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New England Magazine 

An Illustrated Monthly 

New Series, Vol. 30 

March, 1904 

i August, 1904 

Boston, Mass. 

America Company, Publishers 

238 Tremont Street 

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1904, by 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

All rights reserved. 




Vol. XXX March, 1904— August, 1904 

Abbott, Jacob, A Neglected New England Author Fletcher Osgood 471 

Abby Sophia's Legacy. A Story. . . . . . Harriet A. Nash 299 

Acadia. What it Owed to New England. . . Emily P. Weaver 423 

Alexander Hamilton William Dudley Mabry 443 

Amateur Genealogy Fannie Wilder Brown 566 

America, Darkest Kelly Miller 14 

America. Paolo Toscanelli and the Discovery of Frederic Austin Ogg 664 

American Science, The Beginnings of — The First 

Botanist John H. Lovell 753 

Armenian Monastery in Venice, The .... Mary Mills Patrick, Ph. D 175 

Artists at the St. Louis Exposition, New England Jean N. Oliver 259 

Beginnings of American Science :— The First 

Botanist . John H. Lovell ■ . . 753 

Black Jake's Souvenir. A Story Henrietta R. Eliot 330 

Block Island's Story Charles E. Perry 515 

Bog Plants Rosalind Richards 419 

Boston as an Art Centre William Howe Downes 155 

Botanist. The First (Beginnings of American 

Science) John H. Lovell 753 

Bridges — Ancient and Modern Clyde Elbert Ordway 548 

Brown, John. The Funeral of Rev. Joshua Young, D. D 229 

Cape Cod Town. A Typical (Yarmouth) . . Ella Matthews Bangs 678 

Catharine's Land. Queen May Ellis Nichols 50 

Church Organs « ■ ■ ■ Clyde Elbert Ordway 705 

Colonial School Books Clifton Johnson 104 

Complex Enchantment, A. A Humoresque . . Nathan Haskell Dole 147 

Concerning Oriental Rugs Mary R. Towle 338 

Concerning the Fowle Family Edith A. Sawyer 636 

Constitution. The World- Raymond L. Bridgman 598 

Contemporary Verse. New England in . . . Martha E. D. White ". . 408 

Convention of 1787 Hon. George S. Boutwell 244 

Darkest America Kelly Miller 14 

Democracy. The Doubts of the Fathers Con- 
cerning Frederic Austin Ogg 504 

Discovery of America. Paolo Toscanelli and the Frederic Austin Ogg 664 

Doubts of the Fathers Concerning Democracy . Frederic Austin Ogg 504 

Dream of Emancipation, A Anna B. A. Brown 494 

Ellsworth, Oliver Elizabeth C. Barney Buel 6ri 

English Viewpoints. Two Sara Graham Morrison 728 

Evolution of the Telephone. The Lewis E. MacBrayne 720 

Exhibition. The Poland Spring Art 737 

Exhibition. The Whistler Memorial .... Maurice Baldwin 289 

Exposition. New England Artists at the St. Louis Jean N. Oliver 259 


Farmington, Maine Mary Stoyell Stimpson 387 

Fifty Years' Wrestle, A. A Story Maude E. Smith Hymers 561 

First Admiral of New England. The .... Alexander Cameron 51 

Fowle Family. Concerning the Edith A. Sawyer 636 

French Peace Advocate. A '. Elizabeth Foster 480 

Friend of Washington's. A Charles W. Stetson . 279 

Funeral of John Brown. The . Rev. Joshua Young, D. D 229 

Garden Party, A. A Story Emilia Elliott 464 

Gardens of Rome. The Pleasure Felicia Butts Clark 3 

Genealogy. Amateur Fannie Wilder Brown 566 

Georgia. The Massachusetts Model School in . Mary Applewhite Bacon 131 

Girl of Maine, A. A Story Gertrude Robinson 125 

Gypsies. The D.'C. Cahalane 321 

Hamilton, Alexander William Dudley Mabry 443 

Hawthorne. The Tales of Poe and George D. Latimer 692 

Her Anniversary. A Story Harriet A Nash 435 

Hermit Thrushes. A Story Grace Lathrop Collin .... . . . . . . 490 

How She Settled It. A Story Kate Gannett Wells 661 

Hudson Bay. Whaling in P. T. McGrath 188 

Humour. The Utility of Zitella Cocke • • . . 83 

Inns of New England. Noted Mary H. Northend 68 

In the Kentucky Mountains Lillian Walker Williams 37 

Introduction to Unpublished Whittier Poem . Amy Woods 574 

Irish Peasant Sketch, An. Jamey's Mother . . Cahir Healy 632 

Italians of New England Amy Woods 626 

Jacob Abbott, A Neglected New England Author Fletcher Osgood 471 

Jamaica as a Summer Resort. Part I. . . . . Maurice Baldwin .... 499 

Jamaica as a Summer Resort. Part II. . . . Maurice Baldwin 577 

Jamey's Mother. An Irish Peasant Sketch . . Cahir Healy 632 

Japan of To-Day. The Hiroshi Yoshida . 354 

Joel Veltman's Moving Day. A Story . . . . A. L. Sykes 748 

Kennebec. The Pilgrim Fathers on the . . . Emma Huntingto'n Nason 309 

Kentucky Mountains. In the Lillian Walker Williams 37 

Keziah. A Story Eleanor H. Porter ....... 723 

Knowles. The Poetry of Frederic Lawrence 251 

Last Primeval White Pines of New England. 

The Fletcher Osgood 530 

Library, A Model Public. (Branford, Conn.) 484 

Lisbeth. A Story Emilia Elliott 180 

Love of Libby Baxter, The. A Story .... Imogen Clark 377 

Lucca — Rome. Viareggio — Maud Howe 138 

Maine. Farmington Mary Stoyell Stimpson 387 

Massachusetts Model School in Georgia, The . . Mary A ppleivhite Bacon ........ 131 

Memorial Exhibition. The Whistler .... Maurice Baldzvin 289 

Mexican Hacienda, The. Its Place and Its People George F. Paul 198 

Micmac and Mohawk. A Story Lillian Loring Trott 591 

Middleman, The. A Story Elliot Walker 28 

;i of Andrew, The. A Story Annie Nettleton Bourne 538 

Model Public Library, A. (Branford, Conn.) 484 

Model School in Georgia. The Massachusetts . Mary Applewhite Bacon 131 

Mr B a et^s Fall. A Story Elizabeth Robbins 272 

Neighborhood Sketches. Chapters VII. — VIII. Henry A. Shute . H3 

New England Artists at the St. Louis Exposition Jean N. Oliver 259 

New England Author. Jacob Abbott, A Neglected Fletcher Osgood 471 


New England in Contemporary Verse .... Martha E. D. White 408 

New England. Italians of '.. . Amy Woods 626 

New England. Noted Inns of Mary H. Northend 68 

New England. The Last Primeval White Pines of Fletcher Osgood 530 

New England. What Acadia Owed to . . ... Emily P. Weaver 423 

Newspaper Satire During the American Revolu- 
tion Frederic Austin Ogg 366 

New Hampshire Log-Jam, A Walter Deane 97 

Noted Inns of New England Mary H. Northend 68 

Old Town by the Sea, An. (Scituate, Mass.) . Hayes Robbins ... 167 

Oliver Ellsworth . Elizabeth C. Barney Buel 611 

Ordeal by Fire, An. A Story ' . F. M. Coates 225 

Oriental Rugs. Concerning ....... Mary R. Towle . 338 

Our Front Parlor Alligator. A Story .... Bradley Gilman • 76 

Paolo Toscanelli and the Discovery of America Frederic Austin Ogg* 664 

Passing of a Soul, The. A Story Lucretia Dunham .500 

Peace Advocate. A French Elizabeth Foster 480 

Pilgrim Fathers on the Kennebec, The . . . Emma Huntington Nason. : 309 

Plants. Bog Rosalind Richards .......... 4 J 9 

Pleasure Gardens of Rome, The . . . . . . Felicia Buttz Clark .......... 3 

Poe and Hawthorne. The Tales of .... George D. Latimer 692 

Poland Spring Art Exhibition, The 737 

Primeval White Pines of New England, The 

Last . Fletcher Osgood . . 53° 

Public Library, A Model. (Branford, Conn.) 4&4 

Queen Catharine's Land May Ellis Nichols 45 

Reed, Thomas B. An Appreciation .... Enoch Knight 215 

Reminiscences of an Old Clock Ellen Burns Sherman 344 

Rome, The Pleasure Gardens of . . . \ . . Felicia Buttz Clark 3 

Rome. Viareggio — Lucca— Maud Howe 138 

Rugs, Concerning Oriental Mary R. Towle 338 

St. Louis Exposition. New England Artists at the Jean N. Oliver 259 

Tales of Poe and Hawthorne, The ..... George D. Latimer .... 692 

Telephone, The Evolution of the Lewis E. MacBrayne 720 

That Angel Boy. A Story . Eleanor H. Porter 4°3 

Toedium Vitae. A Story Jeannette A. Marks .......... 525 

Toscanelli, Paolo, and the Discovery of America Frederic Austin Ogg 664 

Two English Viewpoints Sara Graham Morrison 728 

Undoing of Charity Randall, The. A Story . . Eleanor H. Porter 207 

Utility of Humour, The Zitella Cocke . • 83 

Venice, The Armenian Monastery in . . . . Mary Mills Patrick, Ph. D. . .' . . . . . 175 

Viareggio — Lucca — Rome ......... Maud Howe 138 

Washington's, A Friend of Charles W. Stetson ......... 279 

Whaling in Hudson Bay P. T McGrath 188 

What Acadia Owed to New England .... Emily P. Weaver 423 

When the Rose Bloomed. A Story Edith Richmond Blanchard 22 

Whistler Memorial Exhibition, The .... Maurice Baldwin 289 

White Phlox. A Story Winnif red King 686 

Whittier. Introduction to an Unpublished Poem Amy Woods 574 

Woman's Relief Corps, The Elizabeth Robbins Berry 643 

World-Constitution, The Raymond L. Bridgman 5°8 

Yarmouth — A Typical Cape Cod Town . . . Ella Matthews Bangs . 678 



All Things Are Thine Mabel Cornelia Matson 128 

Beauty M. C. Allen 228 

Caged Helen A. Saxon 673 

Colonial Day Fair, The Mary Sargent Hopkins 124 

Compensation . Clarence H. Urner 13 

Days Gone By. The John G. Whittier 576 

Estrangement, The Mary White Morton 376 

Heirs of God Burton Ives 288 

Home Path. The Frank Walcott Hutt 747 

Human Heart. The Mabel Cornelia Matson 137 

In the Arnold Arboretum Emily Tolman 691 

Imagination H. Arthur Pozvell 271 

Insight Maurice Baldwin 187 

Mist Ellen Frances Baldwin 36 

My Creed Cora A. Matson Dolson 499 

Old Mirror, The L. M. Montgomery 384 

Out of Sight, Out of Mind? Zitella Cocke 597 

Perplexity Clarence H. Urner . 224 

Poetry of Frederic Lawrence Knowles, The 251 

Quatrain Will Ward Mitchell 434 

Relic, A Edwin L. Sabin 608 

Sarracenia Purpurea I'na Lord McDavitt 21 

Since Knowing You Helen A. Saxon 546 

Singers, The Cora A. Matson Dolson 596 

Star of Love, The Clarence H. Urner 479 

Understanding Charlotte Becker 50 

Valley Road, The James Owen Tryon 727 

Whittier Poem, An Unpublished John G. Whittier 576 

Worth of Life, The Katharine Lee Bates 243 

New England Magazine 

March, 1904 

Volume XXX 


Number i 

The Pleasure Gardens of Rome 

By Felicia Buttz Clark 

THE Italians are essentially a 
pleasure loving people. Cen- 
turies of the highest develop- 
ment of art, literature and music 
have formed in them love of all that 
it is bright and beautiful. This is 
demonstrated by their fondness for 
brilliant colors and their delight in 
the sunshine which is so freely be- 
stowed upon their country. In 
Rome, it is seldom that rain falls 
more than a few hours at a time, 
and rarely is one prevented from be- 
ing out in the air at some hour of 
the day. All this leads to a life of 
pleasure and enjoyment, and even 
the stranger within the gates of the 
"Eternal City" feels an uncontrol- 
lable longing to leave the gloomy 
palaces, with their vaulted ceilings 
and bare floors, and hasten out into 
the numerous gardens and parks 
with which the city has been from 
time immemorial so abundantly 

