looking at her half pity
ingly, half admiringly, and said simply:

" It is nearly one o clock. I am very tired
and ready to go home."

In silence they retraced their steps, cross
ing the waiting room, empty except for one
or two sleepy officials, who eyed them curi
ously, and boarded the almost deserted ferry
boat. They had been among the last to
leave, among the very few who had waited
to see the train of Red Cross nurses pull out
on its long journey to the front. Her cousin
he was still young enough to think that
a fellow s voice ought to be quite steady
even under the most trying circumstances
began to talk gaily on indifferent subjects.
The girl nodded her head now and then in
response, but kept her eyes fixed on the
black waters of the North River and the ap
proaching lights of the city.

It was all very peaceful, very cool, here on
the upper deck of the ferry boat, and it
made her think of the Cuban heat and the
sounds of the strife, to which her lover and
her sister were hastening. It had been hard
to give them both up at once, but she was
glad, too, in a way, that they had been or
dered off together. Perhaps the knowledge
that her fiance was on board would cause
her sister to be less lonely. Perhaps he
would take pleasure in knowing that some
one she held dear was near at hand.

She hoped they would like each other.
It did seem rather strange that this was their
first meeting. She had met him and become
engaged when the older sister was abroad,
and when she had returned at the beginning
of the war and joined the Red Cross he had
been in camp. There he had been taken ill,
and, much to his chagrin, had been left be
hind when the boys had taken their tri
umphant departure for Tampa. He had re

covered rapidly after they had left, and had
been ordered to join his regiment, starting
that night. There in the bare Pennsylvania
Station, midst the rush and excitement of
parting, she had introduced them to each
other her lover and her sister. And now
it was all over, and she was going home to
try to comfort the invalid mother, and fill
the place of two daughters instead of one.

II.

DURING the little while they remained
in Tampa together, the young lieutenant
managed to see a good deal of the elder
Miss Carroll. She was strangely like and yet
unlike her sister, but altogether charming,
he told himself, while a strange wonder filled
him when he remembered she was the only
woman he had cared to look at twice since
his engagement. He supposed it was that
elusive likeness to the girl he had left in far
away New York. At any rate, he quieted
his conscience at their many meetings by the
assurance that his fiancee had, in a way, in
trusted this Red Cross sister to his care.

Of late he had begun to lose sight of the
similarity in bearing and in character, and
to find in this sister a strange, spiritual sym
pathy he had never felt toward the other.
He awoke to the knowledge with a start,
and did penance by not calling at the Red
Cross quarters for two days; then he
wrote his fiancee a lengthy letter of camp
life, and remained an hour in his tent look
ing at her picture and cross examining him
self. The result was not all he had hoped
for, and after one or two fruitless efforts to
put from him the good and forbidden things
the gods offered, he rose, put on his hat, and
sallied forth to meet the elder Miss Carroll.

One or two gossiping tongues had com
mented on the fact- that while Miss Carroll
performed her duties in an exemplary man
ner, all her spare time was given to the
young lieutenant of volunteers. The rela
tionship was generally understood, how
ever, and considered perfectly natural by
those who met the Red Cross nurse with
her prospective brother in law. At first

822

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Miss Carroll had welcomed his friendship
gladly, as a tie that bound her to her family
and her home. Her associates were kind,
but none of them understood her as did
young Berkeley. It was as if she had known
him always.

Once or twice, in the brief pauses of the
busy life she was leading, she had been con
scious of a half formed thought that her sis
ter was a very lucky girl. In a vague way
she knew that every day she was becoming
more and more dependent on his strength,
but she never really analyzed her feelings
until the evening when he came to tell her
that in two hours he must leave for Cuba.
He was strangely unlike himself all during
that last walk together. A look into her pale
face almost hard in its absolute calmness
betrayed none of the wild, hot tide of emo
tion welling up in her heart.

" Perhaps I shall see you soon, "she said in
parting. " I hear that another detachment
of our number is to leave tomorrow."

He laid his other hand above hers that he
held closely. She was dimly conscious that
it felt dry and hot on her own. which was
quite cold. And then she was in his arms,
his -head bending close above her own. with
only the great palms that waved above them
in the lonely grove to hear the beatings of
their hearts. For an instant; then she pushed
him fiercely from her.

How dare you?" she said between her
white lips.

Long she lingered there after he had left
her, trying vainly to compose herself before
she went back to her duties; trying vainly
to put from her the vision of a girl with a
strange, white calmness on her face; trying
to hide the remembrance of the look of ab
solute trust and assurance in the trust of
both, that had rested there when the long
train had pulled out.

And as she buried her burning face in her
hands, Delia Carroll knew that there was
nothing half so sweet in life as love; nothing
hall so bitter as the knowledge of a faith be
trayed.

III.

ALL day had the orderlies and men been
carrying their wounded and dying comrades
to the great rough shed over which waved
the Red Cross flag. They had been met at
the door by women on- whose arms shone
the brassards of mercy; women whose pale
and tired faces bore the look of self efface-
ment and pity that transfigured the plainest
and made them beautiful.

Toward nightfall a weary surgeon entered
and called the nurse in charge aside.

" I want three of vour assistants at once,"

he said in his quick way. women with the
strongest nerves in your corps. There are
a dozen Americans and Spaniards down the
road, fifteen miles from here. They are des
perately wounded and can t be moved. It s
a yellow fever district, and while every pre
caution will, of course, be taken, we can t re
move the risk."

He paused for breath and looked at the
nurse.

" We have just about as much as we
car attend to now," she said, her eyes run
ning quickly over the long ward, down
which white capped figures were unceasing
ly hastening to and fro; "but I will see
what I can do."

She hurried off, and the surgeon stood
tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.
He was aroused by hearing a girl s voice at
his elbow saying cheerfully.

" Good evening. Dr. Shirley. You look
as if you had the weight of the world on
your shoulders."

The gray haired surgeon turned and his
face lighted up.

" No, Miss Carroll; but the lives of a
dozen men."

She smiled sadly. It said plainer than
words, " That s a daily occurrence," and
then started to hurry on. He detained her.

" Let me see, haven t you a brother or a
cousin or a sweetheart or somebody in the
Twelfth? " he asked. " I think I remember
hearing about it when I was in Tampa."

Miss Carroll clasped her fingers tightly
around the bandages she carried, but her
voice was calm as she answered simply:

Yes; my sister s fiance. Are any of the
Twelfth men in trouble? "

" I should say there were. Six of them
are desperately wounded, in a hotbed of
Yellow Jack, and not a soul to care for
them. They managed to crawl there from
the field. All of them in young Berkeley s
detachment "

" Is he there? " The woman s voice had a
strange quaver under its veneer of calmness.

" Why, bless your soul, my dear child, of
course he is the sickest of the lot. Mi--
Penfield s off now seeing whom she can
spare to go back with me."

" You must let me go."

The words were not uttered as an appeal:
they were a command. The surgeon looked
at her undecidedly. Miss Carroll came
nearer and lifted her pale, resolute face to
his.

" Dr. Shirley," she said simply, " have
I not proved that I can be trusted? Have
I not won my spurs? " She smiled faintly
and made a motion toward the white cap
she wore. " Here your word is absolute.
See that I am one of those sent. Lieutenant

BY THE BRASSARD OF MERCY.

823

Berkeley is my sister s fiance. You must let
me go."

Miss Penfield hurried toward them.

" I have two nurses that can be spared,
but I really don t see where the third is to
come from."

The surgeon laid his hand lightly on Miss
Carroll s own, and drew her forward.

" Here," he said decidedly, then he turned
to the two nurses that had come forward.
" Make haste," he said bruskly. " Time is
life, and the escort is at the door."

IV.

IT was Miss Carroll that the surgeon
chose to go with him when he entered the
small, rough room that had been set aside
for Berkeley s use.

They found him conscious, but very weak.
Miss Carroll talked to him in a gentle,
soothing voice, while Dr. Shirley laid
bare his case of cruel looking instruments.
Berkeley did not even see him. He was
smiling faintly up into the woman s face
above him. If he felt any surprise at her
piesence there, he did not show it. Perhaps
he was too weak to take in more than the
fact that she had come.

The surgeon approached the rough bed
of boughs on which the young officer lay.

" My boy," he said, " that wound s got
to be probed again. Do you think you ve
got enough of your old grit left to stand it? "

Berkeley turned his head and looked up
into the woman s face. Again he smiled.

" Will you hold my hand?" he asked.

After a little the surgeon rose and left
them to see to the other men. As he closed
the door he shook his head.

" It s an even chance," he muttered to
himself, " with perhaps the scale tipped a
little against recovery."

To inexperienced eyes it would have
seemed that the surgeon had been wrong.
In the two days that followed Berkeley ral
lied and insisted on talking to any one who
would give him a chance. Then he began
to sleep. The young assistant surgeons spoke
about a removal, but the old veteran of
two wars shook his head and told them to
make haste slowly. He realized that the
strength was but temporary, and that the
young officer was upheld by some great in
ternal excitement, and he watched daily,
hourly, fearingly, for the collapse. It came
within forty eight hours, at midnight. Miss
Carroll, who was absent among the other
men, was hastily called. She never spent
more time than was necessary at Berkeley s
side, for which strange phenomena neither
vouchsafed any explanation. It was as if
a tacit understanding existed between them.

When anything was needed she was there.
At other times she was to be found in the
hastily improvised ward. When the sum
mons came to her she obeyed them quickly,
and together she and the old surgeon
worked over the young figure lying in a
comatose condition.

" I think he ll slip off without waking, but
he may not. If there s any decided change,
call me. I ll be with that young artillery
chap that was brought in today with a
broken spine;" and the surgeon rose and
hurried to the door. To those who did not
know him his brusk manner would have
seemed the acme of heartlessness. At the
threshold he paused and looked back. The
feeble glow of a surgeon s lamp lighted up
the pallid face of the man and flickered over
the woman s standing figure.

You know I m sorry for " the sur
geon s voice broke and he cleared his throat

-" your sister," he added, looking straight
into the woman s face.

Her eyes met his calmly.

" Yes," she said gently; " I am sure of
that."

After the door had closed behind him, she
sat down on the end of a box, the only
chair the bare room afforded, and looked
toward the sleeper. The immobility of her
face relaxed and great tears ran down her
cheeks, dropping unheeded on the whiteness
of her kerchief. The long hours wore away.
Then young Berkeley sighed, stirred, and
looked straight into the face of the woman
near him. Something there told him all
the story, and he made a feeble effort to
rise and stretch out his arms. She bent over
him, but she could not speak.

" Dear heart," he said, " I am glad it is
to be so. I have tried so hard to put the
vision of you from me, but I cannot. If I
had lived I could not have come to you with
clean hands and in honor His voice

trailed off and was lost in the silence of the
room. She raised his head on her arm,
moistened his lips, and wiped the damp
away.

That last day in Tampa perhaps she
would forgive me if she knew. She was
always generous. Perhaps she would for
give me for speaking to you in this way
now. It makes a great, big difference -
when a chap s dying;" he smiled.

She did not try to quiet him. She did not
call the surgeon. This one hour was his
and hers.

" No difference now," he went on, still
more feebly. " Ah, you do not blame me!
I see it in your eyes. If you love me.
kiss me

She leaned down and laid her warm lips to
his cold ones.

824

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Good night, dear," she whispered gently.
After a little she closed his tired eyes.

THAT letter home! It was hours before
Delia Carroll could bring herself to write
it. As she read it over, it seemed to her
brutally harsh. It contained little more
than the fact that young Berkeley was dead.
After all, that was the one important point
to be said, and finally she let it go. She
waited in an agony of suspense for the reply.
It came after a month s delay. It was the
letter of a woman who had dipped hef pen
into her heart s blood and yet was strong.
It contained no regrets; only pride that he
had met death as a soldier and a Berke
ley should. Of herself she said little.

" My grief lies too deep for words, as it
lies too deep for tears," the letter ran in
part. " You say that you were with him at
the end. I am glad that it was so. If you
could, perhaps, recall in the brief pauses of
your brave life some message of farewell he
left for me before he went, it would comfort
me as nothing else on God s dear earth
could do. You make no mention of any
message in your note. You say that he was
conscious. There must have been some
word for me, for my trust in the remem
brance of his faithfulness is my sorrow s
crown."

Miss Carroll crushed the letter in her
hand. Should she deny the love that had
come into her own life and had glorified it,
as it had glorified her sister s? Could she
bear to hold the false position she must be
fore the world if she did not declare what
Berkeley and she had been to each other?
Could she give to that other girl the lie?
Long into the night she sat battling with
herself. She leaned forward on the box on
which she sat and unconsciously ran the fin
gers of one hand nervously up her arm.
Half way up they paused and lingered. They
had touched the brassard that rested there.

The sign of mercy! It was as if a voice had
come and answered her heart s prayer.
Should she deny her own the mercy she so
freely gave to strangers? She drew the
lamp nearer to the box, crouched down on
the floor by it, and began to write.

" Dear! " the pencil paused and then
wrote on as though guided by an unseen hand :
" Forgive me, that my first letter was so
brusk and unsatisfactory. I believe I was so
crushed at the thought of what your grief
would be when you read it tl}at I forgot all
else. You ask if he left any word for you?
Indeed he did. My hand is trembling so that
I find it hard to write. I want, too, to be very
careful and to try to think and remember
calmly. You want the details, do you not?
He seemed to be doing well for the first few
days after I got here, but at midnight on
the fourth the change came. Dr. Shir
ley says it was an internal hemorrhage
what he had most feared. He lay uncon
scious for a few hours, and I never left him.
About half past three that morning, he
stirred, opened his eyes, and motioned me
to him. He was perfectly himself and did
not seem to be suffering. I think he knew
he was going, and he spoke of you as he had
always known you, brave and generous. He
said I must write slowly now that there
be no mistake he said: Tell her that I
hope I am dying as she would have me;
that in doing so I am keeping true her honor
and her faith, and that I bless her!

" After that he seemed very weak. I
leaned over and kissed him good by. You
do not mind, do you, darling? You see you
were not there, and I was standing in your
place. And it was thus he died."

She paused. The pencil dropped to the
floor, and she pushed the sheets of paper
from her. One arm was flung over the end
of the box against which she had been
kneeling, and her head fell forward on her
sleeve. Again she touched the brassard on
her arm. After a while she pressed her white
lips to it.

A BAR HARBOR EPISODE.

BY FLORENCE CALL ABBOTT.

How the Agency for the Detection of Amateur Poets was organized, and how
a volunteer addition to the force proved to be its most successful detective.

JOHN STANTON was usually optimistic,
but it was now half past six in the morn
ing, and the foghorn on the boat had
kept him awake all night.

" Too early for breakfast or a fire," he
thought, gazing out at the fog. All was
quiet. Bar Harbor would not dream of
rubbing its eyes for two or three hours yet.

At length he turned back to the hearth,
where the feeble nicker had taken courage
and was blazing brightly.

His spirits mounted with the flames, and
as he drew a chair to the fire, he decided that
perhaps he was not such a fool, after all.
What if he had come on a wild goose chase?
It was his own affair, any way. The merest
chance had brought him, the merest chance
might take him away. If he found her, all
well and good. If not, perhaps better still!

He would allow one month for the search
and then settle down to work as though he
had not a dollar.

He had never intended to teach, and won
dered how he had happened to accept the
offered professorship. It was an honor, for
he was young, but it meant giving up the
freedom of life at the German universities.

" Well, here I am, on the outlook for
genius. I might as well begin the search, I
suppose;" and he started out in the direction
of the Cliff Walk, to take a turn before
breakfast.

Not that he expected to see anything, for
the fog lay thick over the Porcupines; but
this walk was an old favorite, and he liked
it, foggy or not.

Such gray days are the terror of the pass
ing tourist and the buckboard driver. The
habitue knows that the dreariest morning
may sparkle before noon, and such is his
love for the place that the vagaries of its
climate in no wise affect his loyalty.

Bar Harbor takes the veil and puts it off
at will. Is she doing penance?

Perhaps she deplores her frivolous ways,
and tries to recall the days when she was
a quiet, demure little place, upon which the
eye of fashion had not fallen. As Stanton
strolled along the path by the shore, he

caught an occasional glimpse of a masthead
or the merest suspicion of a gable. It was
good to see even so much of the place again.
Pulling his hat well down over his eyes, he
strode along, until he suddenly collided
violently with some one coming from an
opposite direction.

" I beg your why, Miss Sherwood! I
hope I haven t hurt you? You are quite
sure? This is a jolly surprise! How do you
happen to be out at such an unearthly hour?
You are sure you are not hurt?"

" Perfectly sure, and glad to have met you,
even in this violent way," she replied. " I
didn t know you were in Bar Harbor."

" I wasn t until an hour ago. Came by
the Olivette this morning, and was a bit
disgusted with the weather until I saw you.
But do you often do this sort of thing?"

" No, not often, although I should like to.
This morning I was walking off a mood "

" And you have succeeded? "

" Yes, I left it way out at the end of the
walk; " and she looked back in the direction
from which she had come.

; If you ll tell me where you left it, I will
try to find it. I am looking for a new
mood."

" You wouldn t care for this one," she
laughed. " Where are you staying? "

" At the Pine Tree Inn; and you? "

" We have a cottage in the Field this sum
mer, and are taking our meals at the inn;
so you won t be able to escape an occasional
glimpse of us."

She looked so bright and gay that he
thought a glimpse of her would be the last
thing in the world a man would try to escape.

The circumstances of their meeting were
so unceremonious that, on the impulse of the
moment, he decided to tell her why he had
come to Bar Harbor.

" If you will turn back a bit," he said,
smiling, " I will tell you something amusing;
and it concerns you, too."

Very well;" and turning at once, she
stepped firmly along beside him. " Comedy
or tragedy? "

It isn t anything yet, and may prove to be

826

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

a farce. You see, it s this way. I m on a
quest "

" A second Sir Pcrcivalf " she suggested.

Only in my uncertainty of success."

But he did succeed at last, you know; "
and she looked encouragingly at him as she
wondered for what he was seeking.

Whatever it was. she felt sure that he
would find it. He was not a man with
whom one associated failure.

" Yes, but Sir Percival spent a lifetime in
his search, and I can give but a month to
mine. Then, too, I am chasing a mere pos
sibility."

" Isn t that rather vague? Oh, how the
wind blows! There goes my hat. I am so
sorry, Mr. Stanton. It is such a come down
to chase a plain, simple hat."

She tried to keep her hair from blowing
about, but could not, for the fog had crisped
it into little curls, which blew through her
fingers and over her forehead and made her
very uncomfortable, but wholly charming.

Stanton caught the hat and watched her
put it on, and wondered why he had never
realized before how lovely she was. That
was what he thought, but he said:

I believe this brisk wind will blow away
the fog. Shall we go on with the possi
bilities, now that we have adjusted the
actualities? "

" Yes, do! Does your possibility take
human form? " She held on to her hat now,
as the wind continued to blow freshly.

" Yes: and I believe she is in Bar Harbor,
at the Pine Tree Inn."

Interesting, but meager! " she com
mented. " Do rill up the blanks! Or shall
I? She is young and fair, of course! "

" Now you are getting ahead of facts," he
broke in. " She may be eighteen or eighty,
beautiful as queens are supposed to be or
homely as they oftener are, but I really know
nothing about her. The most interesting
feature of this search is that I don t know
what I am looking for. Now this is where
you come in," he continued.

" Into a limbo of doubt, I should think,"
she remarked, thoroughly mystified; " but
if you really wish me to know where I
come in, please don t walk so fast. I have
been feeling like good Man Friday for some
time, and you remember that he invariably
trotted three or four paces behind the great
Robinson Crusoe."

They both laughed as he begged her to
pardon him.

" Do you remember a book of poems you
sent me last spring, Miss Sherwood? A
book which set every one by the ears? "

" Yes, it was a bet, you know. Although
you won quite fairly, you sent me such gor
geous roses. What folly it is for a man to

bet with a woman, for he pays whether he
loses or wins! You wrote me that you liked
the book, I remember."