When one thinks of the glories 
of Rome two thousand years ago, in 
the midst of the utmost luxury, 
when magnificent baths and spa- 

cious gardens were provided for the 
enjoyment of all, even the humblest, 
one can no longer wonder at the 
unusual provision in modern Rome 
for life "Al fresco". Here are small 
parks, where comfortable benches 
invite the passerby to rest and 
breathe in the delicious air, while 
basking in the warm sunlight ; 
fountains falling into ancient sar- 
cophagi, carved by hands long 
since laid away in eternal rest, 
cool the heated air, and gay flowers 
of scarlet and purple and blue are 
artistically arranged to charm the 
eye and delight the senses. Not 
only are there many of these rest- 
ing places, but the Villas, sur- 
rounded by large grounds, are 
thrown open to the public, by the 
laws of the city. When the present 
Prince of the family of the Doria- 
Pamphili came into possession of 
the magnificent property which 
lies on the Janiculum Hill, outside 
of the city gates, he positively re- 
fused to allow his fellow citizens 
to make use of his beautifully kept 
parks and breathe the pine-scented 




air of his broad lawns. But the law 
was brought to bear upon him, and, 
although he was limited to the time 
for the admission of the public to 
Fridays and Mondays, from one 
o'clock to sun-down, he has been 
obliged to throw the gates open. 
This villa is a most delightful 
pleasure garden for the people. On 
the days appointed, long lines of 
carriages are seen winding up the 
Janiculum Hill, past the ancient 
Church of San Pietro in Montorio, 

through the carefully cultivated 
park just below the fountain of San 
Paolo, whose waters dash out with 
enormous force, going on down the 
hill to turn several mills on the 
banks of the River Tiber. They 
pass the borders of the spacious 
grounds reserved for the statue of 
the great General Giuseppe Gari- 
baldi, — sitting on his bronze horse, 
with his face turned toward the 
Vatican Palace beneath him, — and 
on, on, through the gate in the Au- 



relian Wall, passing the tablet 
which records that on this spot 
Garibaldi's troops met the Papal 
troops in 1849, until the carriage 
rolls into the park, under the shade 
of tall trees and beneath broad 
reaches of smooth grass, dotted 
with daisies. The Prince desires 
that only two-horse carriages be 
driven through his premises, so the 
humbler vehicles must be left at the 
gate-way. Here, under the um- 
brella pines, one may wander for 
hours, following winding paths, 
cunningly devised so as to disguise 
the fact that the distances are short. 
Fountains spring up in shady nooks 
and wild flowers blossom among 
the old bits of Roman ruins. The 
Villa itself is not remarkable ; but 
all Romans are thankful to those 
Princes who many years ago chose 
this lovely place for their residence 
and gave to their fellow men an op- 
portunity to enjoy with them the 
cool air, the velvet turf and the 
miniature lakes, bordered by wil- 

Another Villa which is open on 
Thursdays, lies on the old Coelian 
Hill, above the Church of Gregory 
the Great, from the steps of which 
he sent out the .Monk Augustine 
and his little band of brethren to 
evangelize Britain. Near the en- 
trance to the Villa stands the 
Church of St. Stephen, ornamented 
with paintings of the cruel tortures 
inflicted upon the martyrs of old. 
Luckily for the peace of mind of 
tourists, this church is not often 
visited, and is only open for service 
on one or two days in the year. 
The pictures are too realistic to be 
pleasant. In the Villa Mattei are 
walk- bordered by tall boxwoods 
trimmed into elaborate designs,- 
flower beds full of lovely blossoms 
and old statues and pieces of sar- 

cophagi, green with the moss of 
ages. Here, Rome lies spread out 
before one, its towers and domes 
rising into the clear air, that air of 
Italy which seems to cover with 
glory even the ugly bits of archi- 
tecture, and tinges with romance 
every dark corner or ivy-green wall. 
The river flows like a silver cord far 
below, the cross upon St. Peter's 
glistens and sparkles, while the 
broad Campagna, tinted with rose 
and dull brown, stretches into the 
distance, until it touches the sur- 
rounding circle of mountains, half 
hidden by the faint blue haze of 
late afternoon. It is a scene never 
to be forgotten, this view of Rome 
from the Villa Mattei. 

But the park most frequented by 
Romans is that belonging to the 
Villa Borghese, outside of the Porto 
del Popolo, now called Villa Um- 
berto I., in memory of the assassi- 
nated monarch. The grounds are 
open free. For many years the 
Villa was the property of Prince 
Borghese, but during the past year, 
the young King, Victor Emmanuel 
III., has bought it and has presented 
it to the city. The plan is to join 
the park to the Pincian Hill. If 
this is done, — and I believe the esti- 
mates for the work are already be- 
fore the authorities, — Rome will 
possess one of the most beautiful 
parks in the world. It will not be 
so large as those of London, nor as 
the Bois de Boulogne, but it will De 
so interesting on account of its as- 
sociations, in fact, so typically 
Italian in every way, that it will 
prove to be one of the most attrac- 
tive places on the tourist's list. A 
statue of King Humbert is to be 
placed in the park. 

On Thursday afternoon, when 
the school children are out in full 
force, — for Thursday is the holiday 




in Italy, — when the nurses in their 
gay dresses, with white ribbons 
floating from their large caps, and 
gold and silver pins decorating 
their glossy hair, carry infants un- 
der the shade of the tall trees, when 
hundreds of carriages drive through 
the gates, along the roads leading 
past woods and flowers, coming in- 
to the deep shadows of the ilexes, 
large with the growth of centuries, 

and biscuits are dispensed at small 
round tables, many women and 
children sit. Down by the minia- 
ture temple, near the tall cypresses, 
by the fountain, under the pine trees 
which cast long shades on the soft 
grass, everywhere, are the children, 
laughing, playing and enjoying 
themselves after a week of hard 
study. Ah ! the Villa Borghese ! 
What a boon it is to Rome ! in the 


or past fountains green with age, 
the Villa Borghese presents a very 
gay appearance. Out in the fields, 
where cows are grazing peacefully, 
a group of young Seminarists are 
playing ball. Their long robes do 
not seem to impede their move- 
ments and they are as eager over 
their game as boys of any other 
country. At the "Latteria," where 
fresh milk, cream, fruit in its season 

heat of summer it is a blessing to 
the poor and rich alike, and in July 
and August, when the foreigners 
have forsaken the city for some cool- 
er clime, the Romans take posses- 
sion of their parks, and, as the sun 
goes down, a ball of fire, they begin 
to come into the Villa Borghese, 
where the fresh breezes blow and 
the stately pines rear their heads 
toward a cloudless, starlit sky. 


There are two other large and 
beautiful gardens in Rome which 
are not open to the public. These 
are the Quirinal Palace garden, and 
the one belonging to the Vatican. 
When the new King came to the 
throne, he selected for his resi- 
dence, — his "Home," as he said he 
wished it to be called, — the "Palaz- 
zina," a part of the large Quirinal 
Palace which has not been used for 
many years. This was newly deco- 
rated in the best English style, after 
designs selected by their Majesties, 
and from the private rooms of the 
Queen, a terrace was built, over- 
looking the garden. On the terrace 
were placed hundreds of flowering 
plants, making it almost a continua- 
tion of the rose-covered arbors be- 
low. Here the King and Queen and 
little Princesses, Yolande Marghe- 
rita and Mafalda, walk among the 
blossoms ; but the inquisitive eyes 
of the people may not penetrate 
here, and only from hearsay does 
one know of the beauties of this 
garden, hidden behind high, gray 

The Vatican Garden may, how- 
ever, be visited occasionally, if a 
special permit is obtained, and I had 
the pleasure of going into it not 
very long ago. It is peculiarly love- 
ly because here nature has been al- 
lowed to wander at will, and the 
woods are wild and untrimmed, a 
relief to the eye after the conven- 
tional gardens of the city. The 
birds sing sweetly in the depths of 
the woods and tiny streamlets 
trickle softly over the beds of moss. 
Until entering this quiet, peaceful 
spot one would not imagine that 
Rome, with its bustling, restless 
population, contained such a haven 
of rest. It is many years since the 
Popes laid out this park, and built 
a small villa in the midst of the 

trees, to which they could retire 
when weary of the round of state 
life. Since Pope Pius IX. laid down 
the reins of temporary power, this 
villa has been used for the summer 
home of the pontiff. It is a small 
building, containing not more than 
a dozen rooms in all, but connecting 
with a tower in which there is a 
large reception room. Here the 
Pope receives his ministers and 
transacts business. When the heat 
of summer comes on, he withdraws 
to this villa and, in the midst of the 
trees and birds of the park, spends 
two months or more, as it pleases 

The park which is best known to 
all visitors to Rome is the "Pincio," 
carefully laid out on an elevation 
overlooking the city. So ingenious- 
ly has it been planned that one does 
not realize the very limited space 
which it covers. The most effective 
approach is from the Piazza del 
Popolo. The road winds back and 
forth, upward between the cacti and 
palms until it turns into the Pincio, 
and then continues a circuitous, ser- 
pentine route around the summit of 
the hill. 

Not the least interesting part of 
this well-known park is its history. 
Here, centuries ago, Lucullus had 
his famous Gardens, full of the 
greatest luxury. Near here was his 
Villa where he entertained emper- 
ors and the high and noble of those 
days at feasts so elaborate that their 
cost can scarcely be estimated. In 
these gardens were held orgies un- 
mentionable, so we are told by the 
historians, and amid the flowers and 
palms of his gardens, who knows 
what plots have been laid, what 
schemes formed for the pulling 
down of the mighty from their seats 
of power, and placing there some 
favorite of the people? 



Lucullus passed away, and later, 
Claudius came to the throne, with 
a wicked woman, Messalina, for his 
wife. Claudius was indolent, fond 
of pleasure and not given to watch- 
ing the deeds of his beautiful wife. 
Messalina cast her eyes upon this 
garden, then the property of a Ro- 
man noble, and determined to have 

first, he was incensed ; then his 
natural indolence overcame him, 
and possibly his love for Messalina 
still possessed his heart, for he en- 
tered Rome, went directly to his 
palace and sat down to eat his 
dinner, without giving orders for 
the arrest of his wicked wife. But 
Messalina was not to escape so 


it for her own. Like Jezebel of old, 
she made a plan to get possession of 
the Gardens, and caused the owner 
of them to be put to death. Messa- 
lina immediately called the gardens 
her own and went to them to spend 
most of her time. She carried on 
wild revels there, the news of 
which, in time, came to the ears of 
her husband, who was then on his 
way from Ostia, by the sea. At 

easily. The words of the Lord,, 
through the Prophet Elijah, to 
Ahab, when he was going to take 
the vineyard of Naboth are par- 
ticularly applicable to Messalina. 
" Thus saith the Lord, ' In the place 
where dogs licked the blood of Na- 
both shall dogs lick thy blood, even 
thine. ' : An enemy of Messalina,. 
wishing to end her life, went to her 
villa on the Pincian Hill, and, with- 



out any orders from his master, 
forced the Empress to fall upon the 
sword and thus end her terrible ca- 

So charming are these gardens 
upon the Pincian Hill that one does 
not remember long the awful trage- 
dies which have been enacted here. 
The light, the mirth, the music and 
merry faces of the children serve to 
remove from the mind the sad im- 
pressions made by the history of the 

possible, and they are certainly suc- 

Let us go there on a clear, beau- 
tiful afternoon, about four o'clock, 
and, sitting near the wall of roses, 
watch the people as they pass by. 
Here they come, in carriages and on 
foot ; of every nationality. The 
Turk with his fez, doubtless the 
Ambassador from the Sultan's do- 
mains ; the Greek minister lying 
back on the cushions in his luxuri- 


place. Lucullus is gone, Messalina 
is" gone, and the long line of em- 
perors has passed away, with the 
record of bloodshed and horror. 
Christ has come to earth, and has 
brought love and light and peace. 
So we wander along the flower-bor- 
dered paths, listening to the flow of 
liquid Italian falling from the lips 
of the hundreds of persons who are 
almost always to be found here, and 
seeing what the Italian pleasure 
gardens really consist in. They are 
made for the purpose of passing 
away one's time as agreeably as 

ous carriage ; the group of Ameri- 
can ladies, with the red-covered 
Baedeker well in evidence; the 
family of the English clergyman, 
father and mother and four rosy- 
faced daughters ; all are here. And 
between them and all around are 
the handsome Italians, wth smiling 
faces, long moustaches, and delicate 
hands making graceful gestures to 
save superfluous words. 