" Yes, I did immensely! To tell you the
truth, I don t care much for poetry, as a
rule, but that book was different. It did
me a lot of good. It is the sort of book that
makes a man wonder what he can do for
the world, and why he hasn t done it before.
It freshened me up and set me to thinking."
He laughed apologetically. " It meant a
great deal to me, and I fancied I should like
to know the woman who wrote it."

" Are you sure it was written by a w r oman?
It was published anonymously, you know."

" Yes, I am sure, though I don t know
exactly why. Perhaps it is an instinctive
insight and a slight lack of logic here and
there. Yes a woman wrote the book, I am
sure. She must be a strong, vigorous
woman, who believes in the best of the
world, and has a keen appreciative sense."

" Why do you think she is here, and what
are you going to say to her when : or per
haps I should not ask that? "

" That or anything else. I am not look
ing for romance, you know. Her publisher
is a friend of mine, and although he would
tell me nothing and talked a lot about pub
lishers secrets, he gave me what I believe to
be a clue, and, having the time, I am going
to follow it up. If I find her that will be
the end of it, I suppose. There isn t anything
to say except what I have told you, and I
might not care to say that again." He
stopped abruptly as though his conclusion
surprised himself.

Eleanor Sherwood s face was quite
serious as she said, I think any woman
would be glad to hear what you have told
me glad and proud."

As she turned earnestly towards him, they
felt as though they had met for the first
time.

Since his return from abroad they had
known each other as people do in society,
which means that they did not know each
other at all. Now each held individual
meaning for the other.

He looked at her with new interest as
she walked briskly along, her hands in the
pockets of her reefer. The lines of her face
were more matured and determined than he
had remembered.

" You would be an invaluable ally in such
a search, Miss Sherwood, and it might
amuse you. Suppose I establish an agency
for the detection of anonymous poets.
Would you join the force? "

Of course. That is a fine idea. How
would your advertisements read? Let s see!
Anonymous poets discovered at short
notice, by a new and infallible method.

A BAR HARBOR EPISODK.

827

Apply for particulars at the Pine Tree Inn or
swid stamp for circular. How is that? Oh,
I am quite in the spirit of the search
already! "

" I see you are", but certain qualifications
are necessary for this work. How do I
know that you are good at detecting a
literary air? " he inquired cautiously.

" If my sensitive soul shouldn t feel it."
the girl replied, " I could fall back upon less
subtle indications."

" Such as? "

" An ink stained finger, for instance."

I see that you have the right idea.
While you are carrying on your investiga
tions, I will lie in wait for the careless shoe
string, the dreamy thoughtfulness or I
may be fortunate enough to run upon a
fine frenzy. I foresee that we shall find
her."

" Don t you think that going back to the
inn would be an advisable first step? My
mother will be waiting. You may be able
to live on hope, but I am hungry! Oh,
look! " she cried, and pointed to the fast
receding fog. " There are the islands and
the yachts. Isn t that big white one a
beauty? The Eastern Yacht Club is in, you
know."

" Then the landlubber may as well retire
from the scene. Still," he added, " with an
attraction like a detective agency, perhaps
he may venture to remain "

" If he goes," she threatened. " I vow to
search for the unknown myself, find her, and
never report."

As if to make up for lost time, the sun
came out in blinding force, and sparkled on
the brass railings of the yachts, and the bells
rang for eight o clock as they turned back
together.

To all intents and purposes Bar Harbor
was still sleeping. And the poetess? Was
she still sleeping? They discussed the ques
tion, and decided that it was probable,
although unromantic.

II.

THE Sherwood Cottage made an excellent
consultation ground, and Stanton frequently
blessed the day when he founded his agency
and engaged Eleanor Sherwood as his force.

Their search had heen diligent, but unsuc
cessful. However, the agency had done its
best, and throve in spite of repeated dis
appointments.

All signs had failed. Untied shoestrings
were found to be epidemic, and ink stained
fingers no exception. In default of records
they had hung over the inn register.
Stanton had found a seat at the Sherwoods
table, and he and Eleanor occupied the din

ner hour in surreptitious scrutiny of the
guests.

When opportunities occurred they led peo
ple into well planned but fruitless discussions
about books any book the book. They
had done all in their power and were almost
hopeless when Stanton met a new arrival,
who promised well. She turned out to be
the mother of eleven small children, " which
proves," said Eleanor, " that she is not the
one. She could never find time. I am in
favor of the dear old lady with white curls
at the third table from ours."

" The book is too modern for her," Stan-
ton objected, "and not sentimental enough."
And so each vetoed the other s suggestions,
and the days passed.

People in books are always obliging.
They give themselves away in the most con
venient places, turn down the right streets to
encounter their fates, and their eyes always
meet at the critical moment. Out of books
it is different. No one does what one would
naturally expect. A turns into a side street,
while B, whom he ought to have met, keeps
straight along the boulevard; and so it goes.

But, after all, who wouldn t rather be out
of a book than in one, even if, between two
covers, one might go down the ages!

Bar Harbor days are apt to fly, for one
rides and drives and canoes and sails and
walks and dances, and the time is gone.
Add to this an incessant search for an un
known genius, and no wonder two weeks
had flown!

A man at the head of an agency has to
consult the force, and when the force hap
pens to have a fresh, sweet voice and a merry
laugh the necessity becomes a pleasure, to
be sure, but is none the less a necessity.

Eleanor nodded brightly as Stanton came
up the garden path one morning. She was
tying up some vines and waiting for him,
although she would not have acknowledged
that even to herself. She wore a white
gown, with one of the dark red roses he had
sent her the night before tucked in her belt.

What news at headquarters? " she ques
tioned. " Something ought to have turned
up on such a morning as this."

" Something has! " he replied mysteri
ously. " In fact, it turned up last night. If
sole agents will go to dinner dances, they
can t expect to know what is going on at
headquarters. Last night was a red letter
night for the agency: " and he leaned back
lazily in a big wicker chair. * I might keep
you in suspense, but I won t," he went on
magnanimously. Do you see that lavender
parasol over the top of that hedge? That
parasol belongs to the unknown. I am con
vinced of the truth of this assertion. Al
though I have no proofs, there is plenty of

828

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

circumstantial evidence in the packet of
letters which awaited her, and the pens and
paper which were sent up to her room. To
complete the evidence, she registered from
Boston. I happened to be in the office
when she came. Now she has strolled out
by herself with a portfolio under her arm.
No wonder she feels inspired! Iambic pen
tameter wo" 1 d be child s play on such a
day "

Eleanor dropped the vine she was training.
" Let s follow her," she cried. " We may
see a real inspiration if we hurry." So
saying, she ran down the path without any
hat, a fashion then quite her own. The sun
burned down on her hair, and Stanton found
himself entirely forgetting the lavender
parasol, which had already disappeared
around a turn in the walk.

They followed and had gone but a short
distance when Eleanor discovered the un
known just below them on the rocks.

" Why, there she is! " she said in a dis
appointed voice. " Genius certainly won t
burn so publicly. I am afraid you are on the
wrong track. Still, her back is interesting.
Let s sit here on the bank and watch her.
There! She has found a shady place and is
closing her parasol. She is an unconscious
philanthropist for now we can see her
well "

" Look, Miss Sherwood! She has opened
her portfolio. Let s slide down a bit nearer.
Well done! Is that seat comfortable?"

" Yes, quite; but what matter if it were
jagged as a saw at such a time? There
comes her stylographic. I hope it won t
fail her in her hour of need, as mine always
does."

" How can you digress at this critical
moment? " interrupted Stanton. She has
taken out her paper, soon her pen will fly,

and " What he might have added will

never be known, for Eleanor interrupted
him.

" What is she taking out of her portfolio?
Look, a lot of envelopes

" Scraps of verse probably."

" Probably, but no! Oh, you poor de
luded man! Those scraps are samples of
silks and ribbons. I know them well, each
with its little tag. Lean over this way and
you will see! "

Stanton leaned over, but, alas, too far!
He slipped, and in recovering his balance his
foot struck a loose stone and down it rolled
over the smooth, sloping rock straight
towards the back of the poetess!

Would it change its course? Surely
something would turn the fiendish thing
aside! It was as large as an apple and
Oh, heavens! it had struck her squarely in
the back.

Stanton rushed down to assist the woman,
who had jumped to her feet and was stand
ing with a hand on her back, the portfolio,
papers, and bits of silk scattered all about
her. He began to explafn, apologize, and
pick up the pieces all at the same time.

Eleanor felt that she would give half of
her halidom (whatever that may be) to
laugh! As that was out of the question, she
watched them and had to admit that the
woman was very beautiful. She was grace
ful, and her lavender gown hung about her
in regal folds. She was indeed an ideal
poetess. At this point in Eleanor s obser
vations, she caught Stanton s eye. Although
it was but for an instant, she knew that he
felt that the crucial time had come for every
test their ingenuity could devise.

Evidently the samples had not discouraged
him, As she came down and joined them,
the woman gazed so kindly upon them both
that they glanced at each other and felt like
criminals.

" I fear I am partly responsible for this
annoyance," Eleanor began. " I hope the
stone did not hurt you? "

" Oh, was you there, too? " the woman
inquired genially. " No, it didn t hurt me a
mite, but it frightened me some; " and she
laughed loudly, as if it were all a joke.
" Just see how I scattered them samples
round."

If the largest of the Porcupine Islands
had suddenly jumped over to the mainland,
they could not have been more surprised,
and they looked at each other in positive
dismay.

After a slight pause, Stanton remarked
that the day was fine.

" Yes," the woman replied, " and I m
glad, because I ve got to go back home
soon. Can t leave my business long, even
in the quiet months."

" Of course not," Eleanor responded, not
knowing what else to say.

" I came over from Northwest that
awful foggy day last week. Came over to
a wcddin , but couldn t get in."

" You had forgotten your card? " inquired
Eleanor, trying to keep up a conversation
with this most voluble person.

" Forgotten it? No, I never had one; but
I thought I might slip by the man at the
door. A lot of people over here are cus
tomers of mine and I wanted to see how
their dresses looked, but it didn t work; "
and she sighed heavily.

Stanton had returned the last of the sam
ples, and he and Eleanor made a movement
to go.

" I m real grateful to you for picking up
all them things," the woman said to Stanton.
then turning to Eleanor she added: If you

A BAR HARBOR EPISODK.

829

happen to be in Boston next winter, you
might like to take a peep at my imports.
Here s my card. People say I m too bus
inesslike, but I say that s the way to get
ahead; " and she laughed again.

They bowed and left her rearranging the
bits of silk. When they had rounded the
twist in the walk, they examined the card.
It read:

MADAME ROLAND,

ROBES,

4 BOYLSTON ST., ROOMS 7-8-9,
BOSTON, MASS.

They said nothing as they seated them
selves on a root of a big tree. Eleanor s
eyes twinkled, and she pulled up the matted
pine needles in silence for a time, and then
remarked: " Perhaps this will prove to you
how incompetent the agency is when the
force is dining out."

Stanton threw back his head and laughed.

" By George, that was a surprise! I am
beginning to doubt the penetration of the
agency myself. That stone knocked out my
last clue. As the case stands now, you must
come to the rescue, Miss Sherwood, or the
agency is ruined."

III.

NiG was the name of the Sherwoods dog.
He was black and homely, and Stanton
thought a vast amount of affection was
wasted upon him, but he treated him well
for Eleanor s sake.

A week after the agency had received its
crushing blow, Nig came tearing down the
cottage walk with a piece of crumpled paper
in his mouth. Stanton, who was just com
ing up the walk, made a dive at the dog.

" What have you there, Nig? Out with
it, sir! What! part of a letter?" He
smoothed the paper out on his hand. No
beginning, no end. It s public property, I
suppose. Let s see. H m like to drop
your incognito before the publication of
your second volume, but this is as you wish,
of course. The first proof sheets will be sent
to you by express September 10, and if
That was all, but Stanton read it over again
as .he walked along. Then he put it in his
pocket, sat down on the piazza steps, and
pondered. " On the tenth of September,"
he thought, " the proof sheets were to be
sent, and today is the eleventh."

Eleanor appeared in the doorway, but he did
not see her, and she paused a moment before
speaking. She liked the firm line of his jaw
and the earnest far away gaze so unusual to
him. The search had been interesting, and
there were but five days left to complete it.

" How many miles away? " she asked.

" Oh, are you there? " and his face lighted
as he looked at her. " Not many miles. It s
the same eld problem, but I m on a new
tack now. I will tell you about it at eight
this evening."

" Is this quite fair? " she questioned.

" Yes, under the circumstances, I think it
is quite fair."

Long before eight o clock the little cottage
in the Field was quite shut in by the fog,
but Stanton did not lose his way. He knew
it too well. Promptly at the appointed hour
he arrived with a bundle in his hand.

Eleanor was seated before a driftwood fire,
but rose to meet him as he came in. " You
are prompt," she said.

He laid the parcel on the table and drew a
chair to the fire. They sat in silence for a
time. Friendship can sometimes be gauged
by the silence it keeps.

At last Eleanor stirred uneasily, and Stan-
ton roused himself. " Only five days
more! " he said. " It would have been a
pity had I missed her."

" You may be fortunate after all, Mr.
Stanton. She might have been a dismal dis
appointment. Celebrities often are, you
know."

" She wouldn t have disappointed me," he
replied, seizing the poker and pushing the
wood back on the andirons. " She couldn t
have done that."

" Just look at the green in that flame! Do
you know, I cannot build pictures in a drift
wood fire, the colors are too diverting." As
Eleanor spoke she leaned forward and rested
her chin in her hand.

" I need no fire to help me build castles
nowadays," Stanton remarked. " Where do
you keep this poker? I never can think
consecutively with a poker in my hand."
Then, after a pause, " I took a new agent en
the force this morning. No that isn t quite
true; he joined the force, and I had nothing
to say about it. He fairly leaped into the
force with the evidence in his mouth."

" Putting away the poker doesn t seem to
have helped you much," Eleanor remarked
dryly. " What are you talking about? I
thought I was to be sole agent. The ex-
clusiveness of your agency was its greatest
charm to me."

" So it was to me," Stanton replied, laugh
ing; "but I really couldn t help it! You
see, the new agent has four legs and a tail.
One can t reason with four legs and a tail.
By the way, where do you think I have been
tonight? "

" I know you have been insane for the past
few minutes. Where else have you been? "

To the express office, to inquire for a
bundle for Miss Eleanor Sherwood. There
is no delivery tonight, and I thought you

8 3 o

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

might like to have.it before morning." He
smiled cheerfully upon her.

" Thank you so much. Is that it on the
table? " A dull red color showed in her
cheeks.

" Yes, that is it. Before I give it to you,
I wish to state that my stupidity is colossal
and only equaled by your duplicity. Per
haps you would like this piece of a letter
from your publisher. Nig gave it to me
this morning when he joined the force."

" Nig! Where is that dog? "

Stanton smoothed the crumpled paper on
his knee as he continued: " If Nig had only
brought me evidence like this three weeks
ago "

" The agency for the discovery of anony
mous poets would never have been estab
lished," she suggested.

" It never would have existed, any way,
Miss Sherwood, had I known that my sole
agent was already the head of another com
pany calling itself the Society for the Con
cealment of Anonymous Poets. Perhaps
you have something to say for yourself."

Eleanor had taken the package from the
table as though to prevent further discov
eries.

" I didn t wish to be found out, so I did
what I could for myself. I really thought,
several times, that you would prove that
some one else wrote the book in spite of
facts and me," she replied, laughing at his
discomfiture.

" I m a fool," Stanton blurted out. " I
ought to have known you wrote those poems."

There was an awkward silence, which
Eleanor broke at last.

" Odd that the search should have been
begun and ended in a fog," she said, smiling.
" One would hardly expect to find anything
tonight." She walked to a window, still
holding the package in her hand.

Stanton followed her. " I have found out
more than one thing in these three weeks,"
he said quite simply. " I wonder if you have
any idea what these days have been to me
the best days of my life."

His eyes never left her face, but her head
was bowed and she could not see him.

" The book has meant a great deal, but I
am not satisfied, Eleanor." He wondered
how he dared to call her that, she looked so
proud and tall in the filmy black gown she
wore. He drew back a step. " I never shall
be satisfied, I fear."

" There is to be a second volume, you
know." She tried to speak lightly as she
held the proof sheets out to him, but her
voice trembled, and it gave him courage.

" Eleanor, I love you," he said, coming
nearer. " I love you, dear. You must know
it. I haven t dared to think you could ever
care for me, but don t you think you can,
Eleanor, some time? "

His strong hand closed over hers, proof
sheets and all, and she did not draw it away.

Nig came out from under a couch a few
minutes later arid Eleanor vowed he looked
surprised.

" I have found her, Nig, and the best of it
is, I am going to keep her," Stanton said.

" Do you remember that you were taken
on to the force this morning, Nig? " Eleanor
inquired gravely. " Well, you were, whether
you remember it or not. Tonight you lose
your position, for the agency is given up."

" Given up, only to be reestablished,"
Stanton continued. " It s a partnership now
with a new name. It s long, but you must
remember it, Nig. It s the Stanton Pro
tective Agency for the Genius of the Age. "

" Too indefinite! " Eleanor cried. " Some
might not know that I am that superlative
creature."

" Well, then, the Stanton Society for the
Prevention of Further Stupidity on the Part
of Its Originator. "

" To join that would be to acknowledge
your stupidity a thing which I naturally
wish to conceal. So that would never do,
would it. Nig? "

" Well, whatever its name," Stanton de
clared, pulling the dog s ears " whatever its
name, sir, we hereby promise to make you
the sole honorarv member."

WHY IS NEW YORK DISLIKED?

BY ARTHUR McEWEN.

Some reasons why the rest of the continent resents the supremacy of the metropolis as
the commercial, literary, artistic, and intellectual center of the United States.

WHY does the whole country dislike New
York ?

The answer of the ordinary New Yorker
will be that it doesn t.

But it does. Nobody knows less about
what the country thinks of New York, and of
most other things, than the ordinary New
Yorker. The more thorough a New Yorker
he is, the less he knows and cares. He is
aware, as of a geographical fact, that there
are outlying districts, but as to what opinions
the unfortunate inhabitants of these dark
provinces hold of him and his city he has
little curiosity scarcely more than the Paris
ian feels regarding the barbarous outside
world s state of mind regarding Paris, which
is to him the center and the essence of the
earth. It is so with every great city. A
metropolis is a microcosm, whose interests
and variety of aspects suffice to absorb the
energy and attention of its dwellers.

It is largely this self centered state of mind
that causes irritation against New York in
Americans who are not New Yorkers, Yet
the "provinces" confirm the metropolis in
its sense of overwhelmingness. New York is
local to all the United States, though all the
United States resents the fact. Whatever
happens here is to the New Yorker of vastly
greater importance than if it happened else
where, and he has succeeded in imposing his
cockney sense of proportion upon his fellow
countrymen. Let a brace of young swells ex
change slaps on Broadway after a theater
supper, and the columns given to the tremen
dous event in the New York morning papers
will be matched by the columns given to it
by the press from Jersey City to San Fran
cisco. Let two gentlemen of unquestioned
wealth and social standing in San Antonio,
Texas, say, shoot and carve each other, and
the newspapers of the country will imitate
those of New York in recording the occur
rence in an inch of type.

Why this discrimination ? Partly because
New York is the great news center, where all
the principal journals of the Union have their
telegraphic correspondents, and the news

agencies their headquarters, but more be
cause New York is New York, and cities, like
men, are generally accepted at their own val
uation. Shrinking modesty has never yet
made a hit in competition with equal merit
backed by confidence and push. And after
all, particularly since the great consolidation
of January i, it has to be admitted that New
York is the biggest thing on the continent.

The continent submits, but not gracefully.
There s a deal of ill will abroad against this
metropolis, and no backwardness in giving it
expression. The very newspapers that put
scare heads over that Broadway slapping and
tuck away in a corner the San Antonio trag
edy, editorially bare their teeth at New York.
Were one of the largest journals on Park
Row to determine to print in one issue, as a
freak novelty, all the unpleasant things said
on any given day about New York by the
press of the United States, the purpose would
have to be abandoned. Not even an oceanic
Sunday edition would have room for them.

And newspapers, being published primarily
for profit, can be depended upon to know
what opinions are popular in their neighbor
hoods. Doubtless the animosity, on some
counts, is stronger in the newspaper offices
(for reasons that will be touched on presently )
than out of them : but there can be no ques
tion that spread everywhere among the peo
ple is a feeling to\vard New Y r ork the reverse
of loving. Could the Park Row mammoth
reproduce the criticisms of a day the New
Yorker, caring to read, would see that they
range from serious animadversions upon the
city for its commercial and speculative meth
ods, its want of public spirit, its essential lack
of Americanism, its Europeanization, so to
say, its political, literary, and artistic arro
gance, its poverty, crime, and general mi-
worth, down to playful gibes at its conceit.

The possession of Wall Street itself, with
all the opulent implications of that possession,
hardly excites less printed animosity than
does what is qualified as the "claim" of
New York to be the literary center of the
country. As the persons most likely to resent

832

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

or deny this claim, or fact, have special facil
ities for making their dissent heard, it may
be assumed with safety that the indignation
which it awakens is not felt with equal
poignancy by all classes. Nevertheless, these
special complainants are not ignorant of the
art of bringing over to their side others whose
cause of dislike is different. The sail of
literary jealousy fills itself with any service
able wind that blows.

There is uo community that has not suffered
because of the metropolis. It being in the
nature of large bodies to attract smaller ones,
this big city has drawn away, and continues
to draw away, from lesser cities much that
they cannot retain, much as they may wish
to do so. When a Western American has
made a fortune in mines, or lumber, or rail
roads, or pork, he is very likely to move to
the metropolis, brought either by a desire for
a more extensive field for his capital and
energies, or under the compulsion of his
womankind, ambitious of social enjoyment
and conspicuousness. The man of talent as a
writer, or painter, or architect, or what not,
also gravitates hither. The greater the
market, the greater the rewards when suc
cess is won. It is undeniable that New York
attracts the lite of the republic as a magnet
attracts iron.

This is not to say that only the elite come
here, or that all the elite do, but it is because
of the assumption that New York thinks so
that the country is sore when New York is in
question.

Journalism being the voice of the country,
it is only natural that the note of resentment
in it should be especially noticeable. To be
called from any city in the United States to
New York is regarded by the profession as
a promotion. Newspapers as good as any
published in the metropolis are printed else
where, and are served by writers as clever as
the best to be found here. Still, the call to
New York is an honor, and the man who
comes without being called, and makes good
his footing, takes his place, ipso facto, in the
front rank. The able ones who do not come
are restrained by interest, convenience, or
want of inclination. They are not the ones
who prefer gall to ordinary ink when writing
of the metropolis, though they find amuse
ment in New York s provincialism the
modest persuasion that whatever bears the
metropolitan hallmark is by that sign not
only good, but the best of its kind. They
perceive with good humor the consequences
which fate compels to flow from the fact that
New York is local to the whole country that
a success here, which would be small else
where, becomes national because it has been
achieved on the stage which everybody sees.

Others less able, less philosophical, are
hardly to be blamed for their resentment at
fortune s want of justice. Justice cannot
see why reputation should travel from East
to West, and almost never from West to
East. Books are published here that every
body in the Union who cares for books hears
of ; were the same books printed in San
Antonio their fame would not spread beyond
Texas ; if issued in San Francisco, they would
be blown out over the Pacific and lost. And
when the bold author comes East with his
work, the fame that results is resented at
home, when it arrives, as a new proof of
Eastern presumption.

At the bottom of some of the animosity
which New York arouses is jealousy, un
doubtedly. Those who would like to come,
but remain away because they want the
courage to venture, strive to avert the sus
picion that they are not qualified for the
struggle of the metropolitan career. So they
assume an obstinate and hostile tone, in the
expectation that their motive for staying away
from New York will be imputed to their love
for the narrower sphere which they honor
with their activit) .

Men in New York are no bigger than men
in other places, but there are more of them
gathered here than on any other spot on this
hemisphere. That, in conjunction with cer
tain advantages of water and land with refer
ence to the rest of the world, is why New
York is the commercial center, the literary
center, the artistic center, the intellectual
center, of the United States. Even as the
fortunate man who owns a bit of ground gets
an unearned increment surpassing that which
would be his in another city, because of the
aggregation of millions of human beings
around him who bid for the use of the land,
so the man that has wares of the mind to
dispose of finds a hundred buyers for one in
the place he has left.

It is the advantage of position. That ad
vantage is real, whether it be ideally just or
not, and so conspicuous is it that the whole
country realizes while resenting it resenting
particularly New York s own keen sense of
being in possession of the advantage. The
average New Yorker, besides being neither
bigger nor better than his remoter neighbors,
is justified in recognizing, and recognizing
with pride, that this magnet of a city of his
has drawn to it not alone a tremendous share
of the wealth of the country, but also a pro
portionate share of the brains and taste. With
all its defects, its blemishes, its vanity, New
York is the American metropolis, and there
fore represents to the talent of the country
the best gift that can be offered to talent
opportunity.

ON NIPPERSINK.

BY SAMUEL MERWIN.

An episode of a summer in camp A rustic tragedy, and its unexpected bearing
upon the love affairs of Mary King and her two admirers.

\J EXT to marrying him the best way to
discover a man s faults is to camp with
him. Briggs was not a villain. He was a
very presentable boy, sound of habit and
agile of limb, with a long record in college
athletics and a velvety baritone voice, the
latter of which was mainly the cause of the
trouble. Our tent was pitched on a two acre
island, hidden away in the rushes at the
mouth of Nippersink Creek, which slips
modestly into the broad channel midway
between Fox and Pistaguee lakes. The sea
son was too young for ducks and too old
for fish; the scenery was not exhilarating;
and heat and mosquitoes combined to ruffle
tempers. However, so long as the club
across the channel sheltered Miss King, we
were likely to remain Briggs because she
wished him to, I because I had hopes.

We had a new way of washing the dishes.
After a silent supper, broken only by an oc
casional " Allow me," and a punctilious
" Thanks," each took half the dishes and
carried them down to the water. Briggs
stepped into his boat; I into mine (a week
earlier we had found an extra boat advisa
ble), and then we scrubbed in silence, fifty
yards apart. The washing done, we re
turned to the tent, set things to rights, and
with the exchange of a few commonplaces
sauntered back to the boats. Briggs, as he
pushed off, remarked:

" Better come over to the club."

" Thank you, I m a little tired," I re
plied.

He pulled easily down the current and.
shortly disappeared in the dense wild rice.
I headed up stream.

Just as my arms began to weary (for I
had pulled nearly all day) a shadow told me
that the bridge was at hand, and lifting in the
oars, I made fast to a sweeping limb, and
climbed up on the foot bridge. I leaned
against the railing, drawing in with the fra
grant air the splendor of the afterglow,
which hung above the low ridges and topped
the trees with flame. The little stream
danced away from the bridge up to the foot
of a low hill, where it disappeared. On the

left, in prairie simplicity, a cornfield rolled
away; on the right a ridge blocked the view,
showing only a clump of trees and a nestling
white house, where lived old Beggs with his
blue eyed daughter. It was here that we
bought supplies.

Walking slowly, noting the droop of the
elms and the stretch of the setting shadows,
I strolled up the path to the house. Quiet
was all about. On the low porch were
churn, stool, and milk pail. A lone hen
stepped silently among the grass clumps,
pecking and scratching. In some surprise
at the absence of life I knocked on the door.
Save that the hen paused and listened with
tilted head there was no response. I
stepped to the ground and walked around
the house. The shed door was open, and
limp on the rough step lay Sally Beggs. As
I stood looking a deep, quiet sob twitched
her shoulders. With awkward hesitation I
turned to go, but she heard me and said,
without looking up:

" What do you want? "

" I came for some bread, but never
mind."

Slowly she lifted her head. Her hair was
tumbling disheveled about her face; her
eyes were red and dull. The calico waist,
that snugly fitted her full figure, was par
tially unbuttoned, giving a glimpse of white
neck below the brown face.

" Oh! " she said, "it s you." She raised
herself to a sitting posture and leaned
against the door jamb. " We haven t any
thing in the house. I we can t let you
have any more things. I shan t be here any
more, and and I guess you can find some
one else Martins live a little piece over the
bridge."

I looked at her, puzzled by her stolid man
ner. Sally had been the cheeriest of girls.

" What is it? " I asked. " Thefe is some
thing the matter."

" No, I m well. Only I shouldn t care
much I don t care oh!" she pressed her
hands to her eyes. " It s in the parlor. You
can go in there."

Her voice was dry and emotionless. I

834

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

stepped by her and passed through the
kitchen. The parlor door was open, and in
the sinking twilight I could see a man
stretched on the floor. Striking a match
I lit the wall lamp and bent over the pros
trate figure. It was Sally s father, dead,
with a clotted bullet hole over the left eye.
Evidently no one had touched him, for he
lay sprawled in a red brown pool with one
foot under the table, an overturned chair
across his knees. I stood up and looked
about. On the table was a letter, stained
and crumpled. I straightened it out and
read. It was a foreclosure notice, and it
told the story tersely, mercilessly.

I found Sally where I had left her. She
looked up dully when I sat beside her.
" Have you any place to go? " I asked.
" No."

Have you any money?"
" No."

" Are there no neighbors? "
" Only the Martins, and they don t like
us. Jim and I we was going to get mar
ried in the fall Jim says but Jim s father
and and mine had a fight about the bridge
and Jim hasn t been around. Oh, I. don t
care! I don t care! "

" Sally," I said, " I am going over to
Martins , and you must come with me."
" No, I won t go to Martins ."
" You must, Sally." I rose, and laid my
hand on her shoulder. " You can t stay
here, and you can t sleep out of doors. I
am going there now, and you are going with
me. Come."

She yielded, and started to rise. I helped
her to her feet and led her slowly around the
house and down the path. She walked hesi
tatingly, leaning heavily upon me. Half way
down she stumbled, and I slipped my arm
about her waist. When we reached the
bridge she stopped and staggered against
the railing. Her eyes swept the cornfield,
now clearly shown in the moonlight; then
she turned half around, and leaning on
my shoulder gazed unsteadily at the shad
owy house on the hill, whose roof jutted into
the streaming light. As she looked, stifled
sobs caught her throat. Suddenly she
threw her arms around my neck and pil
lowed her head on my shoulder, murmur
ing between the sobs:

" I can t go to Martins ! I can t go! "
" You must, Sally. It will be all right.
I will see that it is all right."

" No. ho, no! They hate me I hate
them! I hate them all! Go away! Let me
alone! I want to be alone! " Through the
tears she looked back at the house, then
struggled to get away, but I held her.

" Sally," I said, " rest here a moment if
you wish, but you must go to Martins ."

At the sound of my voice she broke down
again and clung to me in the abandon of
despair.

I looked over her shoulder and saw a boat
glide out from the overhanging trees. A
girl was in the stern, facing me. The man
stayed his oars and followed her gaze. They
were in the shadow. I full in the light; but
though I could not distinguish features there
was no mistaking Briggs guffaw. Then for
want of rowing, they drifted back and van
ished in the dark. The girl had not laughed.
" Come, Sally," I said. And as one in a
daze she loosened her arms and turned obedi
ently toward the cornfield.

Martin and his wife were sitting on their
kitchen steps. A whispered word of expla
nation brought out the fact that their en
mity was not deeply rooted. Mrs. Martin
took Sally in and pressed food upon her,
but without effect. She sat by the window
looking out with stupid eyes. I drew Mrs.
Martin outside.

If you can get her to bed." I suggested,
" your husband and I will go back and
straighten up the house."

She bowed and reentered the kitchen.
Martin, who had not risen from the steps,
looked at me with a pxizzled expression.

" What can we do? " he asked. " Beggs
is dead, ain t he? "

" Yes. We d better go over there."
" If Jim was about he might know what to
do. Speakin for myself, I ain t much on
things of this sort. Takes a woman s fuss-
in to put things like they belong."

I turned away impatiently. Mrs. Martin
appeared in the doorway.

" Sally s takin on awful." she said. " She s
got the hysterics, I gue^s."

Is there a doctor near? " I asked.
" Over at the junction four mile. Ain t
no way to reach him. Jim s got the wagon,
an he won t get back fore ten."

It occurred to me that Briggs had a medi
cine box in the tent. I knew nothing of its
contents, but there was a chance.

" Soothe her all you can," I said. " I will
be back in half an hour;" and I ran through
the cornfield to the boat.

Some time before I reached the camp
there came floating toward me the melody
of a familiar Southern song. A dozen voices
were blended in the crooning rhythm, and
with sweetness added by the distance and
by the intervening water they seemed the
substance of a dream. Drawing nearer and
turning half around. I could see the singers,
a semicircle in the moonlight. I should
have to beach the boat almost at their feet.

When the bow crunched on the gravel
strip and I stepped out, the voices died
down one at a time. Briggs was the last to

ON NIPPERSINK.

stop; he liked to hear himself sing. There
was an awkward silence Miss King was not
looking at me. Turning to Briggs, I said:

" May I speak to you a moment? "

He looked indolently up at me.

" Who is she, old man? " he asked. One
or two of the men laughed; the youngest
girl tittered.

" Whom do you mean? " I said quietly.

" Oh, come, Dick; you re a smooth one."
He threw back his head with a chuckle; but
noting the silence of the girls the other men
were still. I spoke as calmly as I could:

" I shouldn t laugh if I were you. The
girl was Sally Beggs. Her father has shot
himself."

Without breaking the hush that fell upon
them I stepped past Briggs and hurried to
the tent. Coming out with the box I found
Miss King standing right at hand.

" Is he dead? " she asked me in a sub
dued voice.

" Yes."

" Do they need any assistance? Her
mother

" She has no mother. I am going back."

She stood looking at me, drawing her
white cap through her hand; then said:

Will you take me back with you? "

" No, I couldn t do that. Miss King. It
is horrible."

" Please let me go with you. Maybe I
could do some good." Noting the slight
shake of my head she came closer to me and
laid her fingers on my arm. Her eyes were
soft, her voice low. " Perhaps they need a
woman more than a man."

" I don t think you ought to," I said,
wondering whether my yielding was alto
gether unselfish; " but if you wish -

The lounging gro,up was deep in silence
until Miss King stepped into the boat, then
Briggs came forward.

" Surely you aren t going up there?" he
said in a low tone. She seated herself and
shipped the oars.

" Yes, Mr. Briggs," she said sweetly,
without looking around; " I am." And
looking at me over her shoulder, she added:
" If Mr. Briggs will let you take his oars
we can both row."

We pulled half the way in silence. Then
in response to her questions I told the main
facts, including Sally s broken engagement.
When we reached the bridge I helped her
out, tied the boat to a tree, and together we
hurried to Martins . The old men was still
sitting on the steps. A soft knock brought
his wife to the door.

" I m glad you re back," she said wearily.
" I can t do nothing with Sally. She

Seeing the white clad girl, she paused.

" This lady will help you, Mrs. Martin,"

I said; and turning away I whispered to
Miss King, " I will be back in a little while."
She looked me frankly in the eyes, then went
to Mrs. Martin, slipped an arm through hers,
and drew her into the house.

By dint of some urging I got Martin on
his feet and across to Beggs. We found
things as I had left them. I set to work, and
gradually restored order, while Martin
slouched against the pine mantel.

" Funny thing! " he said, giving reluctant
aid in carrying the body to the bedroom.
"They was a case like this up to MacHenry s
three years ago. Swede, he was worked in
the mill. Got too lazy to work, an hung
hisself cause he thought the w r orld was agin
him. Funny thing! "

When the house was in order I left him
to watch, and ran down the path.

Voices sounded from Martin s porch, and
I stepped softly across the yard. Leaning
against the corner post was Miss King; be
fore her a lank young fellow fumbled his
hat. She was speaking.

" I am ashamed of you, Mr. Martin. Do
you suppose a girl can love a coward? Do
you suppose that a man who lacks the cour
age to win a girl over obstacles to make
her love him can ever gain her respect? "

Jim mumbled without looking up; then,
more audibly, he said:

She didn t act like she cared for me.
She didn t say "

Miss King s voice was not loud, but in it
were worlds of scorn.

" Did you expect her to come to you and
say all that you were too stupid to see for
yourself? Haven t you any strength?
Haven t you any manliness? No, you
haven t, or you wouldn t let me talk like
this. You would have been in there ten
minutes ago."

The fellow looked at her shamefacedly,
then went slowly into the house. She came
to. the steps and sat down before she saw
me.

" I don t know what to think of these peo
ple," she said softly. " They are so help
less. I wonder if they ever could be really
happy together."

" Well, she loves him now," I responded,
half reclining beside her. " For her sake I
hope she is stupid enough to keep her illu
sions. If a clever woman were tied to such
a man she would die."

" I dcn t know;" she leaned back, resting
an elbow on the top step. " People don t
die very often. They shrivel up, and grow
commonplace, dirt color. Look at these
people what do they know of life, of hap
piness? The qualities I, for instance, ad
mire in a man, they know nothing about,
never heard of."

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" I wonder," said I, thinking of Briggs,
" whether even a clever girl is necessarily a
good judge of men? "

" Do you? " said she simply.
The moon had climbed high. A row of
poplars blended their gaunt shadows on the
ground before us; beyond, the yellow of the
cornfield had faded to bluish white. The
night was still, so still that the few restless
barn noises pierced the air. My eyes swept
the night, then turned to hers. She had
dropped her cheek upon her open hand, and
as our eyes met she smiled.
" You are tired," I said.
" No, I don t think I am. It is the ex
citement." Again we were silent.

Hearing a step on the kitchen floor we
looked around. Jim stood in the doorway.

" She s asleep," he whispered. As we gave
no response he turned away, and in a mo
ment we heard him creaking up the stairs.
Miss King arose.

" I must go inside," she said. " There is
no one to hear Sally if she wakes."
" Where is Mrs. Martin? " I asked.
" Asleep, long ago. She looked so worn
out I made her go to bed."

I followed her into the house. Once in
the sitting room, where the lamp was burn
ing, I could see that she was pale. I looked
so intently at her that she turned away with
an embarrassed little laugh.

" You are worn out yourself," I said, tak
ing her hand and stroking it. " You have
no right to exhaust yourself caring for these
strangers."

She looked up at me.

" Really, I m all right. Any way, we can t
leave them. That girl is on the edge of a
fever."

I glanced about the room; my eyes rested
on a frayed sofa.

" Lie down," I said, " and get a little
sleep. I ll watch Sally."

" No, it is just as hard for you as for me."
" I won t let you stay awake, Miss King."
I was still holding her hand. With a
feeble effort she started to draw it away, but
I tightened my grasp. Her eyes peeped up
from under their lashes.
" Must I? " she asked.
" Yes," I replied, " you must."
" And you will wake me if she calls? "
" Yes.""

She sank down upon the sofa, and soon
was asleep, her face resting upon the hand
that had been in mine.

Naturally enough the crowded experiences
of the night had drawn my nerves, and now
that the tension was relieved weariness
came. A faint breeze stole through the
open window, breath of the sleeping earth.
Occasional sounds blundered to my ear, ac

centing the intervening stillness. For a long
time I sat stretched out in the chintz cov
ered easy chair, mentally running over my
acquaintance with Mary King. Each little
incident took its place and passed before
me in review. When I reached the present I
looked at the silent figure on the sofa. A
stray moonbeam slipped through the win
dow and dropped glistening on her hair.
Stepping gently across the floor I stood over
her, then drew up a light chair and sat where
I could watch her face. A fly buzzed to
ward us and settled on her forehead. In
dignant, I brushed it away, and stroked the
soft brow. Then, with a start, I saw that
her eyes were looking full into mine.

" I I am sorry," I murmured. " I didn t
mean to wake you."

She said nothing, but held those tender,
fascinating eyes on my face.

" Go to sleep," I whispered, laying my
hand across her forehead.

" No," she said softly, " I am selfish. I
can t let you do it all." She laid her hand
on mine, as though to draw it away, but left
it in my grasp. We sat for a moment in si
lence; then came a creaking from the stair
way, and Jim appeared. He stumbled hesi
tatingly into the room.