The musicians strike the first 
notes and the Municipal Band plays 
loudly, while the carriages draw up 
on the other side of the benches 






where the ordinary people sit, and 
all listen quietly to the overture. 
Occasionally a gentleman leaps 
from his carriage and, going to the 
side of a couple of elegantly dressed 
ladies, holds an animated conversa- 
tion with them. Indeed, this is the 
afternoon reception for the Romans. 
Everybody in society is here, and 
there are many exchanges of com- 
pliments and many solicitous in- 
quiries about the health of each in- 
dividual member of the various 

The music ceases, and the coach- 
men drive their horses forward, 
around the circle of Pincian Hill. 
The Water Clock tells the time of 
day above the heads of a flourish- 
ing brood of little ducks, and two 
graceful white swans glide in a dig- 
nified manner across the tiny pond. 
The German priests, robed in scar- 
let, move about under the trees, 

adding another touch of color to the 
gorgeous scene. Hark ! the band 
begins again ! This time it is the 
" Victor Emmanuel March." A 
high cart comes around the curve, 
and in a flash the King, driving with 
the sweet-faced Queen seated by his 
side, whirls by, received with re- 
spectful salutations from all the 

The last piece is being played and 
the carriages go swiftly down 
toward the Corso. The sun is get- 
ting low, and St. Peter's dome is 
resplendent in silver gleams of 
light. Monte Mario lies like a mass 
of emerald on the right. The birds 
are singing in the Villa Borghese, 
below the steep wall of the Pincio. 
One by one the people go away, 
and twilight falls over Rome, that 
pleasure-satiated, beautiful city, ly- 
ing as a gem, encircled by a border 
of amethystine mountains. 


By Clarence H. Urner 

The dewdrop on the wilding bloom, 
Afar from earthly pomp withdrawn, 

Feels not the lonesome desert's gloom, 
For in its clasp it holds the Dawn. 

Darkest America 

By Kelly Milier :1 

Professor of Mathematics, Howard University 

THERE is much speculation as 
to the ultimate destiny of the 
Negro population in the 
United States. History furnishes 
no exact or approximate parallel. 
When widely dissimilar races are 
thrown in intimate contact, it is in- 
evitable that either extermination, 
expulsion, amalgamation, or the 
continuance of separate racial types 
will be the outcome. So far as the 
present problem is concerned, ex- 
termination and expulsion have few 
serious advocates, while amalgama- 
tion has no courageous ones. The 
concensus of opinion seems to be 
that the two races will preserve 
their separate identity as co-inhabi- 
tants of the same territory. The 
main contention is as to the mode 
of adjustment, whether it shall be 
the co-ordination or subordination 
of the African. 

All profitable speculation upon 
sociological problems must be 
based upon definitely ascertained 
social tendencies. It is impossible 
to forecast coming events unless we 
stand within the pale of their 
shadow. The Weather Bureau at 
Washington, discerning the signs 
of air and cloud and sky, makes 
probable predictions of sunshine or 
storm. Such predictions are not for 
the purpose of enabling us to affect 
or modify approaching events, but 
to put ourselves and our affairs in 
harmony with them. Sociological 
events have the inevitableness of 
natural law, against which specula- 
tions and prophecies are as unavail- 
ing as against the coming of wind 

and tide. Prescient wisdom is ser- 
viceable only in so far as it enables 
us to put ourselves in harmony with 
foreknown conditions. Plans and 
policies for the solution of the race 
problem should be based upon as 
full a knowledge of the facts and 
factors of the situation as it is pos- 
sible to gain, and should be in line 
with the trend of forces which it is 
impossible to subvert. Social ten- 
dencies, like natural laws, are not 
affected by quackery and patent 
nostrums. Certain of our socio- 
logical statesmen are assuming in- 
timate knowledge of the eternal de- 
crees, and are graciously volunteer- 
ing their assistance to Providence. 
They are telling us, with the assur- 
ance of inspiration, of the destiny 
which lies in store for the black 
man. It is noticeable, however, 
that those who affect such famili- 
arity with the plans and purposes 
of Providence are not usually men 
of deep knowledge or devout spirit. 
The prophets of evil seem to derive 
their inspiration from hate rather 
than love. In olden times when 
God communicated with man from 
burning bush and on mountain top, 
He selected men of lowly, loving, 
loyal souls as the chosen channel of 
revelation. To believe that those 
who breathe out slaughter and hat- 
red against their fellow-men are now 
his chosen mouth-piece is to assume 
that Providence, in these latter days, 
has grown less particular than 
aforetime in the choice of spokes- 

The most gifted of men possess 




very feeble clairvoyant power. We 
do not know the changes that even 
a generation may bring forth. To 
say that the Negro will never attain 
to this or that destiny, requires no 
superior knowledge or foresight ex- 
cept audacity of spirit and reckless- 
ness of utterance. History has so 
often changed the "never" of the 
orator into accomplished results, 
that the too frequent use of that 
term is of itself an indication of 
heedlessness and incaution. It is 
safe to follow the lead of Dr. Lyman 
Abbott, and limit the duration of 
the oratorical 'never" to the present 
generation. When, therefore, we 
say that the Negro will never be ex- 
pelled or amalgamated, or that he 
will forever maintain his peculiar 
type of race, the prediction, how- 
ever emphatically put forth, does 
not outrun the time which we have 
the present means of foreseeing. 
The fortune of the Negro rises and 
falls in the scale of public regard 
with the fluctuation of mercury in 
the bulb of a thermometer ranging 
alternately from blood heat to 
freezing point. In i860, he would 
have been considered a rash 
prophet who should have pre- 
dicted that within the next fit- 
teen years colored men would 
constitute a potent factor in 
state legislatures and in the nation- 
al Congress. On the other hand, 
who, in 1875, would have hazarded 
his prophetic reputation by predict- 
ing that during the following 
quarter of a century the last Negro 
representative would be driven 
from places of local and national 
authorit}^, and that the opening of a 
new century would find the last two 
amendments to the Constitution 
effectually annulled? No more can 
we predict what change in public 
feeling and policy the remote or 

near future may have in store. But 
of one thing we may rest assured, 
the coming generations will be 
better able than we are, to cope with 
their own problems. They will 
have more light and knowledge, 
and, let us hope, a larger measure 
of patience and tolerance. Our 
little plans of solution that we are 
putting forth with so much assur- 
ance and satisfaction will doubtless 
afford ample amusement in years to 

"We call our fathers fools, 

So wise we grow 
Our wiser sons, no doubt will 

Call us so." 

The late Professor Freeman, in 
his "Impressions of the United 
States" suggests a unique solution 
of the race problem : viz. — let each 
Irishman kill a Negro and get 
hanged for it. In this way America 
would be speedily rid of its race 
problems, both Ethiopic and Celtic. 
We read this suggestion and smile, 
as no doubt the author intended we 
should. And so we smile at the 
panaceas and nostrums that are be- 
ing put forth with so much ardor of 
feeling. Many such theories might 
be laughed out of existence if one 
only possessed the power of comic 
portrayal. While we muse, the fire 
is burning. But alas, we lack the 
discernment to read aright the signs 
of the times. 

Physical population contains all 
the potential elements of society, 
and the careful student relies upon 
its movement and expansion as the 
controlling factor in social evolu- 
tion. It is for this reason that the 
federal census is so eagerly awaited 
by those who seek careful knowl- 
edge upon the race problem in 
America. There are certain defi- 
nitely ascertainable tendencies in 



the Negro population that seem 
clearly to indicate the immediate, if 
not the ultimate destiny of that race. 
Amid all the conflicting and con- 
tradictory showings of the several 
censuses since emancipation, there 
is one tendency that stands out 
clear and pronounced : viz. — the 
mass center of the Negro population 
is moving steadily toward the Gulf 
of Mexico. Notwithstanding the 
proffer of more liberal political and 
civil inducements of the old aboli- 
tion states of the North and West, 
the mass movement is in the South- 
erly direction. The industrial ex- 
clusion and social indifference of 
the old free states are not inviting 
to the African immigrant, nor is the 
severe climate congenial to his 
tropical nature. The Negro popula- 
tion in the higher latitudes is not a 
self-sustaining quantity. It would 
languish and gradually disappear 
unless constantly reinforced by 
fresh blood from the South. Al- 
though there has been a steady 
stream of immigration for the past 
forty years, yet 92 per cent of the 
race is found in the states which 
fostered the institution of slavery at 
the time of the Civil War. The 
thirty-one free states of the North 
and West do not contain as many 
Negroes as Alabama. There is no 
likelihood that the Negro popula- 
tion will scatter itself equally 
throughout the different sections of 
the country. We should not be mis- 
led by the considerable Northern 
movement of the last census decade. 
This period was marked by unusual 
unrest in the South, and many of the 
more vigorous or more adventurous 
Negroes sought refuge in the cities 
of the North. But evidently this 
tendency is subject to sharp self- 

In the lower tier of the Southern 

States, comprising Georgia, Florida, 
Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, 
Texas and Arkansas, there has been 
a steady relative gain in the Negro 
population, rising from 39 per cent 
of the entire race in 1850 to 53 per 
cent in 1900. On the other hand 
the upper tier including Delaware, 
Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, 
North Carolina, South Carolina, 
Tennessee, Kentucky and Missouri, 
showed a decline from 54 to 37 per 
cent during the same interval. The 
census shows an unmistakable 
movement from the upper South to 
the Coast and Gulf States. The 
Negro constitutes the majority of 
the population in South Carolina 
and Mississippi, and also in Louisi- 
ana, outside of the City of New Or- 
leans. The colored race forms the 
more numerous element in the group 
of States comprising South Caro- 
lina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, 
Mississippi, and Louisiana, a con- 
tiguous territory of 290,000 square 
miles. Within this region the two 
races seem to be growing at about 
the same pace. During the last de- 
cade the Negro rate of increase ex- 
ceeded the white in Florida, Ala- 
bama and Mississippi, but fell below 
in South Carolina, Georgia and 

But the State as the unit of area, 
gives us a very imperfect idea of 
the relative and general spread and 
tendency of the Negro element. 
The movement of this population 
is controlled almost wholly by 
economic and social motives, and is 
very faintly affected by State bound- 
aries or political action. The 
Negro is segregating in the fertile 
regions and along the river courses 
where the race was most thickly 
planted by the institution of slavery. 
This shaded area extends from the 
head of the Chesapeake Bay through 