" I kind o thought I had no business to
sleep while you folks was watchin ," he said.
" I ll set up till mornin . WVre obliged to
you. I guess Sally d lie easier if she knowed
I was by."

I looked down and caught a gleam of tri
umph in those tender eyes. She rose, went
to Jim, and held out her hand.

" Mr. Martin," she said, in that straight
forward way of hers, " I want you to be
good to Sally. Think of her always before
yourself. It is the only way to be happy.
Good night."

Jim s eyes beamed, and he watched her
in unstinted admiration as she slipped her
hand into mine and drew me quickly through
the door. On the steps she paused and
looked up at me; her eyes were brimming.

" Are you sad, little one? " I asked, taking
her face between my hands.

" No no, but I hope he ll be good to
her." And as I drew her close and held her,
yielding, in my arms, she added, with a tired
little sob: "And and I hope you ll be

good to me."

* * * *

We dreamed slowly down the stream and
across the channel. The lapping water
whispered to us, the hanging trees rustled;
from all about came winging to our hearts
the shy, trembling confidences of the night.
But back behind the buoyant happiness
struggled a single shadow I was sorry for
Briggs.

UAI

MAP

or TMC

HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

SCALE OF MILES

HAWAII

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE.

BY KATHRYN JARBOE.

THE; NEWLY ANNEXED ISLAND GROUP OF HAWAII, ITS STRATEGICAL IMPORTANCE, ITS

WONDERFUL NATURAL ADVANTAGES, AND ITS POSSIBILITIES OF DEVELOPMENT

UNDER THE AMERICAN FLAG.

city of Honolulu, standing at the
crossroads of the Pacific, has be
come, all in a moment, a center of interest
for Americans. The annexation of the
Hawaiian Islands having been for half a
dozen years a question of party politics, a
certain familiarity with the name has
spread throughout the United States.
Reasons for and against annexation have
been discussed in every village from
Maine to Texas and from Alaska to Flor
ida. The commercial advantages of the
alliance have been told to the sea ports
and the manufacturing towns ; the stra
tegical advantages are known by the army
and navy boards in Washington, but the
people of this country know little of the
islands themselves.

Hawaii as a political entity, controlled
by perhaps a dozen Hawaiians and a
hundred Americans, is one thing, and to
it belong the coaling station, the com
mercial and strategical advantages ; but
this bit of Cathay lying \inder a tropic
5

sun, breathed upon by Pacific breezes,
washed by a cool northern current, is
quite anotlfler matter ; and it is this side
of our newly acquired territory that is
unfamiliar to the great majority of Ameri
can citizens.

The inhabited islands of the group are
eight in number, and their total area in
square miles is rather more than that
of Connecticut. They are Hawaii, the
largest, and the one on which the great
volcanoes, Kilauea and Maiina Loa, are
situated ; Maui ; Kauai ; Molokai, famous
for its leper settlement ; Lanai ; Kahool-
awe ; Niihau ; and Oahu, on which is
Honolulu, the capital and principal city.

The long drawn out struggle over the
annexation question has brought about a
historical coincidence in our taking pos
session of Hawaii at the moment when
we are conquering Spain s island colonies.
It is interesting to recall that the first
white people to set foot in Hawaii were
Spaniards. Early in the sixteenth cen-

8 3 8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"THE PRIVATE RESIDENCES ARE BUILT OF WOOD, AND ALMOST INVARIABLY SURROUNDED BY

GARDENS OF GREAT BEAUTY."

From a photograph by William F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

tury Cortez, having conquered Mexico,
sent three vessels out over the western
sea to set Spain s standard on whatever
lands might lie in their track. A storm
separated the little fleet, and the Florida,
under Alvarado de Saavedra, sailed on to
the Moluccas, touching at the Ladrones
on the way. The other vessels were
never heard from that is, by the Span
iards. But about this time a strange
vessel was wrecked on the southern shore
of the island of Hawaii. Only the cap
tain and his sister were saved. They were
received with great honor and hospitality,

and, after a brief period, during which
they were worshiped as gods, they were
married to members of the ruling family.
There can be no doubt that this captain
was one of the commanders of the missing
vessels, because the Spaniards were the
only white people navigating the Pacific
Ocean at that time.

HAWAII IN HISTORY.

The first record of the existence of
these islands is on a map made by Juan
Gaetano, the Spanish navigator, in 1555.
This second discovery by the Spaniards

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE LUNALILO HOMIi FOR AGKD HA\\ AIIANS, BUILT ACCORDING TO PLAN S FOUND IN THE WILL

OF THE YOUNG KING LUNALILO.
From a photograph by William F, Sesser, St Josef ft, Michigan.

was more than two hundred years before landed on Kauai, and was received as
Captain Cook, the school boy s hero, "the great white God. " It was Captain

THE NATIONAL OR IOLANI PALACE, BUILT BY KING KALAKAUA IN l88l, ON THE SITE OF THE

OLD ROYAL RESIDENCE.
Drawn ly C. H. Tate from a fhotrgrap i l&lt;y II- . F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

8 4 2

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

ENTRANCE TO THE GROUNDS OF PRINCEbS KAH LA.NI S PALACE AT \VA

From a photograph by William F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Aftchigun

Cook who gave to the group the name of
the Sandwich Islands, in honor of his
patron, the Earl of Sandwich, first lord
of the British admiralty.

Until very recent years the history or
the islands has consisted of confused and
vague stories of inter island brawls for
supremacy. In 1800 Kamehameha, a chief

on the island of Hawaii, succeeded, after
a long series of conquests, in uniting, the
whole group under one government, and
proclaimed himself king, with the title
of Kamehameha the First. One of the
most thrilling stories in Hawaiian history-
is connected with Kamehameha !s con
quest of Oahu. In his final battle with

BATHING HOUSES ON THE "QUEEN S BEACH," NEAR HONOLULU.
Drciivn by C If Tate from n fihotogroph l&gt;y W. F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan

8 4 4

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

A COTTAGE AT WAIKIKI, THE SEASIDE RESORT NEAR HONOLULU.
Drawn by Walter Burridge.

the army of Kaiana, the chief of that
island, the vanquished soldiers were
driven up through the beautiful Nuuana
valley to the top of the Pali. The women
and children had fled to this highland
before the battle ; terrified by the onrush
of the defeated army, they flung them
selves over the precipice. They were
quickly followed, oy the soldiers, who
preferred death on the rocks twelve hun
dred feet below to capture or the points
of their enemies spears. The bones of
the defeated warriors and their families
were allowed to bleach on the plains
below. Today it is an easy matter for
the curio hunter to find a skull, or, if a
more dainty souvenir is desired, a toe or
finger bone, as a memento of the de
struction of the Oahuan chief and his
followers.

A fine statue of Kamehameha I stands
in front of the government building in
Honolulu. He is represented in all the
dignity of his royal feather cloak and
feather helmet. In his features appears
something of the strength and power that
enabled him to carry out his plans of
empire, and to make his reign a turning
point in the history of his people. Re
forms not only in the government but in
the domestic affairs of his subjects were
projected and carried out by this founder
of the Kamehameha dynasty ; and if his

successors had had a tenth part of his
wisdom and strength the annals of his
country during the last twenty years
might have read very differently. But
the} r seem to have been a degenerate race,
and Kamehameha V was the last of his
line.

His successor, Lunalilo, whose mother
had been a niece and stepdaughter of the
first Kamehameha, was chosen by election.
His reign lasted but a year and twenty
five days. He was succeeded by Kala-
kaua, whose reign was neither long- nor
glorious. Next came Queen Liliuokalani.
The disasters that closed the reign of this
unfortunate woman were the inevitable
result of the dissipation and misrule of
her predecessors. That her own people
loved her and desired her for their queen
cannot be doubted ; but it was not possible
for the native dynasty to last if Hawaii
was to have a place among the civilized
nations of the modern world. A race that
has dwelt for generations in the enervat
ing climate of a mid Pacific island cannot
hold its own with the type developed
amid New England s snow clad hills, but
to the native born Hawaiian of pur sang
and in spite of official reports to the
contrary there is a vast number of such
natives the vices of his own race are
preferable to the virtues of an alien. The
efforts that were made at home and

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE.

845

abroad for Liliuokalani are mat
ters of current history ; but the
last hope that Victoria Cleghorn,
Princess Kaiulani, might some
day occupy the throne of her an
cestors has been summarily ended
by the vote of an American
Senate and by the signature of
an American President s name.

THE CROSSROADS OP THE
PACIFIC.

For many years special com
mercial privileges have been
granted to Hawaii in exchange
for exclusive material and polit
ical privileges secured to the
United States. American in
fluence, American ownership and
control, have been fostered and in
creased. Hawaiian Christianiza-
tion, civilization, education, and
development are the direct prod
uct of American effort.

Hawaii has now, under the
Newlands resolution, become a
part of the United States. One
article of this resolution provides
that Congress shall decide upon
a form of government for our new
possession, and a committee consisting of
three Americans and two residents of the

NATIVE HAWAIIAN CHURCH IN HONOLULU, CONSTRUCTED

OF BLOCKS OF LAVA.
Drawn ly Walter Burridge.

islands has been appointed to frame a
system of legislation. The report of this

THE STATE PRISON OF HAWAII, ON A RKEF OUTSIDE THE HARBOR OF HONOLULU
Drawn by Walter Burridge.

846

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

THE CRATER OF THE EXTINCT VOLCANO, HALEAKELA, ON THE ISLAND OF MAUI.
From a photograph by William F, Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

committee will doubtless be ready for
presentation to Congress at its session in
December, and in the mean time there is
to be a provisional government somewhat
similar to that in Alaska. The distance
from Washington is so great in days and
miles that it seems undesirable to give
these new connections a voice in our
domestic affairs ; and the composition of
their population makes it difficult to de
termine what degree of self government
can safely be allowed them.

According to the last census, taken in
1896, there were in the islands 31,019
Hawaiians,.8,485 part Hawaiians, 24,407
Japanese, 21,616 Chinese, 15,191 Portu
guese, 5,260 Americans, 2,257 British,
1,432 Germans, and 1,534 of other nation
alities a total population of 109,020, of
whom 72,517 are males. Divided in
respect to occupation agriculture accounts
for 7,570, fishing and navigation 2,100,
manufacturers 2,265, commerce and trans
portation 2,031, liberal professions 2,580,
laborers 34,438, miscellaneous pursuits
4,310, without profession 53,726.

Honolulu is 2,089 miles from San Fran
cisco, 3,399 miles from Yokohama, 4,917

miles from Hong Kong, 4,850 miles from
Sydney, 4,665 miles from Panama, and
4,210 miles from the Pacific end of the
projected Nicaragua Canal. It is five and
a half days from San Francisco, ten and a
half from Washington. It is the only
spot in the Pacific from the equator to
Alaska, from the coast of China to that
of the United States, where a ton of coal,
a pound of bread, or a gallon of water
can be obtained. It is this situation that
has given rise to the argument that the
possession of Hawaii will " definitely and
finally secure to the United States the
strategical control of the North Pacific."
Of seven trans-Pacific steamship lines
plying between the North American con
tinent and Japan, China, and Australia,
all but one make Honolulu a way station.
When a canal is made either at Panama
or Nicaragua, practically all of the ships
that pass through bound for Asia will be
obliged to stop at Honolulu for coal and
supplies.

OUR TRADE WITH HAWAII.

Hawaiian trade has been of great im
portance to the whole of the United States,

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

T1IK MOST BEAUTIFUL
From a photograph by If^

WINE 1 ALMS OX TIIK ISLANDS
uitit F, Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

and the Pacific Coast lias found here the
most profitable of all its foreign custom
ers. L,ast year, in 1897, Hawaii was San
Francisco s second best foreign wine
buyer, her third best purchaser of salmon,
her third largest consumer of barley, and
her sixth best customer of flour, none of
these articles being produced on the
islands. These statistics apply solely to
San Francisco, Washington and Oregon
shipping most of their products directly
from their own seaports.

This consumption of four of America s
standard products has been the result of
the reciprocity treaty under which we
offered Hawaii a free market for three of
her staple exports sugar, rice, and
bananas. Under the annexation treaty
vShe will have the same privileges for all
her products, including coffee, pine
apples, guavas, cocoanuts, spices, and
other tropical fruits, all of which grow
wild, or nearly so. The result will be an
increased demand for the output of Ameri
can manufacturers and farmers, and the

possibility of profitable openings for
capital and enterprise in the islands.

The exports for 1896 amounted to
$15,515,000, while the imports were
$7,164,000. The general Hawaiian tariff
was such that about twenty five per cent
of the imports came from countries other
than the United States. It is probable
that we shall now secure practically all
the foreign trade of the islands.

One of the hardest questions to decide
for this new foster child will be that in
reference to the Chinese. The treat}- of
annexation prohibits any further immi
gration of Chinese after the ratification
of the treat} 7 , and this may interfere to a
certain extent with the rice industry.
The Chinese, who have been flocking into
Hawaii for many years, have transformed
vast areas of swamp land, having no
apparent value, into fertile rice paddies,
which now rent for twenty dollars an
acre. They are the only laborers who
can and will work standing up to their
knees in the water that is necessary for

850

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

DISTANT VIEW OF THE VOLCANO OF KILAUEA, " THE FLAME ENCIRCLED THRONE OF PELE.
From a photograph by William f. Sesscr, Si. Joseph, Michigan.

the successful cultivation of the crop. As
it is one of the staple exports of the place,
some provision will have to be made for
its production.

On sugar and coffee plantations white
men can and do work successfully, and
nothing will be lost by the exclusion of
Mongolian laborers. In the great develop
ment probably in store for both of these
products there will be opportunities for
American capital and American labor.

THE HAWAIIAN CAPITAL.

The city of Honolulu lies on a level
strip of land along the sea, inclosing a
small but safe harbor. It is about a mile
wide and five miles long, and extends
back into several valleys which ciit
deeply into thickly wooded cloud capped
mountains, rising to an elevation of
nearly four thousand feet. It has a
population of about thirty thousand.
The business portion of the city is built
of stone and brick, the residences of wood.
The latter are almost invariably sur

rounded with gardens of great beauty,
full of tropical color and perfume.

The points of interest in and around
Honolulu are divided into two classes
those founded and created by the native
rulers of the place, to which Hawaiians
point with a pride and love bordering
on veneration, and those that are the
result of foreign enterprise and skill.
Among the former are the Queen s Hos
pital, the Lunalilo Home for Aged
Hawaiians, the lolani or National Palace,
and the College of Oahu. Among the
latter are the fine driving roads, the rail
roads, and the vast sugar and coffee in
dustries.

The Queen s Hospital stands at the
foot of the extinct volcano known as the
Punch Bowl, just behind the city. It
was founded in 1860 by Kamehameha IV
and Queen Emma, who were intensely
interested in its erection, and personally
canvassed the city for funds for its con
struction. It is a monument of their care
for the welfare of their people. It is

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE.

851

approached through a long avenue of
wine palms, the most beautiful on the
island, and is a thoroughly modern, well
appointed hospital.

The Lunalilo Home was built according
to plans and instructions found in the

It seemed to add an intolerable weight to
her burden of woe that this palace, in
which she had reigned as queen, should
be used for her prison.

The College of Oahu was developed
under the patronage of Bernice Pauahi

PECULIAR FLOW OF LAVA, THE GRAY RUIN FOLLOWING IN THK FOOTSTEPS OF PELE, THE

GODDESS OF FIRE.
Front a. photograph by William F. Sesser, St. Joscfk, Michigan.

will of King Lunalilo, and there is a touch
of pathos in the fact that this prince,
destined to die in his early manhood,
should have left all his personal property
to provide a home for the aged of his race.
The lolani Palace was built by Kala-
kaua, and it was here that Liliuokalani
was confined during her brief imprison
ment after she had been convicted of
treason. Her most bitter expressions of
resentment are in reference to this fact.

Bishop, the last lineal descendant of
Kamehameha I. It is in the suburb of
Punahou, aboxit two miles from Honolulu,
and is now in its fifty eighth year.
Amherst, Williams, Cornell, Smith, the
New England Conservatory of Music,
and the New York Art Students League
are all represented in its faculty. The
college has more than three hund-red
acres of ground, all under fine cultivation.
Hundreds of royal palms border the

852

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

TEMPLE ERECTED TO KANEAPUA, THE GOD OF FISHERMEN ON THE ISLAND OF HAWAII.
Drawn by ll- alter Burridge.

walks and drives, but the pride of the
college, botanically, is a hedge of night
blooming cereus fifteen hundred feet
long, which often has as many as ten
thousand blossoms open at once, and fills
the whole neighborhood with its wonder
ful perfume.

AMERICAN ENTERPRISE IN HAWAII.

To American engineers and American
activity are due not only the beautiful
drives and street railways of Honolulu,
but also the well equipped railroads
which extend into the heart of the coun
try, touching at most of the important
plantations of sugar, coffee, or fruit. An
American engineer has just completed
and turned over to the government a fine
driveway down the steep face of the Pali,
connecting the fertile plains at its base
with the city of Honolulu. For many
years there has been a good carriage road
to the top of the Pali, but from there the
venturesome traveler had to be carried
down a steep trail, being lowered by
means of ropes over the most precipitous
parts.

The vast sugar and coffee plantations
are also the result of American enterprise
and determination, for while sugar has

always been one of the products of this
land, the scientific cultivation of the crop
is the outcome of "Yankee skill," as
Hawaiians call it. The Ewa is one of
the largest sugar plantations in Hawaii,
and a typical exponent of what persever
ance can accomplish. It is situated
about fifteen miles from Honolulu, and
consists of six thousand level acres,
stretching from the sea on the one hand
to the mountains on the other. It is
managed by a New Englander, and worked
by twelve hundred men, Chinese, Japan
ese, Hawaiian, Portuguese, German,
American, and English. It has only
been in operation for about eight years,
but it now yields the largest average of
sugar to the acre of any place in the
islands. Even in this land of almost
constant showers, "Yankee skill " does
not depend on heaven sent water, and
this plantation has a system of tliirt}^
artesian wells, from which fifty million
gallons of water are distributed over the
land every twenty four hours.

The cultivation of coffee is rapidly in
creasing under American supervision.
It was commenced on a small scale a few
years ago, merely as an experiment. It
has proved a great success, and the aro-

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE.

853

inatic berry will soon rival sugar in the
list of exports from Hawaii. There are
immense tracts of rich uncultivated land,
not suitable for the sugar cane, but upon
which the coffee tree flourishes ; and
coffee has this advantage over sugar it
can be produced upon small plantations
by farmers with small capital.

THE NEWPORT OF HAWAII.

In this land of summer and sunshine it
may seem quite unnecessary to have a

the entire house into pne immense veranda
open to the sunshine and the perfumed air.
It stands in the midst of gardens shaded
by banyan trees and date palms, through
whose vistas Diamond Head looms dark
and grim over the sunlit sea at its feet.
The grounds slope to a white sand beach,
where there are boat houses and bath
houses. Far out is the coral reef against
which the ocean waves thunder and crash,
but inside the reef the water is moderately
calm.

A NATIVE HOUSE ON THE BEACH NEAR HONOLULU.
Drawn by Walter Burridge.

summer resort, and yet as such Waikiki
has been set apart. The drive from
Honolulu to this miniature Newport of
the Pacific runs along the shore of the
bay, over a road shadowed by palms and
bordered by marvelous flowers unknown
in less favored lands, except in hot
houses and conservatories. Ylang-ylang
blossoms add their fragrance to that of
tube roses and orange flowers, producing
a perfume which at night is almost in
toxicating in its sweetness.

At Waikiki the last king, Kalakaua,
had his summer home, and many of the
wealthy residents of Honolulu, both
native and of foreign birth, have summer
cottages there. A "cottage " at Waikiki
consists of some twenty or thirty rooms of
great size, leading through long French
windows on to wide lanais an arrange
ment that makes it possible to transform
6

Sea bathing is one of the greatest
delights of the native Hawaiian, and it is
here at Waikiki that the sport can be had
to perfection. In Queen L,iliuokalani s
reign the gardens of her summer home
were always open to her people, and on
the Queen s Beach even the poorest sub
ject had a right to spend his days
swimming and feasting.

It is on the Queen s Beach or in the
Queen s Wood that native luaus are held.
Often a hundred or two hundred people
gather there, bringing their poi with them
in small w T ooden bowls, but depending for
the more substantial part of the banquet
on the flying fish that are to be caught
for the trying in the surf on the reef. The
babies and children too young to be
trusted so far from shore children under
three, perhaps are piled in indiscrim
inate heaps on the beach. Then men,

854

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

women, and children of a larger growth
plunge into the sea and swim to the outer
reef.

There, perched on the coral rocks, they
wait, and as the flying, shining creatures
appear above the foam eager hands are

To be politely sociable at a native luau
is a trial to a diplomatic foreigner ; for
raw fish is of all acquired tastes the most
difficult, and poi, as the natives eat it,
is impossible. It consists of a flour and
water paste, the flour being made from

THK STATUE OF KAMEHAMEHA, FIRST KING OF THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS, AT THE

ENTRANCE TO THE GOVERNMENT BUILDING, HONOLULU.

From a photograph by William F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

stretched for their capture. The prize
secured, the captor returns to the shore,
this mode of fishing being resorted to
simply for the purpose of satisfying the
cravings of appetite, and not for pleasure
in the sport or profit in the disposition of
the spoils. When all are once more on
the beach the banquet begins, the ban
queters sitting on the ground with only a
wooden board for table. The fish is
consumed raw.

taru root ; and to be acceptable to a
Hawaiian epicure, it must have become
sour. No spoons are furnished ; it is
eaten from the fingers, and it is an art in
itself to learn the exact twist by which
the liquid can be raised on the first and
second fingers to the mouth.

It is at Waikiki also that the sport of
" wave sliding " may be indulged in.
This is a mild form of the old native hee
Ha/it, or surf riding. A native paddler

OUR PACIFIC PARADISE.

and a light canoe furnished with out
riggers are the requisites. The canoe is
carried out through a passage in the
outer reef where the incoming breakers
begin to comb over. Selecting a high
wave just on the point of break
ing, the native lets it rise under
the stern of his canoe, at the
same time paddling vigorously
to avoid being dropped behind,
and balancing the canoe on the
exact point in front of the breaker
where it will be impelled forward
at highest speed. A mad dash
of half a mile is made in a
minute, with the white foam of
the wave overhanging the stern
of the tiny boat. The imminent
risk of being upset or plunged
beneath the green monster adds
the requisite amount of danger
for perfect enjoyment, and the
sport is deservedly popular.

THE; ABODES OF PEXE.

No description of these islands
can seem complete without some
allusion to the great Hawaiian
volcanoes, Kilauea and Mauna
L,oa ; yet no pen can give the
faintest hint of their marvelous,

awe inspiring grandeur, no brush can
depict their lurid flashing fires. All the
superstitions of the islanders center
around these craters. Pele, the goddess
of fire, lives in Kilauea s depths, and

IN HILO ON THE ISLAND OF
SUN

HAWAII "A BIT OF CATHAY, LYING UNDER A TROPIC
THE HOME OF AN ISLANDER.
Drawn l&lt;y Walter Rnr&gt;-ii{gi-.

8 5 6

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE

A WATERFALL NEAR H1LO, THE TOWN AT THE BASE OF THE VOLCANO KILAUEA, ISLAND OF HAWAII.

Drawn by Walter Burridge.

when she descends from her home
gray ruin follows in her footsteps.
Constant offerings are laid on her
shrine, incessant prayers float up to
her flame encircled throne.

The trip to the volcanoes is com
paratively easy now. Excellent
steamers ply between Honolulu
and Hilo, in Hawaii, the town at
the base of the great mountain
mass from which they rise. The
vo\ T age is through the island chan
nels, and the steamer s course is so
close to the coast that the shores
can be readily seen ; first a gleam
ing sandy beach, a little higher
up, crowning the gray rocks, a
- luxuriant growth of palms, above
that miles and miles of sugarcane,
and further inland still the dark,
rich green of the coffee plantations.
It is a scene of great beauty and
of quiet, peaceful industry. Clus
tered together at the foot of the
hills are the small, grass thatched
houses of the natives, and over
J these humble homes wave the same
royal palms that shade the cotta
gers at Waikiki. Down the rocks
little waterfalls tumble gleaming

NATIVE HOUSKS ON THK HKACH AT HILO.
Drawn by Walter Burridge.

8 5 8

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

AN AVENUE OF ROYAL PALMS, IN THE GROUNDS OF THE QUEEN S HOSPITAL.
From a photograph by IVillittm F. Sesser, St. Joseph, Michigan.

in the sunshine, like bars of silver em
bedded in the blue gray lava.

From Hilo an excellent road leads up
the mountain. Here the tropical vege
tation of the country is close at hand.
Ferns and palms and trees gorgeous with
their own blossoms, or brilliant with
their orchid jewels, line the way up to
the Volcano House. From there the
visitor must make his way over the lava
beds to peer down into the boiling,
seething crater of this most active of all
known volcanoes.

A PACIFIC PARADISE;.
" The Paradise of the Pacific, " Hawaii
has been called, and a paradise Oahu
assuredly seems, with possibly a hint of
the inferno in the craters of its island
neighbor, Hawaii. A land of music and
flowers it is to the stranger sojourn
ing there. The people are intensely
musical, and on every hand, at all hours
of the day and night, the tinkling sound
of the native guitars may be heard. The
language is musical, consisting solely of
the vowel and liquid sounds with an occa
sional k or p. The native voice is soft and
low. and harsh sounds are never heard.

The climate is almost perfect, warm
enough to produce tropical fruits and
blossoms, but so moderated by trade
winds and ocean currents that the
temperature is never uncomfortably high.
On the hottest day of summer the ther
mometer rarely goes above eighty degrees,
and in winter it never falls below sixty.
Everywhere, in every garden, tropical
verdure meets the eye. Royal palms
shade every street and drive. Bananas
form a large part of the native food, and
banana palms grow everywhere, their
clusters of red or yellow fruit hanging
under their sheltering umbrellas of green.
Begonias, pink, white, and scarlet, grow
like field flowers, almost too commonly to
be allowed in well kept gardens where
lilies and orchids and chrysanthemums
are tended.

Over every housetop, high or low, of
rich and poor alike, clambers the purple
bougainvillea, a mass of gorgeous color.
It is this brilliant creeper that has given
the dominant tone to Honolulu. Bou
gainvillea is everywhere. Just beyond
the docks and warehouses, the public
buildings begin, and they are covered
with it ; church spires raise their purple

86o

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

Front a photograph by W illiant F. Sesscr, St. J,&gt;se/&gt;/i, Michigan.

flags to the purple .skies above ; streets
end in walls overgrown with bougain-
villea, and on beyond, between long lines
of stately palms, are seen the purple
hills. The memory of a traveler who
stops for but a day at this mid ocean
port on his Pacific trip cannot fail to hold
forever, in connection with Honolulu,
this royal, flaunting color.

THE DARK SHADOW ON MOLOKAI.

Yet over all this sunlit land there
broods an ever present shadow, darkest
and most oppressive over Molokai, but
stretching out in every direction, wher
ever there is a human habitation. And
this shadow is that most dreadful of all
human afflictions, leprosy. There is no
safeguard against it. Into any house
hold it may come. No remedy has ever
been found for this double curse double
because not only are its sufferings in
tolerable and its end a nightmare of
horror, but it transforms its victims into
objects of terror and dread to all man
kind.

Absolute banishment and isolation is
the fate meted out to those who fall be
neath its ban, and in 1865 the govern
ment selected a site on the northern side
of Molokai for a leper settlement. Here
is sent, without thought of return, with
no hope of ever again seeing family or

friend, every one who shows positive
signs of the gruesome disease. There is
a hospital near Honolulu to which sus
pects are sent to serve a term of pro
bation, as it were, during which there
may be a small hope of cure, or a possi
bility of error in diagnosis ; but the hopes
are nearly always doomed to disappoint
ment, and sooner or later the dread trip
to Molokai must be made.

This settlement, with its wretched
inhabitants, is a subject as full of interest
as it is of horror, but it is a place of
which the outside world can know but
little. There are at present some eleven
hundred lepers there, twelve of whom are
Europeans. It is not so long ago that
Father Damien s pathetic death attracted
great attention to this unhappy corner of
the earth, but human nature cannot
but shrink from long contemplation of
such misery. The government makes
these people its own charge, providing
for their needs, minis.tering to their
sufferings, supplying doctors and nurses.
There are churches of all denominations,
schools, and reading rooms, while life
moves on with a certain grim regularity
and conventionality in this city of the
dying,

" On that pale, that white faced shore
Whose foot spurns back the ocean s roaring tides
And coops from other lands her islanders."

SWALLOW

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

"Swallow" is a story of South Africa, where Anglo Saxon, Boer, and Kaffir
still struggle for supremacy, and the reader is like to forget his environment and
imagine that real life is being enacted before him ; that he, too, lives and loves and
suffers with Ralph Kenzie and Suzanne, the Boer maiden This is one of the best
stories from Mr. Haggard s pen since ** King Solomon s Mines," " She," and
" Allan Quatermain."

SYNOPSIS OF CHAPTERS ALREADY PUBLISHED.

SWALLOW is the name given by the Kaffirs to Suzanne, daughter of a Boer, Jan Botmar, whose
wife is the teller of the story. I,ong years before, the worthy couple adopted Ralph Kenzie, an
English lad, a castaway, whom Suzanne had found when they were both children, and who, when
he reaches his nineteenth year, is discovered to be the son of a Scotch lord and the heir to vast
estates. Two Englishmen have come out to the Cape to look for him, whereupon Jan and his
wife, though heartbroken at the thought of losing him, for they have come to look upon him as their
own son, decide that they must give him up. Ralph, however, stoutly refuses to leave them, and
tells them of his love for Suzanne and that he means to make her his wife. When the two Englishmen
arrive Jan Botmar and Ralph are away, and the cunning vrouw persuades them that the youth is not
he whom they seek. Shortly after their departure, Swart Piet, a rich Boer who has Kaffir blood
in his veins, visits the Botmar homestead. He has fallen in love with Suzanne, but she repulses
his advances. A few days later, while riding some distance from her home, the young girl comes
upon Swart Piet and some of his henchmen as they are about to hang a young native witch doctoress
known as Sihamba for alleged cattle stealing. Working on the girl s pity, Piet forces her to kiss
him as the price of the woman s life, and, not content with that, he crushes her in his arms and
covers her face with kisses. The girl finally escapes and reaches her home, where she tells her
father and Ralph of the occurrence, first, however, exacting a promise from her lover that he will
not try to kill the man. Sihamba, who is now destitute, has followed Suzanne home, where, at her
earnest solicitation, she is permitted to remain.

On the following day Ralph seeks out Swart Piet and soundly thrashes him, and after an in
effectual attempt to murder the young Englishman, the Boer leaves that section of the country.
With the aid of Zinti, a slave boy, Sihamba cleverly ascertains the location of Swart Piet s hidden
kraal, and at the same time she discovers and frustrates his plot to carry off Suzanne and murder
her parents and lover. As the day set for the wedding of Ralph and Suzanne approaches, Sihamba
advises a postponement and that the ceremony take place in the neighboring dorp, but the vrouw
insists on the original arrangements, despite the little witch doctoress ominous forebodings. Just
before the ceremony Sihamba announce:; her intention of following the newly wedded couple.

XIV (Continued). of her for many a weary month. Ah,

Suzanne, child, had it not been for the

"LJAVE you heard anything that makes watching of little Sihamba, the walker by

* * you afraid, Sihamba?" I asked, moonlight, you had not been sitting there to-
stopping her as rhe turned to go. day, looking as she used to look, the Su-

" I have heard nothing," she replied; zanne of fifty years ago.

" still, I am afraid." The marriage was to take place at noon,

" Then you are a fool for your pains, to be and though I had much to see to, never have

afraid of nothing," I answered roughly; I known a longer morning. Why it was I

" but watch well, Sihamba." cannot say, but it seemed to me as though

" Fear not, I will watch till my knees are twelve o clock would never come. Then,

loosened and my eyes grow hollow." Then wherever I went there was Ralph in my way,

she went away, and that was the last I saw wandering about in a senseless fashion with

* Copyright, ]8g8, by H. Rider Haggard.

862

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

his best clothes on, while after him wandered
Jan holding his new hat in his hand.

" In the name of heaven," I cried at
length, as I blundered into both of them in
the kitchen, " be off out of this. Why are
you here ? "

" Allemachter! " said Jan, " because we
have nowhere else to go. They are making
the sitting room ready for the service and
the dinner after it; the predicant is in
Ralph s room writing; Suzanne is in yours
trying on her clothes, and the stoep and even
the .stables are full of Kaffirs. Where then
shall we go ? "

" Cannot you see to the wagon ? " I asked.

" We have seen to it, mother," said Ralph;
" it is packed, and the oxen are already tied
to the yokes for fear lest they should stray."

" Then be off and sit in it and smoke till
I come to call you," I replied, and away they
walked, shamefacedly enough, Ralph first,
and Jan following him.

At twelve o clock I went for them, and
found them both seated on the wagon chest
smoking like chimneys, and saying nothing.

" Come, Ralph," I said, " it is quite time
for you to be married;" and he came, look
ing very pale, and walking unsteadily as
though he had been drinking, while after
him, as usual, marched Jan, still pulling at
the pipe, which he had forgotten to take
out of his mouth.

Somehow I do not recollect much of
-the details of that marriage; they seem
to have slipped my mind, or perhaps they
are buried beneath the memories of all that
followed hard upon it. I remember Suzanne
standing before the little table, behind which
was the predicant with his book. She wore
a white dress that fitted her very well, but
had no veil upon her head after the English
fashion, which even Boer girls follow nowa
days, only in her hand she carried a bunch of
rare white flowers thatSihamba had gathered
for her in a hidden kloof where they grew.
Her face was somewhat pale, or looked so
in the dim room, but her lips showed red
like coral, and her dark eyes glowed and
shone as she turned them upon the lover at
her side, the fair haired, gray eyed, handsome
English lad, whose noble blood told its tale
in every feature and movement, yes, and
even in his voice, the man whom she had
saved from death to be her life mate.

A few whispered words, the changing of
a ring, and one long kiss, and these two,
Ralph Kenzie and Suzanne Botmar, were
husband and wife in the eyes of God and
man. Ah, me ! I am glad to think of it, for
in the end, of all the many marriages that I
have known, this proved the happiest.

Now I thought that it was done with, for
they had knelt down and the predicant had

blessed them ; but not so, for the good man
must have his word, and a long word it was.
On and on he preached about the duties of
husbands and wives, and many other mat
ters, till at last, as I expected, he came to the
children. Now I could bear it no longer.

" That is enough, reverend sir," I said,
" for surely it is scarcely decent to talk of
children to people who have not been mar
ried five minutes."

That pricked the bladder of his discourse,
which soon came to an end, whereon I
called to the Kaffirs to bring in dinner.

The food was good and plentiful, and the
Hollands, or Squareface as they call it now,
to say nothing of the Constantia and peach
brandy, which had been sent to me many
years before by a cousin who lived at Stell-
enbosch; and yet that meal was not as cheer
ful as it might have been. To begin with,
the predicant was sulky because I had cut
him short in his address, and a holy man
in the sulks is a bad kind of animal to deal
with. Then Jan tried to propose the health
of the new married pair and could not do it.
The words seemed to stick in his throat. In
short, he made a fool of himself as usual,
and I had to fill in the gaps in his head.
Well, I talked nicely enough till in an evil
moment I overdid it a little by speaking of
Ralph as one whom Heaven had sent to us,
and of whose birth and parents we knew
nothing. Then Jan found his tongue and
said: " Wife, that s a lie, and you know it,"
for doubtless the Hollands and the peach
brandy had got the better of his reason
and his manners. I did not answer him
at the time, for I hate wrangling in public,
but afterwards I spoke to him on the subject
once and for all.

Then, to make matters worse, Su/anne
must needs throw her arms round her
father s neck and begin to cry thanks be
to my bringing up of her, she knew better
than to throw them round mine. " Good
Lord ! " I said, losing my temper, " what is
the girl at now ? She has got the husband
for whom she has been craving, and the
first thing she does is to snivel. Well, if I
had done that to my husband I should have
expected him to box my ears, though
Heaven knows that I should have had
excuse for it ! "

Here the predicant woke up, seeing his
chance.

" Frau Botmar," he said, blinking at me
like an owl, " it is my duty to reprove you,
even at this festive board, for a word must
be spoken both in and out of season. Frau
Botmar, I fear that you do not remember
the Third Commandment, therefore I will
repeat it to you;" and he did so, speaking
very slowly.

SWALLOW.

863

What I answered I cannot recollect, but
I seem to see that predicant flying out of the
door of the room holding his hands above his
head. Well, for once he met his match,
and I know that afterwards he always spoke
of me with great respect.

After this again I remember little more till
the pair started upon their journey.
Suzanne asked for Sihamba to say good
by to her, and when she was told that she
was not to be found she seemed vexed,
which shows that the little doctoress did her
injustice in supposing that just because she
was married she thought no more of her.
Then she kissed us all in farewell ah, we
little knew for how long that farewell was to
be ! and went down to the wagon, to which
the sixteen black oxen, a beautiful team,
were inspanned, and standing there ready to
start. But Ralph and Suzanne were not
going to ride in the wagon, for they had
horses to carry them. At the last moment,
indeed, Jan, whose head was still buzzing
with the peach brandy, insisted upon giving
Ralph the great schimmel, that same stallion
which Sihamba had ridden when she warned
us of the ambush in the pass, galloping
twenty miles in the hour.

So there was much kissing and many good
bys; Ralph and Suzanne saying that they
would soon be back, which indeed was the
case with one of them, till at last they were
off, Jan riding with them a little way towards
their first outspan by the sea, fourteen miles
distant, where they were to sleep the night.

When they had gone I went into my bed
room, and, sitting down, I cried, for I was
sorry to lose Suzanne, even for a little and
for her own good, and my heart was heavy.
Also my quarrel with the predicant had put
me out of temper. When I had got over
this fit I set to work to tidy Suzanne s little
sleeping place, and that I found a sad task.
Then Jan returned from the wagon, having
bid farewell to the young couple an hour s
trek away, and his head being clear by
now, we talked over the plans of the new
house which was to be built for them to live
in, and, going down to the site of it, set it
out with sticks and a rule, which gave us
occupation till towards sunset, when it was
time for him to go to see to the cattle.

That night we went to bed early, for
we were tired, and slept a heavy sleep, till at
length, about one in the morning, we were
awakened by the shoutings of the messen
gers who came bearing the terrible news.

XV.

RALPH and Suzanne reached the outspan
place in safety a little before sunset. I
know the spot well; it is where one of the

numerous wooded kloofs that scar the
mountain slopes ends on a grassy plain of
turf, short but very sweet. This plain is not
much more than five hundred paces wide,
for it is bordered by the cliff, which just here
is not very high, against which the sea beats
at full tide.

When the oxen had been turned loose to
graze, and the voorlooper set to watch them,
the driver of the wagon undid the cooking
vessels and built a fire with dry w r ood col
lected from the kloof. Then Suzanne
cooked their simple evening meal, of which
they partook thankfully. After it was done
the pair left the wagon and followed the
banks of the little kloof stream, which
wandered across the plain till it reached the
cliff, whence it fell in a trickling waterfall
into the sea. Here they sat down upon the
edge of the cliff and, locked in each other s
arms, watched the moon rise over the silver
ocean, their young hearts filled with a joy
that cannot be told.

" The sea is beautiful, is it not, husband? "
whispered Suzanne into his ear.

" Tonight it is beautiful," he answered,
" as our lives seem to be; yet I have seen
it otherwise; " and he shuddered a little.

She nodded, for she knew of what he was
thinking, and did not wish to speak of it.
" Neither life nor ocean can be always calm,"
she said; " but, oh! I love that great water,
for it brought you to me."