Eastern Virginia and North Caro- 
lina, thence through South Caro- 
lina, middle Georgia and Alabama 
and Mississippi to the Mississippi 
River. Leading off from the main 
track, there are darkened strips of 
various width, along the Atlantic 
Ocean through Eastern Georgia 
and Northern Florida and along the 
tanks of the Chattahoochee, Ala- 
bama, Mississippi, Sabine, and 
Brazos Rivers leading to the Gulf 
of Mexico. The South is dotted 
with white belts as well as with 
black ones. Western Virginia and 
North Carolina, the Southern and 
Northern extremes of Georgia and 
Alabama, and the peninsula part of 
Florida are predominantly white 
sections. There are scores of coun- 
ties in which the Negro does not 
constitute ten per cent of the popu- 
lation. The Negro element not 
only does not tend to scatter equal- 
ly throughout the country at large, 
but even in the South it is gather- 
ing more and more thickly into 
separate spaces. The black belts 
and white belts in the South are so 
interwoven as to frustrate any plan 
of solution looking to political and 
territorial solidarity. The measures 
intended to disfranchise the Negro 
in Eastern Virginia operate against 
the ignorant whites in the Western 
end of the State. The coming po- 
litical contest in the South will not. 
be between whites and blacks, but 
it will be over the undue power of 
a white vote based upon the black 
majority. The black counties are 
the more populous, and therefore 
have greater political weight. The 
few white voters in such counties 
are thus enabled to counter- 
balance many times their own num- 
ber in the white districts. This 
gives rise to the same dissatisfac- 
tion that comes from the North be- 

cause the Southerner's vote is 
given added weight by reason of 
the black man whose representative 
power he usurps. A closer study of 
the black belts reveals the fact that 
they include the more fertile por- 
tions of the South. The master 
settled his slaves upon the rich, pro- 
ductive lands, and banished the poor 
whites to the thin and barren regions. 
These belts are best adapted to the 
culture of cotton, tobacco, rice and 
sugar cane, the staple productions 
in which the South has advantage 
over other sections of the country. 
The Negro by virtue of his geo- 
graphical distribution holds the key 
to the agricultural development of 
the South. 

A clearer idea of the distribution 
of the Negro population can be 
gotten by taking the county as the 
unit of area. The number of coun- 
ties in which. the Negroes out-num- 
ber the whites has risen from 237 
in i860 to 279 in 1900. This would 
make a section as large as the North 
Atlantic division of States. With- 
in these counties there are, on the 
average, 130 Negroes to every 100 
whites. In i860 there were 71 
counties in which the Negroes were 
more than twice as numerous as the 
whites, which number had swollen 
to 108 in 1900. The region of total 
eclipse shows a tendency to spread 
much more rapidly than the penum- 
bra surrounding it. The average 
number of Negroes in these dense- 
ly black counties is about three to 
one. In some counties there are 
from ten to fifteen Negroes to every 
white person. The future of such 
counties, so far as the population is 
concerned, is too plainly fore- 
shadowed to leave the slightest 
room for doubt. 

There seems to be some concert 
of action on the part of the afflicted 



States. The Revised Constitutions 
have followed with almost mathe- 
matical exactness, the relative 
density of the colored element. The 
historic order has been Mississippi, 
South Carolina, Louisiana, North 
Carolina, Alabama and Virginia. 
Georgia and Florida have not fol- 
lowed suit, for the simple reason 
that they do not have to. But po- 
litical action does not affect the 
spread of population. The Negro 
finds the South a congenial habitat. 
Like Flora and Fauna, that race va- 
riety will ultimately survive in any 
region that is best adapted to its 
environment. We can no more stop 
the momentum of this population 
than we can stop the oncoming of 
wind and wave. To the most casual 
observer, it is clearly apparent that 
the white race cannot compete with 
the Negro industrially in a hot cli- 
mate and along the miasmatic low 
lands. Where the white man has 
to work in the burning sun, the 
cadaverous, emaciated body, droop- 
ing spirit, and thin, nasal voice be- 
speak the rapid decline of his breed. 
On the other hand the Negro multi- 
plies and makes merry. His body 
is vigorous and his spirit buoyant. 
There can be no doubt that in many 
sections the Negro element is 
gradually driving out the whites. 
In the struggle for existence the 
fittest will survive. Fitness in this 
case consists in adaptability to cli- 
matic and industrial environment. 
In the West Indian archipelago the 
Negro race has practically ex- 
pelled the proud Caucasian, not, 
to be sure, vi et armis, but by the 
much more invincible force of race 
momentum. This seems to be the 
inevitable destiny of the black belts 
in the South. For example; in the 
State of Georgia the number of 
counties in which the Negro popu- 

lation more than doubles the whites, 
was 13 in i860, 14 in 1870, 18 in 
1880, 23 in 1890, and 27 in 1900. In 
the same interval the counties in 
which the Negro constitutes the ma- 
jority had risen from 43 to 67. This 
does not imply that the white popu- 
lation in the Southern States is not 
holding its own, but the growth of 
the two races seems to be toward 
fixed bounds of habitation. 

Numerous causes are co-operat- 
ing toward this end. The white 
man avoids open competition with 
the black workman and will hardly 
condescend to compete with him on 
equal terms. Wherever white men 
and women have to work for their 
living, they arrogantly avoid those 
sections where they are placed on 
a par with Negro competitors, and 
if indigenous to such localities, they 
often migrate to regions where the 
black rival is less numerous. For 
this reason European immigration 
avoids the black belts as an infected 
region. The spectacle of black and 
white artisans working side by side 
at the same trade, of which we used 
to hear so much, is rapidly becom- 
ing a thing of the past. The line 
of industrial cleavage is almost as 
sharp as social separation. The 
white man does not desire to bring 
his family amidst a Negro environ- 
ment. The lynchings and outrages 
and the rumors of crime and cruelty 
have the effect of intimidating the 
white residents in the midst of 
black surroundings, who move away 
as rapidly as they find it expedient 
to do so. Only a few Jewish mer- 
chants and large planters are left. 
The large plantations are becom- 
ing less and less profitable, and 
are being broken up and let out to 
colored tenants, to enable the land- 
lord to move to the city, where he 
finds more m congenial social en- 



vironment for himself and children. 

The rise and development of 
manufacturing industries in the 
South also adds emphasis to the 
same tendency. The poor whites 
are being drawn off in considerable 
numbers from the rural districts as 
operatives and workmen along lines 
of higher mechanical skill. In the 
black belts the Negro is protected 
by the masses around him. One 
may ride for hours in many portions 
of the South without meeting a 
white face. The great influx of 
Negroes into the large cities comes 
from regions where the Negro 
is thinly scattered among the 
whites, rather than from the 
regions of greatest density. These 
factors, operating separately and co- 
operating conjointly, will perpetuate 
these black belts of the South. The 
bulk of the Negroes seems destined 
to be gathered into these dark and 
dense areas. 

If, therefore, we are accorded so 
large a measure of prevision, it is 
the part of wisdom to arrange our 
plans in harmony with the social 
movement which we have not the 
power to subvert. The first essential 
of a well ordered society is good gov- 
ernment, which affords satisfaction 
to the people living under it. The 
Negroes in the South are not satis- 
fied with the present mode of gov- 
ernment, not only because it was not 
formulated in harmony with their 
sensibilities, but because of its la- 
mentable failure to protect life and 
property. Perhaps there is no other 
government of European type which 
so ruthlessly disregards the rights 
and feelings of the governed since 
the effacement of the Boer repub- 
lics in South Africa. The first need 
of the South is a brand of states- 
manship with capacity to formulate 
a scheme of government which will 

command the hearty good will and 
cheerful co-operation of all the 
citizens, and at the same time leave 
the controlling power in the hands 
of those best qualified to wield it. 
This is the desideratum devoutly to 
be wished. The amiable African 
can be ruled much more effectively 
by the wand of kindness than by a 
rod of iron. Strange to say, South- 
ern statesmanship has never serious- 
ly tested this policy. European 
powers in control of tropical races 
have found that reconciliation is es- 
sential to effective control. The in- 
ferior element must feel that they 
are a constituent part of the govern- 
mental order and are responsible for 
the maintenance, authority and dis- 
cipline. But Southern statesman- 
ship has been characterized by brok- 
en pledges and bad faith and open 
avowal to humiliate a third of the 
population. The democratic party 
claimed to have won the election 
in 1876, upon a platform which, in 
clearly avowed terms, accepted the 
amendments to the Constitution of 
the United States. But the demo- 
cratic states forthwith proceeded to 
revise their Constitutions with the 
undisguised purpose of defeating 
the plain intendment of these 
amendments. This on the plea 
that if the Negro were eliminated 
from politics, the government 
should be equitable and just, 
guaranteeing to all, equality before 
the law. But, as soon as these plans 
are adopted, the very statesmen who 
were most instrumental in bringing 
them to pass are urging more dras- 
tic and dreadful measures. They 
are demanding the repeal of the 
Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amend- 
ments, which, by indirect tactics, they 
have already annulled. Has the 
Negro any reason to feel that the 
demanded appeal would stop this 



reactionary movement? There can 
never be peace and security and per- 
manent prosperity for whites or 
blacks until the South develops a 
brand of statesmanship that rises 
above the pitchfork variety. 

The next great need of these black 
belts is moral and industrial re- 
generation. This can be effected 
only through the quickening touch 
of education. Outside help is abso- 
lutely necessary. These people un- 
aided can no more lift themselves 
from a lower to a higher level than 
one can sustain the weight of his 
body by pulling against his own 
boot straps. The problem belongs 
to the nation. Ignorance and deg- 
radation are moral blights upon the 
national life and character. It is 
wasteful of the national resource. 
The cotton area is limited, and this 
fabric will become more and more 
an important factor in our national, 
industrial and economic scheme. 
And yet thousands of acres of these 
valuable lands are being washed 
away and wasted annually by igno- 
rant and unskilled tillage. The na- 
tion is contemplating the expendi- 
ture of millions of dollars to irrigate 
the arid regions of the West. But 
would it not be a wiser economic 
measure to save the cotton area of 
the South through the enlighten- 
ment of the peasant farmers? The 
educational facilities in the black 
counties outside of the cities are al- 
most useless. The reactionary cur- 
rent against the education of the 
Negro in the South is deep and 
strong. Unless the nation, either 
through statesmanship or philan- 
thropy, lends a helping hand, these 
shade places will form a continuing 
blot upon the national escutcheon. 
There should be better school fa- 
cilities and social opportunities, not 
only as a means of their own better- 

ment, but in order that contentment 
with the rural environment to which 
they are well suited may prevent 
them from flocking into the cities, 
North and South, thus forming a 
national municipal menace. 

The Negro's industrial opportu- 
nities lie in the black belts. He oc- 
cupies the best cotton, tobacco, 
rice and sugar lands of the South. 
The climate shields him from the 
crushing weight of Aryan compe- 
tition. Agriculture lies at the base 
of the life of any undeveloped race. 
The manufacturing stage is a later 
development. The exclusion of the 
Negro from the factories is perhaps 
a blessing in disguise. The agri- 
cultural industries of the South are 
bound to become of greater and 
greater national importance and the 
Negro is to become a larger and 
larger industrial factor. The cotton 
area is limited, but the demand for 
cotton stuffs increases not only with 
the growth of our own national 
population, but with the expansion 
of our trade in both hemispheres. 
A shrewd observer has suggested 
that the time seems sure to come 
when a pound of cotton will be 
worth a bushel of wheat. When 
cotton regains its ancient place and 
again becomes king, the Negro will 
be the power behind the throne. 