" I pray that it may never separate us,"
answered Ralph.

Why do you say that, husband? " she
asked. " Nothing can separate us now,
for even if you journey far away to seek your
own people, as sometimes I think you
should, I shall accompany you. Nothing
can separate us except death, and death shall
but bind us more closely each to each for
ever and forever."

" I do not know why I said it, sweet," he
answered uneasily, and just then a little
cloud floated over the face of the moon,
darkening the world, and a cold wind blew
down the kloof, causing its trees to rustle
and chilling them, so that they clung closer
to each other for comfort.

The cloud and the wind passed away,
leaving the night as beautiful as before, and
they sat on for a while to watch it, listening
to the music of the waterfall as it splashed
into the deep sea pool below, and to the soft
surge of the waves as they lapped gently
against the narrow beach.

At length Ralph spoke in a low voice.
" Sweet, it is time to sleep," he said, and
kissed her.

At his words Suzanne trembled in his arms
and blushed so red that even in this light
he could see the color in her face.

864

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"It is time," she whispered back; "but,
husband, first let us kneel together here and
pray to God to bless our married life and
make us happy."

" That is a good thought," he answered,
for in those days young men who had been
brought up as Christians were not ashamed
to say their prayers even in the presence of
others.

So they knelt down side by side upon the
edge of the cliff, with their faces set towards
the open sea.

" Pray for us both aloud, Ralph," said Su
zanne, " for though my heart is full enough
I have no words."

So Ralph prayed very simply, saying:
" O God, Who madest us, hear us, Thy son
and daughter, and bless us. This night our
married life begins; be Thou with us ever in
it, and if it should please Thee that we
should have children, let Thy blessing go
with them all their days. O God, I thank
Thee that Thou didst save me alive from the
sea and lead the feet of the child who is now
my wife to the place where I was starving,
and Suzanne thanks Thee that through the
whisperings of a dream her feet were led
thus. O God, as I believe that Thou didst
hear my prayer when as a lost child I knelt
dying on the rock before Thee, so I believe
that Thou dost hear this the first prayer of
our wedded life. We know that all life is
not made up of such joy as Thou hast given
us this day, but that it has many dangers
and troubles and losses, therefore we pray
Thee to comfort us in the troubles, to protect
us in the dangers, and to give us consolation
in the losses; and most of all we pray Thee
that we who love each other, and whom
Thou hast joined together, may be allowed
to li-.-e out our lives together, fearing noth
ing, however great our peril, since day and
night we walk in the shadow of Thy
strength, until we pass into its presence."

This was Ralph s prayer, for he told it to
me, word by word, afterwards when he lay
sick. At the time the answer to it seemed to
be a strange one, an answer to shake the faith
out of a man s heart, and yet it was lost or
mocked at, for the true response came in its
season. Nay, it came week by week and
hour by hour, seeing that every day through
those awful years the sword of the Strength
they had implored protected those who
prayed, holding them harmless through
many a desperate peril, to reunite them at the
last. The devil is very strong in this world
of ours, or so it seems to me, who have
known much of his ways, so strong that
perhaps God must give place to him at times,
for if He rules in Heaven, I think that Satan
shares His rule on earth. But in the end it
is God Who wins, and never, never, need

they fear who acknowledge Him and put
their faith in Him, trying the while to live
uprightly and conquer the evil of their
hearts. Well, this is only an old woman s
wisdom, though it should not be laughed at,
since it has been taught to her by the ex
perience of a long and eventful life. Such
as it is, I hope that it may be of service to
those who trust in themselves and not in
their Maker.

As the last words of this prayer left
Ralph s lips he heard a man laugh behind
him. The two of them sprang to their feet
at the sound, and faced about to see Swart
Piet standing within five paces of them, and
with eight or ten of his black ruffians, who
looked upon him as their chief, and did his
needs without question, however wicked
they might be.

Now Suzanne uttered a low cry of fear
and the blood froze about Ralph s heart,
for he was unarmed and their case was hope
less. Black Piet saw their fear and laughed
again, for like a cat that has caught a mouse
for which it has watched long, he could not
resist the joy of torture before he dealt the
death blow.

" This is very lucky," he said; " and I am
glad that I have to do with such pious peo
ple, since it enabled us to creep on you un
awares; also I much prefer to have found
you engaged in prayer, friend Englishman,
rather than in taking the bloom off my
peach with kisses, as I feared might be the
case. That was a pretty prayer, too; I al
most felt as though I were in church while
I stood listening to it. How did it end?
You prayed that you might be allowed to
live together, fearing nothing, however
great your peril, since you walked always in
the shadow of God s strength. Well, I have
come to answer your petition, and to tell
you that your life together is ended before
it is begun. For the rest, your peril is cer
tainly great, and now let God s strength
help you if it can. Come, God, show Your
strength. He does not answer, you see, or
perhaps He knows that Swart Piet is god
here and is afraid."

" Cease your blasphemy," said Ralph, in
a hoarse voice, " and tell me what you want
with us."

" What do I want? I want her for whom
I have been seeking this long time Suzanne
Botmar."

" She is my wife," said Ralph; " would
you steal away my wife? "

" No, friend, for that would not be lawful.
I will not take your wife, but I shall take
your widow, as will be easy, seeing that you
are armed with God s strength only."

Not understanding all this man s devilish
purpose, Suzanne fell upon her knees before

SWALLOW.

865

him, imploring him with many piteous
words. But knowing that death was at
hand, Ralph s heart rose to it, as that of a
high couraged man will do, and he bade her
to cease her supplications and rise. Then
in a loud, clear voice he spoke in the Kaffir
tongue, so that those who were with Piet
van Vooren should understand him.

" It seems, Piet van Vooren," he said,
" that you have stolen upon us here to carry
off my wife by violence after you have mur
dered me. These crimes you may do, though
I know well that if you do them they will be
revenged upon you amply, and upon your
men also who take part in them. And now
I will not plead to you for mercy, but I ask
one thing which you cannot refuse, because
those with you, Kaffirs though they be, will
not suffer it five short minutes of time in
which to bid farewell to my new wed wife."

" Not an instant," said Swart Piet, but at
the words the black men who were with him,
and whose wicked hearts were touched with
pity, began to murmur so loudly that he
hesitated.

" At your bidding, Bull Head," said one
of them, " we have come to kill this man
and to carry away the white woman, and we
will do it, for you are our chief and we must
obey you. But, if you will not give him the
little space for which he asks, wherein to
bid farewell to his wife before she becomes
your wife, then we will have nothing more
to do with the matter. I say that our hearts
are sick at it already, and, Bull Head, you
kill a man, not a dog, and that by murder,
not in fair fight."

" As you will, fool," said Swart Piet.
" Englishman, I give you five minutes; "
and he drew a large silver watch from his
pocket and held it in his hand.

" Get out of my hearing, then, murderer,"
said Ralph, " for I have no breath left to
waste on you; " and Piet, obeying him, fell
back a little and stood gnawing his nails
and staring at the pair.

" Suzanne, wife Suzanne," whispered
Ralph, " we are about to part since, as you
see, I must die, and your fate lies in the
Hand of God; you are made a widow before
you are a wife, and Suzanne ah! that is the
worst of it another takes you, even my
murderer."

Now Suzanne, who till this moment had
been as one stupefied, seemed to gather up
her strength and answered him, saying:

" Truly, husband, things appear to be as
you say, though what we have done that
they should be so, I cannot tell. Still, com
fort yourself, for death comes to all of us
soon or late, and whether it comes soon or
late makes little difference in the end, seeing
that come it must."

" No, not death, it is your fate that makes
the difference. How can I bear to die and
leave you the prey of that devil? Oh, my
God! my God! how can I bear to die! "

" Have no fear, husband," went on Su
zanne, in the same clear, indifferent voice,
" for you do not leave me to be his prey.
Say, now; if we walk backwards swiftly we
might fall together before they could catch
us into the pit of the sea beneath."

" Nay, wife, let our deaths lie upon their
heads and not upon ours, for self murder is
a crime."

" As you will, Ralph; but I tell you, and
through you I tell Him Who made me, that
it is a crime which I shall dare if need be.
Have no fear, Ralph; as I leave your arms
pure, so shall I return to them pure, whether
it be in heaven or upon earth. That man
thinks he has power over me, but I say that
he has none, seeing that at last God will
protect me, with His hand or with my
own."

" I cannot blame you, Suzanne, for there
are some things which are not to be borne.
Do, therefore, as your conscience teaches
you, if you have the means."

" I have the means, Ralph. Hidden about
me is a little knife which I have carried
since I was a child; and if that fails me there
are other ways."

" Time is done," said Swart Piet, replac
ing the watch in his pocket.

" Farewell, sweet," whispered Ralph.

" Farewell, husband," she answered brave
ly, " until we meet again, whether it be here
on earth or above in heaven ; farewell un
til we meet again ; " and she flung her arms
about his neck and kissed him.

For a moment he clung to her. muttering
some blessing above her bowed head; then
he unloosed her clasping arms, letting her
fall gently upon the ground and saying:
" Lie thus, shutting your ears and hiding
your eyes, till all is done. Afterwards you
must act as seems best to you. Escape to
your father if you can; if not tell me, do
you understand? "

" I understand," she murmured, and hid
her face in a tuft of thick grass, placing her
hands upon her ears.

Ralph bowed his head for an instant in
prayer. Then he lifted it and there was no
fear upon his face.

" Come on, murderer," he said, address
ing Swart Piet, " and do your butcher s
work. Why do you delay? You cannot
often find the joy of slaughtering a defense
less man in the presence of his new made
wife. Come on, then, and win the ever
lasting curse of God."

Now Swart Piet glanced at him out of the
corners of his round eyes; then he ordered

866

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

one of the Kaffirs to go up to him and shoot
him.

The man went up and lifted his gun, but
presently he put it down again and walked
away, saying that he could not do this deed.
Thrice did Van Vooren issue his command,
and to three separate men, the vilest of his
flock, but with each of them it was the same;
they came up lifting their guns, looked into
Ralph s gray eyes, and slunk away mutter
ing. Then, cursing and swearing in his
mad fury, Swart Piet drew a pistol from his
belt and, rushing towards Ralph, fired it
into him so that he fell. He stood over
him and looked at him, the smoking pistol
in his hand, but the wide gray eyes remained
open and the strong mouth still smiled.

" The dog lives yet," raved Swart Piet.
" Cast him into the sea, and let the sea
finish him."

But no man stirred; all stood silent as
though they had been cut in stone, and
there, a little nearer the cliff edge, lay the
silent form of Suzanne.

Then Van Vooren seized Ralph and
dragged him by the shoulders to the brink
of the precipice. His hair brushed the hair
of Suzanne as his body was trailed along the
ground, and as he passed he whispered one
word, " Remember," into her ear, and she
raised her head to look at him and answered,
" Now and always." Then she let her head
fall again.

Stooping down, Swart Piet lifted Ralph in
his great arms, and, crying aloud, " Return
into the sea out of which you came," he
hurled him over the edge of the cliff. Two
seconds later the sound of a heavy splash
echoed up its sides, then, save for the mur
mur of the waterfall and the surge of the
surf upon the beach, all was still again.

XVI.

FOR a few moments Swart Piet and his
black ruffians stood staring, now at each
other and now over the edge of the cliff into
the deep sea hole. There, however, they
could see nothing, for the moonbeams did
not reach its surface, and the only sound
they heard was that of the dripping of the
little waterfall, which came to their ears like
the tinkle of distant sheep bells. Then Swart
Piet laughed aloud, a laugh that had more
of fear than of merriment in it.

" The Englishman called down the ever
lasting curse of God on me," he cried.
" Well, I have waited for it, and it does not
come, so now for man s reward; " and go
ing to where Suzanne lay, he set his arms
beneath her and turned her over upon her
back. " She has swooned," he said; " per
haps it is as well; " and he stood looking at

her, for thus in her faint she seemed wonder
fully fair with the moonbeams playing upon
her deathlike face.

" He had good taste, that Englishman,"
went on Swart Piet. " Well, now our ac
count is squared; he has sown and I shall
harvest. Follow me, you black fellows, for
we had best be off; " and, stooping down,
he lifted Suzanne in his arms and walked
away with her as though she were a child.
For a while they followed the windings of
the stream, keeping under cover of the reeds
and bushes that grew upon its banks. Then
they struck out to the right, taking advan
tage of a cloud which dimmed the face of
the moon for a time, for they wished to
reach the kloof without being seen from the
wagon. Nor, indeed, were they seen, for
the driver and voorlooper were seated by the
cooking fire on its further side, smoking
and dozing as they smoked. Only the great
thoroughbred horse winded them and
snorted, pulling at the rein with which he
was tied to the hind wheel of the wagon.

" Something has frightened the schimmel,"
said the driver, waking up.

" It is nothing," answered the other boy
drowsily; " he is not used to the veldt, he
who always sleeps in the house like a man;
or perhaps he smells a hyena in the kloof."

" I thought I heard a sound like that of a
gun a while ago /down yonder by the sea,"
said the driver again. " Say, brother, shall
we go and find what made it? "

" By no means," answered the voorlooper,
who did not like walking about at night,
fearing lest he should meet spooks. " I
have been wide awake and listening all this
time, and I heard no gun; nor, indeed, do
people go out shooting at night. Also it is
our business to watch here by the wagon
till our master and mistress return."

" Where can they have gone? " said the
driver, who felt frightened, he knew not
why. " It is strange that they should be so
long away when it is time for them to sleep."

" Who can account for the ways of white
people? " answered the other, shrugging
his shoulders. " Very often they sit up all
night. Doubtless these two will return when
they are tired, or perhaps they desire to sleep
in the veldt. At any rate, it is not our duty
to interfere with them, seeing that they can
come to no harm here where there are
neither men nor tigers."

" So be it," said the driver, and they both
dozed off again till the messenger of ill came
to rouse them.

Now Black Piet and his men crept up the
kloof carrying Suzanne with them, till they
came to a little patch of rocky ground at
the head of it where they had left their
horses.

SWALLOW.

867

" That was very well managed," said Piet,
as they loosed them and tightened their
girths, " and none will ever know that we
have made this journey. Tomorrow the
bride and bridegroom will be missed, but the
sea has the one and I have the other, and
hunt as they may they will never find her,
nor guess where she has gone. No, it will
be remembered that they walked down to the
sea, and folk will think that by chance they
fell from the cliff into the deep water and
vanished there. Yes, it was well managed,
and none can guess the truth."

Now, the man to whom he spoke, that
same man with whom the boy Zinti had
heard him plot our murder in the Tig?r
Kloof, shrugged his shoulders and an
swered:

" I think there is one who will guess."

" Who is that, fool? "

" She about whose neck once I set a rope
at your bidding. Bull Head, and whose life
was bought by those lips " and he pointed
to Suzanne " Sihamba Ngenyanga."

li Why should she guess? " asked Piet
angrily.

" Has she not done so before? Think of
the great schimmel and its rider in Tiger
Kloof. Moreover, what does her name
mean? Does it not mean Wanderer by
Moonlight, and was not this great deed of
yours, a deed at the telling of which all who
hear of it shall grow sick and silent, done
in the moonlight, Bull Head? "

Now, as we learned afterwards from a
man whom Jan took prisoner, Piet made no
answer to this saying, but turned to busy
himself with his saddle, for he was always
afraid of Sihamba, and would never mention
her name unless he was obliged. Soon the
horses, most of which were small and of the
Basuto breed, were ready to start. On one
of the best of them was a soft pad of sheep
skins, such as girls used to ride on when I
was young, before we knew anything about
these new fangled English saddles with
leather hooks to hold the rider in her place.
On this pad, which had been prepared for
her, they set Suzanne, having first tied her
feet together loosely with a riem so that she
might not slip to the ground and attempt to
escape by running. Moreover, as she was
still in a swoon, they supported her, Black
Piet walking upon one side and a Kaffir up
on the other. In this fashion they traveled
for half an hour or more, until they were deep
in among the mountains, indeed, when sud
denly, with a little sigh, Suzanne awoke, and
glanced about her with wide, frightened
eyes. Then memory came back to her, and
she understood, and, opening her lips, she
uttered one shriek so piercing and dreadful
that the rocks of the hills multiplied and

echoed it, and the blood went cold even in
the hearts of those savage men.

" Suzanne," said Swart Piet, in a low,
hoarse voice, " I have dared much to win
you, and I wish to treat you kindly, but if
you cry out again, for my own safety s sake
and that of those with me, we must gag
you."

She made no answer to him, nor did she
speak at all except one word, and that word
" Murderer ! " Then she closed her eyes as
though to shut out the sight of his face, and
sat silent, saying nothing and doing noth
ing, even when Piet and the other man who
supported her had mounted and pushed their
horses to a gallop, leading that on which she
rode by a riem.

Now it might be thought that after receiv
ing a pistol bullet fired into him at a dis
tance of four paces, and being cast down
through fifty feet of space into a pool of
the sea, that there was an end of Ralph
Kenzie forever on this earth. But, thanks
to the mercy of God, this was not so,
for the ball had but shattered his left
shoulder, touching no vital part, and the
water into which he fell was deep, so that,
striking against no rock, he rose presently
to the surface and, the pool being but nar
row, was able to swim to one side of it where
the beach shelved. Up that beach he could
not climb, however, for he was faint with
loss of blood and shock. Indeed, his senses
left him while he was in the water, but it
chanced that he fell forward and not back
ward, so that his head rested upon the shelv
ing of the pool, all the rest of his body
being beneath its surface. Lying thus, had
the tide been rising, he would speedily have
drowned, but it had turned, and so, the water
being warm, he took no further harm.

Now, Sihamba had not left the stead till
some hours after Ralph and his bride had
trekked away. She knew where they would
outspan, and as she did not wish that they
should see her yet, or until they were too far
upon their journey to send her back, it was
her plan to reach the spot, or rather a hiding
place in the kloof within a stone s throw of
it, after they had gone to rest. So it came
about that at the time when Ralph and
Suzanne were surprised by Swart Piet,
Sihamba was riding along quietly upon the
horse which Jan had given her, accompanied
by the lad Zinti, perched upon the strong,
brown mule in the midst of cooking pots,
bags of meal and biltong, and rolls of
blankets. Already, half a mile off or more,
she could see the cap of the wagon gleaming
white in the moonlight, when suddenly, away
to the left, she heard the sound of a pistol
shot.

868

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

" Now, who shoots in this lonely place
at night ? " said Sihamba to Zinti. " Had
the sound come from the wagon yonder I
should think that some one had fired to
scare a hungry jackal, but all is quiet at ihe
wagon, and the servants of Swallow are
there for, look, the fire burns."

" I know not, lady," answered Zinti, for
Sihamba was given the title of "chieftainess"
among the natives who knew something of
her birth, " but I am sure that the sound
was made by powder."

" Let us go and see," said Sihamba, turn T
ing her horse.

For a while they rode on towards the place
whence they had heard the shot, till sud
denly, when they were near the cliff and in a
little fold of ground beyond the ridge of
which ran the stream, Sihamba stopped and
whispered, " Be silent; I hear voices." Then
she slipped from her horse and crept like a
snake up the slope of the rise until she
reached its crest, where at this spot stood
two tufts of last season s grass, for no fires
had swept the veldt. From between these
tufts, so well hidden herself that unless he
had stepped upon her body none could have
discovered her, she saw a strange sight.

There, beneath her, within a few paces,
indeed, for the grojund sloped steeply to the
stream, men were passing. The first of
these was white, and he carried a white
woman in his arms; the rest were Kaffirs,
some of whom wore karosses or cotton
blankets, and some tattered soldiers coats
and trousers, while all were well armed with
" roers " or other guns, and all had powder
flasks hung about their necks. Sihamba
knew at once that the white man was Swart
Piet, and the woman in his arms her mis
tress, Suzanne. She could have told it from
her shape alone, but as it happened, her
head hung down, a^d the moonlight shone
upon her face so brightly that she could see
its every feature. Her blood boiled within
her as she looked, for now she understood
that her fears were just, and that the Swal
low, whom she loved above everything in
the world, had fallen into the power of the
man she hated. At first she was minded to
follow and, if might be, to rescue her. Then
she remembered the pistol shot, and remem
bered also that this new made wife would
have been with her husband and no other.
Where, then, was he now ? Without doubt,
murdered by Bull Head. If so, it was little
use to look for him, and yet something in
her heart told her to look.

At that moment she might not help
Suzanne, for what could one woman and a
Kaffir youth do against so many men ?
Moreover, she knew whither Van Vooren
would take her, and could follow there; but

first she must learn for certain what had
been the fate of her husband. So Sihamba
lay still beneath the two tufts of grass until
the last of the men had passed in silence,
glancing about them sullenly as though they
feared vengeance for a crime. Then, having
noted that they were heading for the kloof,
she went back to where Zinti stood in the
hollow, holding the horse with one hand
and the mule with the other, and beckoned
him to follow her.

Very soon, tracing the spoor backwards,
they reached the edge of the cliff just where
the waterfall fell over it into the sea pool.
Here she searched about, noting this thing
and that, till at last all grew clear to her.
Here Suzanne had lain, for the impress of
her shape could still be seen upon the grass.
And there a man had been stretched out,
for his blood stained the ground. More,
he had been dragged to the edge of the cliff,
for this was the track of his body and the
spoor of his murderer s feet. Look how
his heels had sunk into the turf as he took
the weight of the corpse in his arms to hurl
it over the edge.

" Tie the horse and the mule together,
Zinti," she said, " and let us find a path down
this precipice."

The lad obeyed wondering, though he too
guessed something of what had happened,
and after a little search they found a place
by which they could descend. Now Sihamba
ran to the pool and stood upon its brink
scanning the surface with her eyes, till at
length she glanced downwards, and there,
almost at her feet, three parts of his body
yet hidden in the water, lay the man she
sought.

Swiftly she sprang to him, and, aided by
Zinti, dragged him to dry ground.

" Alas ! lady," said the lad, " it is of no
use; the baas is dead. Look, he has been
shot."

Taking no heed of the words, Sihamba
opened Ralph s garments, placing first her
hand, then her ear, upon his heart. Pres
ently she lifted her head, a strange light
shining in her eyes, and said:

" Nay, he lives, and we have found him
in time. Moreover, his wound is not to
death. Now help me, for between us we
must bear him up the cliff."

So Zinti took him by the middle, while
Sihamba supported his legs, and thus be
tween them, with great toil, for the way
was very steep, they carried him by a sloping
buck s path to the top of the precipice,
and laid him upon the mule.

" Which way now ? " gasped Zinti, for,
being strong, he had borne the weight.

" To the wagon, if they have left it," said
Sihamba, and thither they went.

SWALLOW.

869

When they were near she crept forward,
searching for Swart Piet and his gang, but
there were no signs of them, only she saw
the driver and his companion nodding by
the fire. She walked up to them.

" Do you, then, sleep, servants of Kenzie,"
she said, " while the Swallow is borne away
to the hawk s nest, and the husband of
Swallow, your master, is cast by Bull Head
back into the sea whence he came ? "

Now the men woke up and knew her.
" Look, it is Sihamba ! " stammered one of
them to the other, for he was frightened.
" What evil thing has happened, Lady
Sihamba ? "

" I have told you, but your ears are shut.
Come, then, and see with your eyes;" and
she led them to where Ralph lay in his
blood, the water yet dripping from his hair
and clothes.

" Alas ! he is dead." they groaned, and
wrung their hands.

" He is not dead, he will live, for while
you slept .1 found him," she answered.
" Swift, now, bring me the wagon box that
is full of clothes, and the blankets off the
cartel."

They obeyed her, and very quickly and
gently for of all doctors Sihamba was the
best with their help she drew off his wet
garments, and. having dried him and dressed
his wound with strips of linen, she put a
flannel shirt upon him and wrapped him in
blankets. Then she poured brandy into his
mouth, but, although the spirit brought a
little color into his pale face, it did not
awaken him, for his swoon was deep.

" Lay him on the cartel in the wagon,"
she said, and, lifting him, they placed him
upon the riinpi bed. Then she ordered them
to inspan the wagon, and this was done
quickly, for the oxen lay tied to the trek tow.
When all was ready she spoke to the two
men, telling them what had happened so
far as she knew it, and adding these words:

" Trek back to the stead as swiftly as you
may, one of you sitting in the wagon to
watch the Baas Kenzie and to comfort him
should he wake out of his swoon. Say to
the father and mother of Swallow that I have
taken the horses to follow Swart Piet and to
rescue her by cunning if so I can, for, as will
be plain to them, this is a business that must
not wait; also that I have taken with me
Zinti, since he alone knows the path to Bull
Head s secret hiding place in the mountains.
Of that road Zinti will tell you all he can,
and you will tell it to the Baas Botmar,
who must gather together such men as he
is able, and start tomorrow to seek it and
rescue us, remembering what sort of peril it
is in which his daughter stands. If by any
means I can free the Swallow, we will come

to meet him; if not, who knows ? Then he
must act according to his judgment and to
what he learns. But let him be sure of this,
and let her husband be sure also, that while
I have life in me I will not cease from my
efforts to save her, and that if she dies for
I know her spirit, and no worse harm than
death will overtake her then, if may be, I
will die with her or to avenge her, and I
have many ways of vengeance. Lastly, let
them not believe that we are dead until they
have certain knowledge of it, for it may
chance that we cannot return to the stead,
but must lie hid in the mountains or
among the Kaffirs. Now hear what Zinti
has to say as to the path to Bull Head s
den, and begone, forgetting no one of my
words, for if you linger or forget, when I
come again I will blind your eyes and shrivel
your livers with a spell."

" We hear you," they answered, " and re
member every word of your message. In
three hours the baas shall know it."

Five minutes later they trekked away, and
so swiftly did they drive and so good were
the oxen that in less than the three hours we
were awakened by one knocking on our
door, and ran out to learn all the dreadful
tidings, and to find Ralph, bleeding and still
senseless, stretched upon that cartel where
we thought him sleeping happily with his
bride.

Oh. the terror and the agony of that hour,
never may I forget them ! Never may I for
get the look that sprang into Ralph s eyes
when at last he awoke and, turning them to
seek Suzanne, remembered all.

" Why am I here and not dead ? " he
asked hoarsely.

" Sihamba saved you, and you have been
brought back in the wagon," I answered.

" Where, then, is Suzanne ? " he asked
again.

" Sihamba has ridden to save her also, and
Jan starts presently to follow her, and with
him others."

" Sihamba ! " he groaned. " What can
one woman -do against Piet van Vooren and
his murderers ? For the rest, they will be
too late. Oh, my God, my God ! what have
we done that such a thing should fall upon
us ? Think of it, think of her in the hands
of Piet van Vooren. Oh, my God, my God,
I shall go mad! " Indeed, I, who watched
him, believe that this would have been so,
or else his brain had burst beneath its shock
of sorrow, had not nature been kind to him
and plunged him back into stupor. In this
he lay long, until well on into the morrow
indeed, or rather the day, for by now it was
three o clock, when the doctor came to take
out the pistol ball and set his shattered bone.
For, as it chanced, a doctor, and a clever one,

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had been sent for from the dorp to visit the
wife of a neighbor who lay sick not more
than twenty miles away, and we were able
to summon him. Indeed, but for this man s
skill, the sleeping medicines he gave him to
quiet his mind, and, above all, a certain
special mercy which shall be told of in its
place, I think that Ralph would have died.
As it was, seven long weeks went by before
he could sit upon a horse.

XVII.

BEFORE the wagon left her, Sihamba took
from it Ralph s gun, a very good roer, to
gether with powder and bullets. Also she
took tinder, a bottle of peach brandy, a
blanket, mealies in a small bag, wherewith
to bait the horses in case of need, and some
other things which she thought might be
necessary. These she laded among her own
goods upon the mule, that with her horse
had been fetched by Zinti and hastily fed
with corn. Now, at her bidding, Zinti set
Suzanne s saddle upon the back of the
schimmel, and Ralph s on that of Suzanne s
gray mare, which he mounted that the mule
might travel lighter. Then Sihamba got
upon her own horse, a good and quiet beast
which she rode with a sheepskin for a saddle,
and they started, Sihamba leading the
schimmel and Zinti the mule, which, as it
chanced, although bad tempered, would fol
low well on a riem.

Riding up the kloof they soon reached the
spot where Van Vooren s band had tethered
tl.eir horses, and tracked the spoor of them
with ease for so long as the ground was soft.
Afterwards when they reached the open
country, where the grass had been burned
off and had only just begun to spring again,
this became more difficult, and at length, in
that light, impossible. Here they wasted a
long time searching for the hoof marks by
the rays of the waning moon, only to lose
them again as soon as they were found.

" At this pace we shall take as long to
reach Bull Head s kraal as did the cow you
followed," said Sihamba presently. " Say
now, can you find the way to it ? "

"Without a doubt, lady; Zinti never for
gets a road or a landmark."

" Then lead me there as fast as may be."

" Yes, lady; but Bull Head may have taken
the Swallow somewhere else, and if we do
not follow his spoor how shall we know
where he has hidden her."

" Fool, I have thought of that ! " she
answered angrily; " else should I have spent
all this time looking for hoof marks in the
dark ? We must risk it, I say. To his
house he has not taken her, for other white
folk are living in it, and it is not likelv he

would have a second or a better hiding place
than that you saw. 1 say that we must be
bold and risk it, since we have no time to
lose."

" As you will, mistress," answered Zinti.
" Who am I that I should question your
wisdom ? " and, turning his horse s head, he
rode forward across the gloomy veldt as
certainly as a homing rock dove wings its
flight.

So th^y traveled till the sun rose behind a
range of distant hills. Then Zinti halted and
pointed to them.

" Look, lady," he said. " Do you see that
peak among the mountains that has a point
like a spear, the one that seems as though
it were on fire ? Well, behind it lies Bull
Head s kraal."

" It is far, Zinti, but we must be there by
night."

" That may be done, lady, but if so we
must spare our horses."

" Good," she answered. " Here is a
spring; let us offsaddle a while."

So they offsaddled and ate of the food
which they had brought, while the horses
filled themselves with the sweet green grass,
the schimmel being tied to the gray mare, for
he would not bear a knee halter.

All that day they rode, not so very fast,
but steadily, till towards sunset they offsad
dled again beneath the shadow of the spear
pointed peak. There was no water at this
spot, but seeing a green place upon the slope
of a hill close by, Zinti walked to it, leading
the thirsty beasts. Presently he threw up
his hand and whistled, whereupon Sihamba
set out to join him, knowing that he had
found a spring. So it proved to be, and
now they learned that Sihamba had been
wise in heading straight for Swart Piet s hid
ing place, since round about this spring was
the spoor of many horses and of men.
Among these was the print of a foot that she
knew well, the little foot of Suzanne.

" How long is it since they left here ? "
asked Sihamba, not as one who does not
know, but rather as though she desired to be
certified in her judgment.

" When the sun stood there," answered
Zinti, pointing to a certain height in the
heavens.

" Yes," she answered; " three hours. Bull
Head has traveled quicker than I thought."

" No," said Zinti; " but I think that he
knew a path through the big vlei, whereas we
rode round it, two hours ride, fearing lest
we should be bogged. Here by this spring
they stayed till sunset, for it was needful that
the horses should feed and rest, since they
would save their strength in them.

" Lady," went on Zinti presently, " beyond
the neck of the hill yonder lies the secret

SWALLOW.

871

kraal of Bull Head. Say now, what is your
plan when you reach it ? "

I do not know," she answered; " but
tell me again of the hidden krantz where the
women built the hut, and of the way to it ? "

He told her and she listened, saying
nothing.

" Good," she said when he had done.
" Now lead me to this place, and then per
haps I will tell my plan, if I have one."

So they started on again, but just as they
reached the crest of the neck a heavy thunder
storm came up, together with clouds and
rain, hiding everything from them.

" Now I suppose that we must stay here
till the light conies," said Sihamba.

" Not so, lady," answered Zinti; " I have
been up the path once and I can go again
in storm or shine;" and he pressed forward,
with the lightning flashes for a candle.

Well was that storm for them, indeed,
since otherwise they would have been seen,
for already Swart Piet had set his scouts
about the kraal.

At length Sihamba felt that they were
riding among trees, for water dripped from
them upon her and their branches brushed
her face.

Here is the wood where the women cut
poles for the new hut," whispered Zinti in
her ear.

" Then, let us halt, "she answered, and dis
mounting, they tied the three horses and the
mule to as many small trees close together.

Now Sihamba took a piece of biltong
from a saddle bag and began to eat it, for
she knew that she would need all her clever
ness and strength. " Take the bag of
mealies," she said, " and divide it among the
horses and the mule, giving a double share
to the schimmel."

Zinti obeyed her, and presently all four
of the beasts were eating well, for though
they had traveled far their loads were light,
nor had the pace been pressed.

Sihamba turned and, holding out her
hands towards the horses, muttered some
thing rapidly.

" What are you doing, mistress ? " asked
Zinti.

" I am throwing a charm upon these
animals, that they may neither neigh nor
whinny till we come again, for if they do so
we are lost. Now let us go, and stay,
bring the gun with you, for you know how
to shoot."

So they started, slipping through the wet
woods like shadows. For ten minutes or
more they crept on thus towards the dark
line of cliff, Zinti going first and feeling the
way with his fingers, till presently he halted.

" Hist ! " he whispered. " I smell
people."

As he spoke, they heard a sound like to
that of some one sliding down rocks. Then
a man challenged, saying, " Who passes
from the krantz ? " and a woman s voice
answered, " It is I, Asika, the wife of Bull
Head."

" I hear you," answered the man. " Now
tell me, Asika, what happens yonder."

" What happens ? How do I know what
happens ? " she answered crossly. " About
sunset Bull Head brought home his new
wife, a white chieftainess, for whom we
built the hut yonder; but the fashions of
marriage among these white people must be
strange indeed, for this one came to her hus
band, her feet bound, and with a face
like to the face of a dead woman, the eyes
set wide and the lips parted. Yes, and they
blindfolded her in the wood there and carried
her through this hole in the rock down to
the hut, where she is shut in."

" I know something of this matter,"
answered the man; "the white lady is no
willing wife to Bull Head, for he killed her
husband and took her by force. Yes, yes,
I know, for my uncle was one of those with
him when the deed was done, and he told
me something of it just now."

" An evil deed," said Asika, " and one
that will bring bad luck upon all of us; but
then, Bull Head, our chief, is an evil man.
Oh, I know it who am of the number of his
Kaffir wives ! Say, friend," she -vent on,
" will you walk a little way with me, as far
as the first huts of the kraal, for there are
ghosts in the wood, and I fear to pass it
alone at night."

" I dare not, Asika," he answered, " for I
am set here on guard."

" Have no fear, friend, the chief is within
seeing to the comfort of his new wife."

Well, I will come with you a little way if
you wish it, but I must be back imme
diately," he said, and the listeners heard
them walk off together.

" Now, Zinti," whispered Sihamba, " lead
me through the hole in the rock."

He took her by the hand and felt along the
face of the cliff till he found the bush which
covered the entrance. To thij he climbed,
dragging her after him, and presently they
were in the secret krantz.

" We have found our way into the spider s
nest," muttered Zinti, who grew afraid; " but
say, lady, how shall we find our way out
of it ? "

" Lead on and leave that to me," she
answered. " Where I, a woman, can go,
surely you who are a man can go also."

" I trust to your magic to protect us
therefore I come," said Zinti, though if we
are seen our death is sure."

On they crept across the glen, till pre-

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MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

sently they heard the sound of the small
waterfall and saw it glimmering faintly
through the gloom and drizzling rain. To
their left ran the stream, and on the banks
of it stood something large and round.

" There stands the new hut where Swallow
is," whispered Zinti.

Now Sihamba thought for a moment and
said:

" Zinti, I must find out what passes in- that
hut. Listen: do you lie hid among the reeds
under the bank of the stream, and if you
hear me hoot like an owl, then come to me,
but not before."

" I obey," answered Zinti, and crept down
among the reeds, where he crouched for a
long time up to his knees in water, shivering
with cold and fear.

XVIII.

GOING on her hands and knees, Sihamba
crawled towards the hut. Now she was
within ten paces of it and could see that a
man stood on guard at its doorway. " I
must creep round to the back," she thought,
and began to do so, heading for -ome shrubs
which grew to the right. Already she had
almost reached them, when of a sudden, and
for an instant only, the moon shone out
between two thick clouds, revealing her,
though indistinctly, to the eyes of the guard.
Now. Sihamba was wearing a fur cape made
of wild dog s hide, and, crouched as she was
upon her hands and knees, half hidden,
moreover, by a tuft of grass, the man took
her to be a wild dog or a jackal, and the hair
which stood out round her head for the ruff
upon the animal s neck.

" Take that, you four legged night thief! "
he said aloud, and hurled the assagai in his
hand straight at her. The aim was good;
indeed, had she been a dog it would have
transfixed her. As it was, the spear passed
just beneath her body, pinning the hanging
edge of the cape and remaining fixed in the
tough leather. Now. had Sihamba s wit left
her, as would have happened with most, she
&lt; -as lost, but not for nothing had she been a
witch doctoress from her childhood, skilled
in every artifice and accustomed to face
death. From his words she guessed that the
man had mistaken her for a wild beast, so in
stead of springing to her feet she played the
part of one, and uttering a howl of pain
scrambled away among the bushes. She
heard the man start to follow her, then the
moonlight went out, and he returned to his
post grumbling over the lost assagai and say
ing that he would find it in the jackal s body
on the morrow. ^Sihamba, listening not far
away, knew his voice; it was that of the man
who had set the noose about her neck at

Swart Piet s bidding, and who was to have
done the murder in the pass.

" Now, friend, you are unarmed," she
thought to herself, " for you have no gun
with you, and perhaps we shall settle our
accounts before you go to seek that dead
jackal by tomorrow s light." Then drawing
the assagai from the cloak and keeping it in
her hand, she crept on till she came to the
back of the hut in safety. Still, she was
not much nearer to her end, for the hut was
new and very well built, and she could find
no crack to look through, though when she
placed her ear against its side she thought
that she could hear the sound of a man s
voice. In her perplexity Sihamba cast her
eyes upwards and saw that a fine line of light
shone from the smoke hole at the very top
of the hut, which was hive shaped.

" If I can climb up there," she said to her
self, " I can look down through the smoke
hole and see and hear what passes in the hut.
Only then if the moon comes out again I
may be seen lying on the thatch; well, that
I must chance with the rest." So, very
slowly and silently, by the help of the riinpis
which bound the straw, she climbed the dome
of the hut, laughing to herself to think that
this was the worst of omens for its owner,
till at length she reached the smoke hole at
the top and looked down.

This was what she saw: Half seated, half
lying, upon a rough bedstead spread with
blankets, was Suzanne. Her hair had come
undone rind hung about her, her feet were
still loosely bound together, and, as the
Kaffir Asika had said, her face was like
the face of a dead woman, and her eyes were
set in a fixed, unnatural stare. Before her
was a table cut by natives out of a single
block of wood, on which were two candles
of sheep fat set in bottles, and beyond the
table stood Swart Piet, who was addressing
her.

" Suzanne," he said, " listen to me. I
have always loved you, Suzanne; yes, from
the time when I was but a boy. We used to
meet now and again, you know, when you
were out riding with the Englishman, who
is dead " here Suzanne s face changed,
then resumed its deathlike mask " and
always I worshiped you, and always I hated
the Englishman, whom you favored. Well,
as you grew older you began to understand
and dislike me, and Kenzie began to under
stand and insult me, and from that seed of
slight and insult grew all that is bad in me.
Yes, Suzanne, you will say that I am
wicked, and I am wicked. I have done
things of which I should not like to tell
you. I have done such things as you
saw last night, I have mixed myself up with
Kafrir wizardries and cruelties, I have be-

SWALLOW.