It is interesting to notice from the 
last census the extent to which Ne- 
groes are owning and managing 
their own farms. The large estates 
are being broken up into small 
farms and let out to Negro tenants 
at a higher rate of annual rental. 
This is but the first step toward 
Negro proprietorship. There is a 
double field for philanthropy. 
First, to furnish school facilities so 
that the small farmer may become 
intelligent and skilled in the con- 
duct of his affairs; and second, to 



make it possible for him to buy 
small tracts of land. The holders 
of the old estates do not care to 
atomize their plantations, but would 
gladly dispose of their entire hold- 
ings. There is a vast field for phi- 
lanthropy with the additional in- 
ducement of five per cent. Already 
such attempts have been made. 
Hon. George W. Murray, the last 
Negro Congressman from South 
Carolina, has disposed of 60,000 
acres of land in South Carolina in 
small holdings to Negro farmers, 
and is equally enthusiastic over the 
commercial and philanthropic as- 
pect of the. enterprise. Some North- 
ern capitalists have undertaken a 
similar movement in the neighbor- 
hood of Tuskegee Institute, which 
promises to have far-reaching ef- 
fect upon the betterment of black 
belt conditions. There are also in- 
dications of Negro villages and in- 
dustrial settlements to afford better 
social and business opportunities. 
Colored men of ambition and educa- 

tion will be glad to seek such com- 
munities as a field to exploit their 
powers. The secret and method of 
New England may thus be trans- 
planted in these darksome places by 
the sons of Ethiopia. Thus those 
that now grope in darkness may yet 
receive the light. 

Mr. John Temple Graves has, in 
a recent, notable utterance, advo- 
cated the separation of the races, 
and has elaborated his doctrine with 
great rhetorical pains. But mass 
movement of the Negro race seems 
clearly to indicate immediate, if not 
the ultimate outcome to be separate- 
ness rather than separation. 

No one can tell what the ulti- 
mate future of the Negro is to be; 
whether it is to be worked out in 
this land or on some distant conti- 
nent. We may, however, be per- 
mitted to foretell the logical out- 
come of forces now at work, with- 
out assuming the prophet's preroga- 

Sarracenia Purpurea 

By Ina Lord McDavitt 

As some old castle of the feudal barons 

Seemed to the traveller, in his pilgrimage, 

Like some great inn, where he might rest, and wagf 

His battles over, for a dole of bread; 

But once within, did find it tenanted 

By thieves and robbers, and his purse despoiled ; 

So thou dost lay a bait of honey, sweeter 

Than charmed nectar to the wandering fly, 

Who, once within, doth find his struggles futile, 
And fares no more his way beneath the sky. 

When the Rose Bloomed 

By Edith Richmond Blanchard 

MISS Lucrece was busy among 
her roses. Tall old bushes 
laden with bloom, lined 
either side of the brick walk which 
led up to her small white house, and 
here and there between these frag- 
rant veterans, low tea-rose clusters 
peered out and offered their small 
sweet wares. Sometimes a long 
green briar, swaying in the soft air, 
would lean and catch at Miss Lu- 
crece's muslin skirt as though fear- 
ing lest she should overlook its 
especial treasure of loveliness. 
Sometimes a down-dipping, heavy- 
headed blossom would beat gently 
against her cheek, leaving upon it 
the kiss of the morning dew. 

They were old friends, Miss Lu- 
crece and the roses. Years ago, 
when she was a little girl, their tallest 
sprays had hung just a span's 
breadth above the golden glint in 
her dark curls, and they still nodded 
just a span's breadth over the locks 
whose golden glint had long since 
softened into a silver shimmer. 
Miss Lucrece had never grown up 
to the roses. They had watched 
over her so many days, so many 
years, that it was as though they 
shared with her the same gentle 
spirit of protection which they felt 
for the tea-roses at their feet. 

Indeed Miss Lucrece was very 
like a tea-rose herself, so small, so 
delicate, so sweet in an old- 
fashioned way. As the spirit of re- 
membered Junes seems to steal over 
one when one breathes the frag- 
rance of that dainty yellow flower, 

so when one saw Miss Lucrece, 
one's mind instinctively filled with 
vague tender thoughts of those 
lovely lost summers when she was 
a girl, when the gold glint was still 
in her hair, when the now faint pink 
in her cheeks was but a shade paler 
than her small red mouth, when her 
dark eyes sparkled instead of softly 

She was as different from her con- 
temporaries in the little village of 
Meadowvale where she lived, as her 
lavender muslins and clinging grey 
wools were different from their 
purple cambrics and stiff black 
silks. Even her name set her apart. 
There were Lucretias in plenty, it 
was a favorite name in the place, — 
there was but one Lucrece — 
a queer heathen sounding name the 
towns folk thought it, and, loving 
Miss Lucrece most loyally, they re- 
gretted this defect. They had been 
very proud of her in the gay old 
days when "Lovely Lucrece Hamil- 
ton" was the name on every young 
gallant's lip, and that pride was not 
yet submerged in the gentle affec- 
tion with which every one thought 
of her now that she was "Miss 
Lucrece," living alone with her old 
servant Martha and her roses. 

Perhaps Meadowvale held her all 
the dearer because there were two 
mysteries about her which had been 
the source of endless conjecture and 
had never yet been solved. 

One mystery was Miss Lucrece's 
reason for remaining single. There 
had been so many lovers at her 




door, and all Meadowvale had been 
sure at one time that either Squire 
Wood's eldest son, Holt, or the 
young lawyer, Basil Hunting, 
would be the favored one. But 
Holt Wood had died at sea years 
ago, and Basil Hunting had left 
Meadowvale about the same time, 
and had become one of the 
famous judges of the state. Rumor 
said that he had married late in life 
and that his wife had died, but all 
that Meadowvale was sure of, was 
that a few years ago he had come 
back to his native town and opened 
the old Hunting house where he 
lived with his two servants, elderly 
like himself. One of these was a 
staid old fellow in bright blue coat 
and brass buttons, who was said to 
have been the Judge's butler in his 
city home ; and the other was a sis- 
ter of Miss Lucrece's Martha, who 
had by some strange coincidence be- 
come lodged in the Judge's house- 
hold, and who regaled her master 
with the same dainty concoctions for 
which Miss Lucrece's table had long 
been famous. Between Miss Lu- 
crece and the Judge themselves, 
nothing passed less formal than the 
low bow and quaint curtesy which 
they exchanged on meeting. 

The other mystery had to do 
with one of the rosebushes that bor- 
dered Miss Lucrece's front walk. 
It was not one of the very old ones 
set out by her father, though it 
dated back to the days of her girl- 
hood. It stood green and tall near 
the doorstep at the end of the row, 
but not one flower had it borne, and 
Meadowvale's practical mind could 
not understand why such a worth- 
less thing should be preserved. 
Once when Miss Lucrece had hired 
a new gardener he had spoken to her 
of removing it, and had even thrust 
his spade into the soil about its 

roots in pursuance of his suggestion, 
but Miss Lucrece had snatched the 
spade quickly away ; with her own 
small hands she had smoothed over 
the wound its blade left in the earth 
and her eyes were filled with tears 
as she told him that never so long 
as she lived must that rose bush be 

Always, when Miss Lucrece had 
filled her garden basket with roses 
from the other bushes, she would 
stop by this one for a moment be- 
fore she went in ; sometimes 
gathering a spray of the shining 
leaves, since in them lay all its 

She was standing there this morn- 
ing in the shadow flecked sunlight. 
The basket at her feet was a pink 
puff of bloom, but she turned away 
from its mass of musky fragrance 
and touched the flowerless branches 
of the rose bush caressingly with 
small white hands. 

"You are sorry that you have 
nothing for me," she said, softly, 
"Yes, I know that you would have 
gladly given me roses if you could, 
but there was a mistake, such a 
dreary mistake somewhere, and you 
can give me nothing, though I love 
you best of all. I used to be angry 
with you, so angry that you would 
not let me have one tiny bud when 
I was sure you knew why I wished 
it. I am not angry with you any 
more. One grows patient after 
many years. He did not go by this 
morning nor yesterday. I am won- 
dering — " Miss Lucrece stopped 
suddenly. One little hand went 
fluttering to her heart, the other 
caught at a low branch which a sud- 
den gust of wind had blown into 
view. She drew it tremblingly into 
the sunlight regardless of the thorns 
that pricked her soft palm. Under 
the silver-lined leaves, wholly hid- 



den by them until now, hung a rose, 
a half blown rose, its great velvety 
petals tinged with the merest blush 
of pink where they met the green, 
but white as snow flakes where they 
clung still folded above the golden 
Heart within. 

"Why it's white !" Miss Lucrece 
said softly, "It's white and we 
thought, — he told me it would be 
red. 'Like your lips, Lucrece, and 
I am to have the first one' he said 
when we planted it here in the 
moonlight years ago." 

Miss Lucrece framed the flower 
gently between her hands as though 
it were a little face. Her voice was 
as low as the voices of the pigeons 
cooing under the eaves, and full of 
sobbing notes as were theirs. 

"You were long in coming, dear 
first rose, that I have waited for 
such a weary while. You did not 
come when you might have done so 
much to help the pain that has long 
ceased to be so hard to bear. The 
first one, so you are not mine after 
all, but his. It was fifty years ago 
and perhaps he would not remem- 
ber. Fifty years, and it is not red 
but white, and I am not the Lucrece 
that used to be, but an old, old 
woman, Basil, an old, old woman. 
Perhaps you would not know what 
it meant, perhaps you have for- 
gotten. If only I might keep it my- 
self, I would love it so, but I 
promised, I promised the first one 
to you." 

She was not talking to the flower 
now. Though she still held it be- 
tween her hands, her eyes looked 
over it as though at some one stand- 
ing just beyond. The next moment 
a child's laugh in the road came 
crashing in upon her dream and 
rent its shadowy web. With a little 
gesture of confusion she put both 
hands before her face and went in 

out of the sunlight. Through the 
cool hall up the narrow whispering 
stairs to her own chamber she went 
with the shreds of the dream mist 
still in her eyes. The smell of the 
roses came eddying into the room 
with every gust that stirred the 
white curtains at the open window, 
and their fragrance blended with 
the vague breath of old lavender 
that has long lain amid cool sweet 

There was as it w r ere a gentle 
aloofness about the room, not un- 
like Miss Lucrece herself. On that 
low white bed she had slept the deep 
child-sleep, the silent gap between 
the days of busy play; there she 
had dreamed the dear bright dreams 
of girlhood; there she had watched, 
as a woman, the long nights which 
follow when the dream webb raveis 
and fades at last. The oval mirror 
over the dressing case had seen so 
many faces look into it, so many 
Miss Lucreces, that had slipped 
away to give place to the gentle 
presence that it now knew. There 
was a little rose-wood box on the 
dressing case under the mirror and 
Miss Lucrece drew it toward her 
and slowly turned the tiny key 
which made it fast. Within on the 
velvet lining, half hidden by the 
length of faded blue ribbon from 
which it once had hung, lay a gold 
locket from whose crystal heart the 
half faded photograph of a man's 
face looked out with clear young 
eyes. The hair lay in a soft dark 
sweep over the broad forehead and 
the chin was held high above the 
deep black stock. On the lips still 
hovered the shadow of a smile 
brought by some fleeting fancy 
which passed but left its imprint 

Miss Lucrece bent low over the 
tiny frame as she held it to the light. 



"Basil," she said softly, "Basil, 
our rose has blossomed at last. The 
first one, the one I promised should 
be yours. I cannot keep it, and yet 
how can I send it to you now? If 
only I could be sure that you still 
care, still care as I do and as you 
used to before the dreary mistake 
that ended all. Oh, Basil, you were 
so blind, so blind, why could you 
not see !" 