873

come the owner of Kaffir women there are
some of them round here, as you may see I
have forgotten God and the Saviour; nay,
daily I blaspheme Them by word and deed;
I have murdered, I have stolen, I have borne
false witness, and so far from honoring my
own father, why, I killed the dog when he
was drunk and dared me to it. Well, I owed
him nothing less for begetting me into such
a world as this. And now, standing before
you as I do here, with your husband s blocd
upon my hands, and seeking your love over
his grave, you will look at me and say, This
man is a devil, an inhuman monster, a
madman, one who should be cast from the
earth and stamped deep, deep into hell.
Yes, all these things I am, and let the weight
of them rest upon your head, for you made
me them, Suzanne. I am mad, I know that
I am mad, as my father and grandfather were
before me, but I am mad with knowledge,
for in me runs the blood of the old Pondo
witch doctoress, my grandmother, she who
knew many things that are not given to
white men. When I saw you and loved you
I became half mad before that I was sane
and when the Englishman, Kenzie, struck
me with the whip after our fight at the sheep
kraal, ah ! then I went wholly mad, and see
how wisely, for you are the first fruits of my
madness, you and the body that tonight
rolls to and fro in the ocean. Now, look
you, Suzanne: I have won you by craft and
blood, and by craft and blood I will keep
you. Here you are in my power, here God
Himself could not save you from me, in Bull
Head s secret krantz that none know of but
some few natives. Choose, therefore, forget
the sins that I have committed to win you,
and become mine willingly, and no woman
shall ever find a better husband, for then the
fire and the tempest will leave my brain and
it will grow calm as it was before I saw you.
Have you no answer ? Well I will not hurry
you. See, I must go do you know what
for ? To set scouts lest by chance your
father or other fools should have found my
hiding place, though I think that they can
never find it except it be through the wis
dom of Sihamba, which they will not seek.
Still, I go, and in an hour I will return lor
your answer, Suzanne, since, whether you
desire it or desire it not, fortune has given
you to me. Have you no word for me
before I go ? "

Now, during all this long, half insane
harangue, Suzanne had sat quite silent,
making no answer at all, not even seeming
to see the demon, for such he was, whose
wicked talk defiled her ears; but when he
asked her whether she had nothing to say to
him before he went, still looking not at him
but beyond him, she gave him his answer

in one word, the same that she had used
when she awoke from her swoon:

" Murderer ! "

Something in the tone in which she spoke,
or perhaps in the substance of that short
speech, seemed to cow him; at least, he
turned and left the hut, and presently
Sihamba heard him talking to the sentry
without, bidding him to keep close watch
till he came back within an hour.

When Piet went out he left the door board
of the hut open, so that Sihamba dared
neither act nor speak, fearing lest the guard
should hear or see her. Therefore she still
lay upon the top of the hut, and watched
through the smoke hole. For a while
Suzanne sat quiet upon the bed, then of a
sudden she rose from it and, shuffling across
the hut as well as her bound feet would allow
her, closed the opening with the door board,
and secured it by its wooden bar. Next she
returned to the bed, and, seated upon it,
clasped her hands and began to pray, mut
tering aloud and mixing with her prayer
the name of her husband Ralph. Ceasing
presently, she thrust her hand into her
bosom and drew from it a knife, not large,
but strong and very sharp. Opening this
knife she cut the thong that bound her
ankles, and made it into a noose. Then she
looked earnestly first at the noose, next at
the knife, and thirdly at the candles, and
Sihamba understood that she meant to do
herself to death, and was choosing between
steel and rope and fire.

Now, all this while, although she dared
not so much as whisper, Sihamba had not
been idle, for with the blade of the assagai
she was working gently at the thatch of the
smoke hole, and cutting the rimpis that
bound it, till at last, and not too soon, she
thought that it was wide enough to allow of
the passage of her small body. Then,
watching until the guard leaned against the
hut, so that the bulge of it would cut her
off from his sight during the instant that
her figure was outlined against the sky, she
stood up, and, thrusting her feet through the
hole, forced her body to follow them, and
then dropped lightly as a cat to the floor
beneath. But now there was another dan
ger to be faced, and a great one, namely,
that Suzanne might cry out in fear, which
doubtless she would have done had not the
sudden appearance of some living creature
in the hut where she thought herself alone
so startled her that for a moment she lost her
breath. Before she could find it again
Sihamba was whispering in her ear saying:

" Keep silence for your life s sake. Swal
low. It is I. Sihamba, who am come to save
you."

Suzanne stared at her, and light came back

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

into the empty eyes; then they grew dark
again as she answered below her breath:

Of what use is my life ? Ralph is dead,
and I was about to take it that I may save
myself from shame. and go to seek him, for
surely God will forgive the sin."

Sihamba looked at her and said:

" Swallow, prepare yourself for a great
joy, and, above all, do not cry out. Your
husband is not dead, he was but wounded,
and I drew him living from the sea. He lies
safe at the stead in your mother s care."

Suzanne heard her. and, notwithstanding
her caution, she would have cried aloud in
the madness of her joy had not Sihamba,
seeing her lips opened, thrust her hands
upon her mouth and held them there till the
danger was past.

" You do not lie to me? " she gasped at
length.

" Nay, I speak truth; I swear it. But
this is no time to talk. Yonder stand food
and milk; eat while I think."

As Sihamba guessed, nothing but a little
water had passed Suzanne s lips since that
meal which she and her husband took to
gether beside the wagon, nor one minute
before could she have swallowed anything
had her life been the price of it. But now it
was different, for despair had left her and
hope shone in her heart again, and behold !
of a sudden she was hungry, and ate and
drank with gladness, while Sihamba thought.

Presently the little woman looked up and
whispered:

" A plan comes into my head; it is a
strange one, but I can find no other, and it
may serve our turn, for I think that good
luck goes with us. Swallow, give me that
noose of hide which you made from the riem
that bound your feet."

Suzanne obeyed her, wondering, whereon
she placed the noose about her neck, then
bade Suzanne stand upon the bed and thrust
the end of the riem loosely into the thatch
of the hut as high up as she could reach,
so that it looked as though it were made fast
there. Next, Sihamba slipped off her fur
cloak, leaving herself naked except for the
inoocha around her middle, and, clasping her
hands behind her back with the assagai
between them, she drew the riem taut and
leaned against the wall of the hut, after the
fashion of one who is about to be pulled
from the ground and strangled.

" Now, mistress, listen to me," she said
earnestly. " You have seen me like this
before, have you not, when I was about to
be hanged, and you bought my life at a
price ? Well, as it chances, that man who
guards the hut is he who took me at Bull
Head s bidding, and set the rope round my
neck, whereon I said some words to him

which made him afraid. Now if he sees me
again thus in a hut where he knows you to
be alone, he will think that I am a ghost
and his heart will turn to ice, and the strength
of his hands to water, and then before he
can find his strength again I will make an
end of him with the spear, as I know well
how to do, although I am so small, and we
will fly."

" Is there no other way ? " murmured
Suzanne, aghast.

" None, Swallow. For you the choice lies
between witnessing this deed and Swart
Piet. Nay, you need not witness it, even, if
you will do as I tell you. Presently, when I
give the word, loosen the bar of the door
board, then crouch by the hole and utter a
low cry of fear, calling to the man on guard
for help. He will enter and see me, whereon
you can creep through the door hole and
wait without, leaving me to deal with him.
If I succeed. I will be with you at once; if I
fail, run to the stream and hoot like an owl,
when Zinti, who is hidden there, will join
you. Then you must get out of the krantz
as best you can. Only one man watches the
entrance, and, if needful, Zinti can shoot him.
The schimmcl and other horses are hidden
in the wood, and he will lead you to them.
Mount and ride for home, or anywhere away
from this accursed place, and at times, when
you talk of the manner of your escape with
your husband, think kindly of Sihamba
Ngenyanga. Nay, do not answer, for there
is little time to lose. Quick, now, to the
door hole, and do as I bade you."

So, like one in a dream, Suzanne loosened
the bar, and, crouching by the entrance to
the hut, uttered a low wail of terror, saying,
" Help me, soldier, help me swiftty," in the
Kaffir tongue. The man without heard and,
pushing down the board, crept in at once,
saying, " Who harms you, lady ? " as he rose
to his feet. Then suddenly, in this hut
where there was but one woman, a white
woman, whom he himself had carried into it,
he beheld another woman Sihamba; and
his hair stood up on his head and his eyes
grew round with terror. Yes, it was
Sihamba herself, for the light of the candles
shone full upon her, or, rather, her ghost,
and she was hanging to the roof, the tips of
her toes just touching the ground, as once
he had seen her hang before.

For some seconds he stared in his terror,
and while he stared Suzanne slipped from
the hut. Then muttering, " It is the spirit
of the witch Sihamba, her spirit that haunts
me," he dropped to his knees and, trembling
like a leaf, turned to creep from the hut.
Next second he was dead, dead without a
sound, for Sihamba was a doctoress and
knew well where to thrust with the spear.

SWALLOW.

875

Of all this Suzanne heard nothing and
saw nothing, till presently Sihamba stood by
her side holding the skin cape in one hand
and the spear in the other.

" Now one danger is done with," she said
quietly, as she put on the cape, " but many
still remain. Follow me, Swallow; " and
going to the edge of the stream, she hooted
like an owl, whereupon Zinti came out of the
reeds, looking very cold and frightened.

Be swift," whispered Sihamba, and they
started along the krantz at a run. Before
they were half way across it the storm
clouds, which had been thinning gradually,
broke up altogether, and the moon shone
out with a bright light, showing them as
plainly as though it were day; but, as it
chanced, they met nobody and were seen of
none.

At length they reached the cleft in the
rock that led to the plain below. " Stay
here," said Sihamba, "while I look;" and
she crept to_ the entrance. Presently she
returned and said:

" A man watches there, and it is not pos
sible to slip past him because of the moon
light. Now, I know of only one thing that
we can do; and you, Zinti, must do it. Slip
down the rock and cover the man with your
gun, saying to him that if he stirs a hand or
speaks a word you will shoot him r^ead.
Hold him thus till we are past you on our
way to the wood, then follow us as best you
can, but do not fire except to save your life
or ours. "

Now, the gifts of Zinti lay rather in track
ing and remembering paths and directions
than in fighting men, so that when he heard
this order he was afraid and hesitated. But
when she saw it Sihamba turned upon him
so fiercely that he feared her more than the
watchman, and went at once, so that this
man, who was half asleep, suddenly saw the
muzzle of a roer within three paces of his
head and heard a voice command him to
stand still and silent or die. Thus he stood,
indeed, until he perceived that the new wife
of his chief was escaping, and then, remem
bering what would be his fate at the hands
of Bull Head, he determined to take his
chance of being shot, and turning suddenly,
sped towards the kraal shouting as he ran,

whereon Zinti fired at him, but the shot went
wide. A cannon could scarcely have made
more noise than did the great roer in the
silence of the night as the report of it echoed
to and fro among the hills.

" Oh, fool to fire, and yet greater fool to
miss ! " said Sihamba. " To the horses !
Swift ! swift ! "

They ran as the wind runs, and now they
were in the wood, and now they had found
the beasts.

" Praise to the Snake of my house ! " said
Sihamba, "they are safe, all four of them;"
and very quickly they untied the riems by
which they had fastened the horses.

" Mount, Swallow ! " said Sihamba, hold
ing the head of the great schimmel.

Suzanne set her foot upon the shoulder of
Zinti, who knelt to receive it, and sprang
into the saddle; then, having lifted Sihamba
on to the gray mare, he mounted the other
horse, holding the mule by a leading rein.

" Which way, mistress ? " he asked.

" Homewards," she answered, and they
cantered forward through the wood.

On the further side of this wood was a
little sloping plain not more than three
hundred paces wide, and beyond it lay the
seaward nek through which they must pass
on their journey to the stead. Already they
were out of the wood and upon the plain,
when from their right a body of horsemen
swooped towards them, seven in all, of
whom one, the leader, was Swart Piet him
self, cutting them off from the nek. They
halted their horses as though to a word of
command, and speaking rapidly, Sihamba
asked of Zinti: " Is there any other pass
through yonder range, for this one is barred
to us ? "

" None that I know of," he answered;
" but I have seen that the ground behind us
is flat and open as far as the great peak
which you saw rising on the plain away
beyond the sky line."

" Good," said Sihamba. " Let us head for
the peak, since we have nowhere else to go,
and if we are separated, let us agree to meet
upon its southern slope. Now, Zinti, loose
the mule, for we have our lives to save, and
ride on, remembering that death is close be
hind you."

(To be continued.}

ARTISTS * EIR \voRK

"THE UGLY SNOW MAN."

A peculiar and rather amusing chapter
in the annals of contemporary art is fur
nished by the adventures of the statue of
Balzac recently designed by the cele
brated Parisian sculptor, Rodin. Inci
dentally, it shows that New York is not
the only city in which a difference of
artistic opinion sometimes generates what
is termed in the vernacular a "row. "

It began when the Society of Men of
Letters, of which Zola was president at
the time, decided that the great French
novelist should have a statue erected to
his honor, and commissioned Rodin to
model one. The result astonished ever} r -
bod} 7 . Some called it a work of immense
power ; others declared that it was a
shapeless, grotesque mass, with no re
semblance to Balzac and little to human
ity. The Men of Letters took the latter
view, and refused to accept the statue.
The .sculptor threatened a lawsuit. The
municipal council was appealed to, but
it hesitated to authorize the erection of
so peculiar an object. Then an admirer
of Rodin bought the statue, paying
twenty thousand francs for it, and an
nouncing his intention of setting it up in
his private garden. Thereupon other
admirers started a movement to purchase
it from him, and to secure a place for it
in some Parisian park or square. Here
the matter stood at the latest advices, the
present owner of the statue having de
clared his willingness to turn it over to
the public at the price he paid for it. It
is said that the city of Brussels has also
offered to buy and erect it.

" The first impression, " writes an Eng
lish critic, who does not take sides in the
controversy, " is that of an extraordinary
grotesque, a something monstrous and
superhuman. Under an old dressing
gown, with empty sleeves, the man
stands with his hands held together
in front of him and head thrown back.
. . . . There is something uncanny in the
head ; the jaws are so large that they seem
to fall on the great chest and form a part
of it ; and then the cavernous hollows

of the eyes, without eyeballs or sight !
There is something demoniac in the thing
that thrills the blood."

" For my own part, " says M. Rodin
himself, "I feel that I have realized my
conception absolutely. I wished to show
the great worker haunted at night with
an idea, and rising to transcribe it at his
writing desk. "

Painting, we know, represents night
scenes without color ; Rodin seems to
have had the idea that sculpture should
represent one almost without form truly
a bold and interesting experiment.

NELSON AT TRAFALGAR.

Davidson s "Nelson s Last Signal,"
reproduced on page 877, is a careful his
torical study as well as a fine picture. It
is a ver} T accurate rendering of the scene
on board the famous old Victory which
is still afloat in Portsmouth harbor, a me
mento of the picturesque da}-s of seventy
four gun ships of the line as it at least
may have been at half past eleven o clock
on the eventful morning of October 21,
1805. Nelson, his right sleeve empty of
the arm he lost at Teneriffe, his breast
covered with orders, is talking with Cap
tain Hard}- of the Victory (who has a tele
scope under his arm) and Captain Black-
wood, of the frigate Euryalus. The ad
miral s secretary, Mr. Scott, who is bend
ing over a chest at the right, had urged
Nelson not to go into battle with the
decorations on his coat, representing that
it would be almost certain death in an
action that was to be fcmght muzzle to
muzzle, the French and Spaniards having
a practice the American troops at Santi
ago may remember something of the
same sort of posting sharpshooters in
their tops to pick off the enemy s officers.
Nelson declined to lay aside his admi
ral s insignia, but agreed to the request
of Blackwood and Hardy that two other
ships, the Leviathan and Temeraire,
should be ordered to press ahead of the
Victon - . As, however, lie refused to
allow sail shortened to permit them to
pass, the execution of the order was ini-

88o

MUXSEY S MAGAZINE.

" FLOREAT ETONA! AN INCIDENT OF THE U.NSICCK^SIUL ATTACK BY THE BRITISH UPON THE
BOERS AT LAING S NECK, JANUARY 28, l88l FROM THE PAINTING BY LADY BUTLER.

" Poor Elwes fell among the Fifty Eighth. He shouted to another Eton boy, adjutant of the Fifty Eighth, whose horse
had been shot : Come along, Monck ! Floreat Etona ! We must be in the front rank ! and he was shot immediately."

possible, and he led the way into action,
steering the Victory straight at the big
gest vessel in Villeneuve s fleet, the Span
ish Santissima Trinidad, which carried a
hundred and thirty six guns.

At ten minutes to twelve the allies
opened fire, and Nelson ordered the com
mander of the Euryalus to his frigate,
bidding him pass final instructions down
the British line that if any captain could
not understand his signals, or could not
carry out his sailing orders, he might take
any course that would bring him quickly
and closely alongside of an enemy s ship.

One of the first to fall on the Victory
was Mr. Scott, struck by a solid shot
from the Trinidad ; and it was not long
before a bullet from the mizzen top of the
Redoutable, a French vessel which lay
on the other side of Nelson s flagship,

stretched the admiral, mortally wounded,
on the spot where the deck was wet with
his secretarv s blood.

A REMBRANDT EXHIBITION.

Even- art lover would wish to be in
Amsterdam this month. The old Dutch
city is to have a great exhibition of the
works of Rembrandt, who died in Am
sterdam, and painted many of his best
pictures there. It will probably be the
finest collection of the canvases of the
great master of light and shade that has
ever been brought together. Several
continental galleries will contribute, and
a number of paintings will be loaned by
English owners, among whom are Queen
A ictoria and the Dukes of Westminster
and Devonshire.

There are some fine Rembrandts in

]

884

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE.

"AN KASTKKN PRINCESS."
Prom the painting by A. Enault.

America, but none of these, so far as we half that sum when put up at auction in

are aware, will go to Amsterdam.

* * # #

A painting by Sir John Millais, which

London early in July. It is freely pre
dicted that the extraordinary popularity
that Millais enjoyed in England during

sold for $8,500 last j ear, brought just his life will not last after his death.

IN THE PUBLIC EYE

COLONEL ROOSEVELT S SUCCESSOR.

Charles Herbert Allen, the new Assist
ant Secretary of the Navy, does not fur
nish as much copy for the newspaper
writers as did his predecessor, Colonel
Roosevelt, but he has already proved
himself the right man in the right place.
He is a rapid and effective worker, and
fair and generous in his dealings with his
subordinates.

Mr. Allen s last public service, before
his recent appointment, was as member
of the House from the Lowell district of
Massachusetts. He was not especially
conspicuous then, but he was regarded
as a man of ability, and was a general
favorite in the House and in the press
gallery.

He is an excellent amateur photog
rapher, and took keen delight, while in

Congress, in surprising his colleagues in
grotesque attitudes with a snap shot
camera. One day he received a letter
from a constituent, a soldier s widow in
Lowell, saying that her husband was
buried somewhere at Arlington, and that
she longed above all things to know how
his grave was marked. She was poor,
and a journey to Washington was out of
the question. Congressman Allen took
his camera in a buggy, drove out to
Arlington one sweltering day in Aiigust,
hunted up the grave, and photographed
it. Then he developed the picture, had
it framed, and sent it with a pleasant
note to the waiting widow at home.

And this was only one of many kindly
acts laid to Mr. Allen s credit while in
Congress. He has hundreds of well
wishers in Washington who rejoice in his

CHARi.ES H. ALLEN, OF MASSACHUSETTS, WHO SUCCEEDED THEODORE ROOSEVELT AS
ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF THE NAVY.

From a. photofraph hy IVestfott, Lmucll.
9

886

MUNSEY S MAGAZINE

LIEUTENANT ROHERT K. PEARY, I NITED STATES NAVY, WHO IS NOW IN ARCTIC WATERS,
ENDEAVORING TO WIN FOR THE AMERICAN FLAG THE "FARTHEST NORTH"

RECORD, NOW HELD BY DR. NANSEN.
l- roin a photograph by A farce an, Sau Francisco.

recent promotion and predict great things
for him.

A SOLDIER SENATOR.

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