The cool fragrant bedchamber 
suddenly faded from Miss Lucrece's 
sight. She was back in the garden 
again sitting on the doorstep in the 
twilight of a summer day. She 
wore no longer this soft pale mus- 
lin, but a quaint white gown and 
there -was a red rose in her hair. 
There was some one beside her, and 
his eyes, as they sought hers, were 
dark with a deep wonderful meaning 
that thrilled her heart into glad un- 
rest. She lifted her hand to her 
lips to hush the outcry that trem- 
bled there and her quick gesture 
caught from its hiding amid the soft 
folds on her breast, a long loop of 
blue ribbon from which hung a 
golden locket. Before she could 
seize and hide it again, the man be- 
side her had caught a glimpse of 
the pictured face it held. He 
leaned toward her in the dusk. 

"Who is it, Lucrece?" he said. 

The spell of his glance bewildered 
her. All thoughts save one were 
blotted out. 

"It is the man I love, Basil," she 
answered, and then at the sudden 
realization of her confession buried 
her hot face in her hands. 

There was a moment's silence. 
When he spoke his voice sounded 
strangely harsh and strained. 

"Will you let me see the man you 
love, Lucrece?" 

But she did not raise her head, 
"I cannot, Basil, I cannot," she 

cried in an agony of maiden shame. 

She heard him take one step 
away from her and stop. 

"Do you really love him then, 
Lucrece? Are you sure you* cannot 
let me see the picture?" 

She longed to go to him, to draw 
him back to her again, but her 
gentle reticence proved suddenly 
too strong a bond. How could she 
reveal the secret of her love before 
he had sought it ! 

"I cannot, Basil, I cannot," she re- 

She lifted her face to meet his and 
stretched out her hand with a little 
pleading gesture, but he had turned 
away with her first words. The 
gate clicked noisily in the stillness. 
He was gone. 

She turned and went into the 
house groping as though in dark- 
ness, though the moonlight flooded 
the hall. Over and over through 
the long nights, the long days that 
followed, she comforted herself with 
one phrase which echoed in her 
mind with persistent pain and hope. 
"He thought it was Holt, but when 
Holt comes home, it will all be 
made plain." 

"When Holt comes home." Miss 
Lucrece felt again the quick stab 
of sorrow and despair which came 
that day when she learned that that 
return would never be. There had 
been selfish tears amid the bitter 
ones she shed for the dead lover; 
but among old regrets a new hope 
had blossomed in her heart. 

"When I send him his rose, the 
first rose, he will understand," she 
told herself, and waited for the 
flower that would give her back her 
joy: — waited how long! And now 
the rose had come at last — after 
fifty years, and had he ceased to 


There was a sound of footsteps 



on the stairs, and of low rapping on 
the chamber door. Miss Lucrece 
started to her feet. "Come in, 
Martha, come in," she called. 
"Why, "Martha, is anything the 
matter? What has happened?" 

The old maidservant stood awk- 
wardly on the threshold, rolling her 
apron string about her finger. Her 
eyes were red and filled again with 
tears as she spoke. 

"It's Judge Hunting, marm. 
Hannah's just been over telling me. 
She's known he was sick for some 
time now, though he wouldn't own 
up to it. He's been up and dressed 
every day, but the last two morn- 
ings he hasn't gone out as he gen- 
erally does and last night he was 
took bad. Hannah and Thomas 
were up all night with him. The 
doctor couldn't get to him till near- 
ly morning and he was out of his 
head most of the time. He kept 
calling and calling, one name over 
and over, Hannah said, till it nearly 
broke her heart to hear him. I 
don't know as she ought to have 
asked me what she did or as I ought 
to have said I would, but she seemed 
to think it would comfort him so, 
and he's all alone except for Thom- 
as and Hannah, so, — so I, — Oh, 
Miss Lucrece, it was your name he 
was saying." 

Martha raised her eyes to her 
mistress's face for the first time 
since she had begun to speak and 
wondered at the strange light that 
shone there. It was as though some 
one had brought her good news in- 
stead of ill. Her voice had almost 
a note of gladness in it. 

"Tell Hannah I will go to him," 
she said. 

Old Judge LIunting sat alone, in 
his great winged arm chair by the 
west window of his room. In spite 

of the doctor's cautions, and the 
protestations of Thomas and 
Hannah he had insisted upon being 
up and dressed as usual, though 
even they did not know what effort 
it had cost him and how weary he 
felt as he sat with fine white head 
thrown back among the cushions 
and heavy hands idly resting on the 
broad chair arms. There were 
books on the stand beside him, but 
they had grown strangely tiresome 
to hold of late, and they lay un- 
touched and unheeded. He laughed 
softly as he remembered the look on 
the doctor's face when it had first 
dawned out of the troubled visions 
of the night. It was really not 
worth while to read any more, and 
the afternoon sunlight was so rich 
in dreams — in one dream that 
changed and changed but was ever 
the same. He sent the restless 
shuttle of his thoughts back and 
forth across the golden warp of 
light and wove the bright threads 
of his fancy into its gold. 

He was too happy at his weav- 
ing to hear the sound of footsteps, 
of gentle tapping at his door. Miss 
Lucrece waited for a moment on the 
threshold and then came softly 
across the room to his side. Still 
he did not heed her and she hesi- 
tated in the shadow of his chair. 
The faint color deepened in her 
cheeks and one hand tremulously 
sought her heart, but when she 
spoke her voice was clear though 
very low. 

"Basil," she said, "I have come 
to bring you your rose." 

She held out the great velvety 
white flower and stood smiling 
gently at him as he turned quickly 
and gazed at her from wondering 
eyes. Slowly he stretched out one 
hand to meet hers, very slowly as 
if he feared she would fade away be- 



fore he touched her, but the little 
hand with its fragrant offering 
yielded soft and cool to his fevered 

"Lucrece — Lucrece ! You, Lu- 

Miss Lucrece sank on the foot- 
stool at his feet. 

"It is fifty years, Basil, fifty years, 
and this is the first rose. You re- 
member how I promised it to you, 
you remember, Basil?" 

"I remember everything, Lu- 
crece, but it does not matter now." 

He lifted her hand with the rose 
to his lips but she drew it gently 
back to her again and touched the 
flower petals softly with the other 

"It is white, Basil. You know 
you thought it would be red. I 
wanted to keep it in spite of my 
promise ; you see I did not know 
that you still cared. It is so many 

He laughed, a queer low laugh, 
repeating her words as if to him- 

"So many years, and I have 
cared all of those many years, Lu- 
crece. You do not know, you can- 
not know how I have cared." 

Miss Lucrece's eyes grew blight 
with the same glad radiance that 
Martha had seen in them that morn- 
ing. She drew something from the 
bosom of her dress and held it on 
her outstretched hand before him. 

"Look, Basil," she said. 

He bent his head to look as she 
directed but he turned quickly 
away, pushing her hand back al- 
most roughly. 

"Not now, not again, Lucrece. 
He has had you all these years, 
must he come between us still?" 

Miss Lucrece put aside the de- 
taining fingers and held out the 
object once more. 

"But look, Basil," she pleaded. 

The sunlight played on the gold 
frame and on the handsome young 
face that gazed up into the Judge's 
own. He caught his breath and his 
voice trembled when he spoke. 

"It is my picture, Lucrece." 

She stooped to kiss it lest he see 
her tears. 

"Yes, it was always yours, there 
was never any other, Basil. I could 
not tell you. I was ashamed to 
have said so much, and I thought 
when Holt came back you would 
know. But he did not come, and 
the rose I thought to send you did 
not bloom. We have both waited 
long for the rose, Basil, but it is 
very lovely now." 

She smiled up into his low bent 
face, and, as she smiled, the lines of 
regret and pain imprinted there 
faded wondrously. 

"Yes, it makes up for all, Lu- 
crece," he answered. 

Through the long still afternoon 
they sat together side by side, hand 
in hand, the old lovers. There were 
many things to say that had long 
sought for utterance, lost confi- 
dences of fifty years to be shut 
away in two waiting hearts. When 
the sunlight began to fail them and 
she rose to leave him, he caught at 
her dress and drew her back, but he 
did not speak. It was his eyes that 
spoke for him and her eyes read 
their message. The color started to 
her old cheeks but she bent low 
above him. 

"Lucrece, Lucrece, — " he re- 
peated as he kissed her. 

>H * * * 

Miss Lucrece was in the garden 
among her roses when Martha came 
to find her the next morning, came 
stumbling through the wet grass 
with one crumpled corner of her 



apron held to her streaming eyes. 

A bird high up in a tree by the 
roadside was pouring out its little 
heart in the glad joy of living, and 
to Miss Lucrece the song seemed 
in some strange way to blend with 
Martha's sobbing speech as she told 
her story. 

Told how on the evening before 
when old Thomas and Hannah 
went to their master's room to see 
that he was comfortable for the 
night, they had found him sitting 
among the moonlight shadows in his 
great armchair by the window. 
There was a white rose clasped be- 

tween his hands and on his face 
was a smile, a smile so happy that 
they thought he dreamed. 

Miss Lucrece stood silent in 
the path till the sound of Martha's 
footsteps died away. There was a 
mist in her eyes, but the mist did 
not utterly veil the glad calm that 
dwelt behind it. She went slowly 
to the rosebush at the end of the 
walk near the step and pressed her 
face against its cool green leaves. 

"It is such a little while, such a 
little while to wait," she said softly. 
"We had waited so long before, and 
now we know." 

The Middleman 

By Elliot Walker 

^T GUESS I'll have to give up, 
J[ Rachel. Every day tacks on 
a little more worry, a little 
more debt, and I'm just about crazy 
with it. I've been floundering along 
for months, getting in deeper and 
deeper. There is no way out that I 
can see except to quit while we still 
have a roof over our heads. If we 
had to leave the old house, it 
would half kill us, wouldn't it?" 

Cyrus Hayden's deep voice, 
strong at the beginning of his 
speech, rose to an almost childish 
treble at the end, faltered and broke 

His wife, thin, and possessing 
rather belligerent eyes, scanned the 
woeful countenance sharply, before 
replying. Her sewing slid from her 
slender knees to the worn, old- 

fashioned sitting-room carpet. She 
picked it up with a firm hand. 

"No," said she. "It wouldn't. 
Steady, Cyrus. What's the matter 
with you?" 

"Matter," groaned the man. "You 
should know it all, I suppose. I 
can't keep on trying to do business 
the way things are running. I'm 
behind on what I owe and I cannot 
begin to collect enough to meet my 
bills, and that means a shut-down 
on the part of the packing company. 
That is, I get no more meat. I've 
had one notice ; next week I'll get 
another, then good-bye Hayden's 

"But why can't you make it pay? 
Your father did. I know you've 
been worrying lately but I supposed 
things were going right. You have 



a good trade, and other butchers 
seem to get along. Brace up, Cyrus ! 
I don't believe it is as bad as you 
make out. You did first rate at first. 
Only a few months ago you told 
me you had seventeen hundred dol- 
lars on your books." 

Rachel, optimistic always, smiled 

"That's it," muttered Cyrus. 
"It's on my books still. I can't get 
it. If I could I'd be safe enough." 

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Hay- 
den, "you are too easy with people, 
just as your father was. They owe 
you the money, don't they? Go to 
work and make them pay up." 

Her husband gave an impatient 
sigh, shrugging his broad shoulders. 
"You don't understand," he said, ir- 
ritably. "It's useless to talk busi- 
ness with you, Rachel. You never 
did understand. That's why I never 
say anything until the last minute, 
but I tell you now that I'm in a bad 
way, and I'm going to finish up be- 
fore matters grow any worse. I'll 
get enough from these old accounts 
to square myself, and then what?" 

"Oh, you will easily find some- 
thing else, I guess, and I'll be glad 
to have you, Cyrus. You know I've 
always hated to have you in the mar- 
ket — a man of your appearance and 
education. Of course, it will be a 
great deal better. Some nice office 
position with a steady salary is what 
you are fitted for. I always said so. 
I've been a butcher's wife for five 
years, dear — now I'm willing to go 
up a peg. Can't you get a place in 
one of the Banks? Banking is such 
a genteel occupation." 

Again the man sighed and his face 
grew red. "It was father's busi- 
ness," he said. "Father built it up 
from nothing and was mighty proud 
of it. He just doted on his custom- 
ers. I honestly think he imagined 

the best people in town couldn't 
exist without him. He knew exact- 
ly what they liked. Why, I've 
known him to fret himself sick over 
little complaints. And every one 
loved him. I'll never forget the day 
old Judge Parlow came raging into 
the store. 'Where's Zack?' said he. 
'Out,' said I. 'He'll be right in. 
What's the trouble, Judge?' 
'Trouble,' said he, 'that roast was 
the toughest — well — I'll talk to 
him!' and just then father came 
back. It seems that confounded boy 
(you remember Pete) had delivered 
Mrs. Dickey's order at Parlow's. 
She ran a cheap place and used to 
pick out pieces that would last, and 
the Judge got a beauty. Father had 
that minute learned of the mistake 
from Mrs. Dickey, who had com- 
plained she ordered twelve pounds 
and only got eight, although it was 
nice tender beef, and he was in a 
state — pretty near crying. Well, he 
marched right up to the Judge and 
looked at him. Swallowed three or 
four times but he couldn't say a 
word, he felt so bad. I can see him 
now, his -nose twitching and his big 
round eyes appealing like a great 
dog's, w r ho knows he is going to be 
licked for a thing he didn't mean to 

"Rachel, the Judge sensed it in a 
second. The thunder cloud in his 
face cleared into the funniest grin 
I ever saw, and he put his hand on 
father's fat shoulder. 'Zack,' said 
he, T merely stopped in to say that 
my teeth ain't what they were when 
we divided that chunk of hardtack 
the night after Chancellorsville,' and 
with that he turned and went out. 

"Father stood still for about a 
minute, breathing hard. Then he 
said to me, 'Cy, don't you ever for- 
get yourself and send the Judge's 
bill. When I'm gone and you're 



running the shop, remember, what- 
ever happens.' Then he slipped out 
of the back door and got a drink, I 
guess. He allowed himself one a 
month on special occasions and that 
must have been one of 'em. 

"Dear me ! To think of those two 
good old men, both dying the same 
week — and the Judge didn't leave 
very much." 

The butcher's face sobered from 
the jollity brought by his remem- 

"I'm glad father's dead," he flung 
out savagely. "This state of things 
would have broken his heart. He 
loved his shop and the folks he sold, 
and he would have gone up just 
as I'm doing. We're the old kind. 
I can't hammer money out of the 
trade he left me and I can't refuse to 
sell them. They are honest — 
they're good for it, but everything's 
cash nowadays and it is hand to 
mouth with lots of the best people. 
Some pay every six months, some 
quarterly — when they get their in- 
come. I have to pay every Monday 
or be frozen out. A fellow can't 
borrow at the banks without se- 
curity and I've reached my limit. 
No, it's impossible to carry my trade 
any longer. I've got to quit — I've 
got to." , 

He was talking to himself, now, 
and pacing the floor. His head sank 
on his breast, his hands clinched; 
a good-looking, well-built man of 
twenty-seven, with nothing in his 
neat appearance to indicate a call- 
ing more or less associated with 
gory fancies. Many had wondered 
why Cyrus, after passing through 
the public schools with credit, and 
studying for a year at a business 
college, had chosen to take up the 
humble occupation of his father. 
He certainly was fitted for more 
ambitious endeavor. 

Zachary had put it squarely be- 
fore him from a practical stand- 
point. "The shop is established, 
Cy," he had said. "There's money 
in it for you the very first day you 
step in and you're independent with 
a chance ahead. It means that in a 
few years you can marry some nice 
gal, have a comfortable home of 
your own, and hold your nose up 
with anybody; it means an honest 
living, friends, comforts, hard work 
and wearin' an apron. You won't 
have to do any slaughtering and it's 
a healthy way to live. Think it 
over, son. If you'd rather do some- 
thing else, I'll back you to my last 
dollar, but some day I'll go quick, 
the doctor says, and it won't hurt 
my feelngs any to feel the old shop 
is going to stay in the family." 

Cyrus thought it over and decided 
on the apron and independence. 
Later he decided on the "nice gal" 
and took her to the house of Zach- 
ary who, long a widower, was great- 
ly pleased with the arrangement 
and prayed to be a grandfather. 

This prayer being happily granted 
after two years, the kindly old fel- 
low passed a twelve month of bliss 
(for he minded not wails and house- 
hold disturbance) and died with the 
baby in his arms and the croon of 
an old war lyric on his lips. He left 
a wide circle of sincerely sorrowing 
friends, and the business to Cyrus. 

Two years more and this chapter 
opens. Little Zach had thrived. 
The business hadn't. Rachel was 
a cheerful and contented although 
a somewhat ambitious wife. Cyrus 
was a badly worried young man. 

As he turned in his uneasy walk, 
the woman spoke gently. "I'm 
sorry I didn't know before. Maybe 
I could have helped in some way. 
With no rent to pay, no meat bills 
and you trading accounts with the 



grocer, we don't spend much, ex- 
cept Bridget's wages — and clothing 
is cheap. I can let the girl go, 
Cyrus — and do my own work/' 

"Not yet," answered her husband, 
desperately. "You've Zach to look 
after and you're none too strong. 
Don't think of it, Rachel." 

"Who owes you the most? It 
does seem as though we ought to 
get what belongs to us. There must 
be a way." 

Hayden shook his head dubious- 
ly. "No use in thinking so," he 
grunted. "Oh ! there is a whole 
string of them. The Macons, the 
Pilasters — old lady Parlow — but 
then I don't count her, although it's 
the biggest of all." 

"How much is her bill?" 

"About a hundred and sixty." 


"I can't help it," said Cyrus, 
apologetically. "She wrote me a 
note the first of January saying that 
she had intended sending me some 
then, but she couldn't conveniently. 
I hadn't asked her for it. It's on 
her mind, evidently." 

"I should think it would be," 
snorted Rachel. "What does she 
keep that big house for if she can't 
pay her bills. It must be an enor- 
mous expense. If she hasn't money 
what does she live on, I'd like to 
know ?" 

"Meat, I guess," responded Cyrus 
with a woeful smile. "And on the 
interest of her debts. Bless me! 
She is a fine old lady though." 

He picked up his hat as the hall 
clock struck two. "Got to get back 
to the shop," he exclaimed. "Gra- 
cious! I've been loafing around for 
an hour, but it doesn't make much 

Kissing his wife sadly, he went 
slowly out, unheeding her parting 
injunction not to be cast down. 

Walking on to the busier streets, 
Cyrus paused to greet a friend — a 
tall man with a clean shaven, whim- 
sical, pursed-up mouth. " Hullo, 
Sam," he accosted heartily. 

"Hullo Cy! How's biz?" 

"Good!" returned Cyrus with 
quick mendacious business diplo- 
macy. "How's groceries?" 

"Fine !" They studied each other's 
masks for a few seconds, then 
nodded significantly. 

"I'm going to close up, old man," 
observed Cyrus, lightly. "It doesn't 
pay. Rachel wants me to try some- 
thing else. It's got to come, you 

"I know." The pursed lips gath- 
ered in a knot. "I see my finish in 
about a year, Cy. We middle men 
ain't in it any longer. Best thing 
you can do. Kind of hard to give 
up though, eh?" 

"O — oh ! no !" drawled Hayden. 
"I'll be glad to leave the old shop. 
Let her go. What's the use of feel- 
ing bad?" 

"Come off! come off!" said the 
older man, impatiently. "Let's talk 
this thing over. I'm in the same 
boat. Won't sink yet awhile, but 
the leak's started. What is going 
to become of us fellows eventual- 

"Give it up," replied Cyrus, weari- 
ly. "There will be quite a crowd of 
us, Sam. I'm afraid the odd jobs 
won't go 'round. What's your idea 
of the future?" 

"It's definite," said the other. 
"We will go up or go down together, 
according to individual ability, and 
it's going to be easier to sink than 
to rise. Cy, the thousands of good 
men who make their living between 
the producer and the consumer are 
all on the way to be wiped out. 
Then what? Why, Jones gets a job 
watching in a factory, and his child- 



ren go to work in it. There's Mr. 
Jones and his family to help swell 
the laboring classes. And Smith, 
who is single and has a friend at 
court, sheds his old feathers and 
gets in ; hugs right up to the big 
ones, and stands 'pat.' Oh ! he's all 
right. One man in luck through no 
virtue of his own to rank with the 
capitalistic class. Where one will 
go up, a half dozen will drop and 
degenerate. It's being done to-day. 
By Harry! I'm thinking hard, Cy. 
I've a wife and four little ones. All 
the Quilberrys have been, small fry 
in business but they have lived de- 
cently and been somebody. Are my 
children to eke out an existence in 
a blamed mill and be nothing — 
along with a gang of cheap help — 
they — the . grandsons and grand- 
daughters of General Quilberry, a 
man who left his little grocery when 
Lincoln called him — went in a pri- 
vate and came out a Brigadier. No ! 
By Thunder! this is their country 
and God meant 'em to have a chance 
in it. Shall they be ground down 
in this land of Freedom to the level 
of slaves because a gang of mag- 
nates say they shan't do what their 
grandfather and their father did? 
No ! this thing will turn, Cyrus 
Hayden. Our babies will turn it if 
we can't. You cannot kill blood. 
You cannot break the spirit of in- 

The man was white with excite- 
ment. Cyrus stared at him. "Well, 
Sam," he exclaimed. "What's got 
into you?" 

"Just what will get into you, if 
you'll think!" cried Quilberry. 
"We've got everything for our child- 
ren but a chance, — men like you and 
me, Cy. Schools, libraries, every- 
thing to make good men and women 
of them — and then, what? Nothing 
to do? Can my boy go into trade 

as I did? Can yours? Will my 
little Jennie go through the High 
School and then scratch for bread 
and butter tending some dirty ma- 
chine from morning to night?" 

Cyrus began to look disturbed. 
"I — I — hope not," lamely. 

"She may," growled Quilberry, 
fiercely. "If anything should hap- 
pen to me, she may. Not while I 
live though. Under different con- 
ditions she might marry a success- 
ful retailer and have a happy home 
and bring up boys to carry on the 
old man's business. Does that go 
through your hide?" 

"Rather!" said Cyrus. "Still, I 
think you make too much of it, Sam. 
If I could collect what is due me 
and sell for cash, I would go on 
well enough, but I've a credit trade, 
same as you." 

"And why not? Credit is the 
basis of almost every achievement. 
W r ho borrows? Who gets trusted? 
The Government. The City. The 
Church. The great enterprises. 
The business of every country is 
done mainly on credit. It has to be. 
But if you can't get it, you can't 
give it. That's your fix. See now 
what has brought this about, and 
what in my mind will follow. The 
combinations are aiming at strictly 
cash transactions. What is the 
source of demand? The home, gen- 
erally speaking. The producer in- 
tends to sell the consumer direct, 
just as soon as possible, and for 
cash. It will put the home in the 
position of a man with absolutely 
no credit. The householder will live 
simply hand to mouth. He will 
have to get money, or no food. 
Every employer will know this. 
Will wages increase? Not where 
people are hungry and are willing 
to work for a pittance. The retailer, 
the best friend the people ever had, 



will be gone. He will be one of 
the two classes — the cash sellers or 
the cash buyers. Everything is 
coming into line/ Cyrus, it is swing- 
ing right along." 

"But won't it be cheaper for 
folks in the end, Sam? That is 
what they say. People will live 
within their means, then." 

"Credit is means, confound it! 
Who says it will be cheaper? The 
trusts. Cheaper for them, yes. 
With the middle man out it ought 
to be. They can fix prices as they 
please, then. Can't you see that the 
retail man is and always has been 
the bulwark that stands between the 
producer and the consumer. He 
holds down prices for the people. 
All he wants is his margin of profit. 
His trade won't pay more, neither 
"will be. And he trusts his customers 
when they are hard up. He takes 
a personal interest in them and they 
in him — they are neighbors, 
friends — and when the middle man 
is no more, you'll see a crowd of 
mourners. It will be like buying 
■stamps at the postoffice, if you have 
two cents, they give you permission 
to lick one stamp. Can you mail 
another letter — an important one? 
When you get two cents more, you 
can. Go out and try to borrow it. 
You'll see nothing but heels, and 
those hurrying. There is some hu- 
manity in credit. There is none in 
•cash. It's going to knock all decent 
feeling out of business. It won't be 
""Let him have it, he is straight and 
wall pay.' It will be 'Has he the 
money in his paw? If not, tell him 
to go to the devil and whistle for 
liis grub." 

As Mr. Quilberry paused for 
b>reath, Cyrus looked thoughtful. 
"I swear, Sam," he said, "I believe 
father would say you were right. 
He'd like that about trusting people 

and the friendship part. I do, my- 
self, but it has never seemed real 
good business. If everyone would 
settle to-day, I'd feel better about 

"They can't," resumed his com- 
panion, recovering. "And for this 
reason. The net is narrowing about 
them in a hundred little ways. They 
are being pinched. Their credit is 
getting whittled down, and they are 
afraid to let go a cent for fear the 
wrong man will get it — or else they 
pay out every penny the minute it 
comes in. And we, Cy," he added 
bitterly, "are the wrong men, I'm 
afraid. We're the old sort. Speak- 
ing of your father, why I don't be- 
lieve he ever lost a dollar by wait- 
ing — and he never refused to fill an 
order. No wonder he had friends. 
He's carried people along over hard 
times, and I've heard more than one 
man say that Zach Hayden would 
get his money if he had to steal it 
for him. And he always did get it, 
some time. I'm afraid he would 
have gone under, though, by this. 
These new retail dealers are a dif- 
ferent set. .-Jt's straight cash with 
them as it must be with us all — and 
I hope they will make it pay. 
Trouble is that little by little ac- 
counts get started, and by and by 
they too will drop out, leaving only 
the big stores and agents. Anything 
in view, Cy?" 

"Not yet. I must be trotting, 
Sam. Good-bye. Glad I met you." 

"Good-bye, Sam. If I hear of a 
job I'll let you know." 

Quilberry watched the stalwart 
form swing down the street and 
stroked his long nose in reflection. 

"Too bad!" he muttered. "I get 
better terms than he, and can hang 
on yet awhile. Cy isn't the kind to 
rise in a big business ; too much 
like old Zach — easy, sympathetic and 



independent, but a man all through. 
I'd like to know if us middlemen 
do not represent a good part of the 
real backbone of the community, 
anyway? Wipe us out and what's 
left? The rich, growing richer, and 
the poor, growing poorer. We have 
done our share in making the coun- 
try ; now we can take a back seat." 

And Cyrus Hayden, hurrying on, 
said to himself: "I never knew 
Sam to speak out like that before. 
Right or wrong, he was in earnest, 
and I guess I'll figure to wind up 
my affairs at once." 

At that moment, Rachel, some- 
what flushed, was being ushered in- 
to the presence of Judge Parlow's 
widow. The sweet-faced, dignified 
old lady was no unfamiliar figure, 
but Rachel had never met her per- 
sonally. And her quick impulse to 
show Cyrus that she could be a prac- 
tical collector faded to a shudder of 
dismay as the portly butler waved 
her into the appartment of simple 
luxury, and her feet felt clumsy and 
out of place in the soft, sinking car- 
pet. A huge portrait of the de- 
parted magistrate eyed her severely 
from the wall. A green parrot in a 
habitation of gilded comfort, rasp- 
ingly remarked : "Tut ! tut ! don't 
do that!" in exact imitation of the 
Judge. A desire to flee clutched the 
spirit of Mrs. Hayden, but she held 
herself bravely and smiled. 

The smile of Rachel was extreme- 
ly pleasing and counteracted the 
aggression of her look, which, by 
the way, was no indication of 
character; merely a brow contrac- 
tion caused by slightly defective 

"Ah, sit down, my dear," greeted 
Airs. Parlow, gazing alternately at 
Rachel and her card. "Mrs. Hay- 
den. Yes, very glad to see you." 

"Tut! tut!" from the parrot. 

The caller drew a long breath. 
"I — I have come," she commenced 
with hesitation, "to — to ask — " 

"Don't say that!" interrupted the 
parrot harshly. 

Poor Rachel's carefully concocted 
speech vanished from her brain. 
She looked distressedly from the 
mistress to the marplot and gasped. 

"To be sure !" said her hostess. 
"He does annoy strangers some- 
times with his chatter. I don't 
mind him." Then pressing an elec- 
tric button by her chair, she whis- 
pered to the maid who instantly 
responded, "Remove Paul." 

Paul being removed with shrieks 
of protestation, the old lady settled 
comfortably. "Now, my dear," she 
said, "you were about to ask — ?" 

Rachel cleared her throat reso- 
lutely. "I know it is out of the 
way," she said tremulously, "and 
I'm sure I don't know what you'll 
thing Mrs. Parlow, but my husband 
is awfully worried about his busi- 
ness, and I — I've come to see if you 
could help him out." 

Her companion stared. "Why, 
why," she uttered, adjusting her 
spectacles, "I do not quite compre- 
hend. Mr. Hayden has never asked 
me for money." 

"I know it," burst out Rachel. 
"Plis father told him to never send 
you a bill — he — " 

"I see — I see," put in the other. 
"The Judge thought highly of 
Zachary Hayden. Why? Zachary 
was in my husband's regiment, my 
dear — they were real friends. How 
often he spoke of him in his last 
days. 'That man was a lion in a 
fight, Mary,' he'd say, 'and after a 
battle he was like a woman among 
the wounded, friend or foe.' He 
would cut the very clothes from his 
back to tie up their hurts. Many a 
man has blessed him with his dying 


breath — ' the old woman wiped her 
glasses. "Yes," she went on, "and 
when the Judge was taken, Zachary 
was one of the first to call. I recol- 
lect now — he was, and I saw him. 
He wept, I think— yes, I remember 
his great red handkerchief. It was 
pitiful to see such a big strong man 
so affected. And shortly after I 
heard he was dead, too. Dear me ! 
Sad days. Sad days." \ < $0$V 

She was far from mundane af- 
fairs as her faded eyes rested lov- 
ingly upon the stern features in the 
great gilt frame. Rachel arose. "I 
guess I'd better be going," she re- 
marked a bit thickly. "Another 
time — " 

"Oh! What was it? Don't go, 
my dear. Sit down again. Let me 
see. You spoke of it's being con- 
venient for Mr. Hayden — Cyrus 
I've always called him — to receive 
a check." 

"That was it. But no matter just 
now. He doesn't know I came. It 
worried me to have him so upset, 
and I started out without thinking, 
hoping I might help him." 

Mrs. Parlow pulled at her rings, 
looking greatly distressed. "My 
dear," she observed sorrowfully, 
"my bank account is overdrawn. I 
haven't a dollar in the house. What 
shall I do? Next month I have my 
remittance and Cyrus will get what 
is due him, although I haven't the 
faintest idea of the amount." 

"It's all right," said Rachel, get- 
ting up again. "The only trouble is 
that he has to settle with the men 
who supply him, next Monday, or 
go out of business. It may be for 
the best." 

"Go out of business!" ejaculated 
the widow sitting very erect. "He 
musn't think of it. Where will I 
get my meat?" 

Rachel laughed weakly. "There 

are other markets," she answered. 

"I won't trade with them," cried 
Mrs. Parlow. "Indeed, the way 
matters are going on is ridiculous. 
Everyone wants their money and 
I've lately been horribly pestered 
for trifling bills that I never used to 
think of paying until it was perfect- 
ly convenient. I fail to understand 
it. Of course, I settle them at once, 
but it's very annoying to be dunned, 
and now I have overdrawn my ac- 
count and have nothing for Cyrus. 
It's a shame. Even Mr. Quilberry, 
my grocer, has importuned me. 

"Has he? Cyrus said he was hav- 
ing a hard time, too, and it wouldn't 
surprise him if Sam Quilberry went 
to the wall some day." 

"Wnat!" exclaimed Mrs. Parlow 
with a start. 

A bright color rose in the 
wrinkled cheeks. "I wish to see 
Cyrus to-night," she said sharply. 
"Be sure and tell him. Come and see 
me again, my dear, and bring your 
little girl." 

"He's a boy," replied Rachel, 
laughing, and departed leaving her 
entertainer /-perusing the Judge's 
picture with a curiously decided ex- 

"Get anything, Cyrus?" inquired 
his wife, when he returned from his 
call that evening. 

The man sat down heavily. "I 
can't talk to-night, Rachel," he said 
hoarsely. "They say that when the 
Judge had a difficult case he used 
to consult with the old lady. I be- 
lieve it. I told her everything, even 
to giving her a list of my debtors. 
Now, I'm going to bed." 

During the three fine days ensu- 
ing, old Mrs. Parlow was noticed to 
drive about town at all hours. 

Saturday morning Hayden met 
Quilberry, whose pursed mouth 
wore a cheerful grin. "What's 


struck people, Cy?" he greeted. "She? Who?" 

"I'm getting receipts to beat all. "Why, Mrs. Parlow. I'm blessed 

Little checks, big checks — good ac- if the old lady hasn't interviewed 

counts and bad. Mrs. Judge Par- folks right and left. What is more 

low has settled in full." she sold a bond in order to square 

"She has settled me" returned up. I guess your receipts are due 

Cyrus, and his eyes, so like his to her. Said she thought a lot of 

father's became misty. "I've just you, Sam." 

mailed my draft to the shippers. Mr. Quilberry gave a long whistle 

W 7 hat's more, I've a thousand in the of astonishment. "Say anything 

bank — and I'm going on. Yes, Sam, else?" he inquired. 

but it will be a cash business — Cyrus ventured a laugh, which 

ahem ! with some exceptions. That was half a sob. "Only that she was 

is what she advised when she lent sure that people didn't want the 

me the money." middleman to go," he replied. 


By Ellen Frances Baldwin 

A morning mist hangs over all 

In folds serene — a silver pall. 

The many hills themselves seclude — 

Lone anchorites in solitude. 

The sun gleams palely through the mist, 

Like longing face unloved — unkissed. 

The river flows toward mystery ; 

As summoned soul upon its way. 

The trees within the forest vast 

Seem shrouded wraiths from out the past. 

O'er muffled nature falls no song; 

The birds in silence flit along. 

No pall of mist but what shall rise, 

That we may see the hidden skies; 

In noble strength the hills stand forth, 

Toward east and west, toward south and north 

The pallid sun, like one love-kissed, 

Shall smile as if there ne'er was mist; 

The river flow to meet the sea, 

With never look of mystery; 

The stately trees, like kings and priests, 

Shall stand, from clinging shroud released ; 

And song be heard and singer seen, 

'Mid sunshine's gold and woodland's green; 

While benediction over all, 

The Unseen Presence ssem to fall. 


In the Kentucky Mountains 

Colonial Customs That Are Still Existing in That Famous 
Section of the Country 

By Lillian Walker Williams 


"MLL 'em plum full o' whis- 
key ; that cures 'em. Why, 
when I wus a young un I 
wus bit by a rattler and wus 
mightily afeard of tellin' maw. I 
know'd she'd guv me a whippin', 
but I got powerful sick and she jest 
know'd what wus the matter and 
filled me plum full o' whiskey. 
Ther snake? Why, I killed him, 
and cut off his rattles. Must alius 
kill ther snake. Now's their fust 
time I wus ever on ther cars. Be'n 
up along ter see Reuben's mammy. 
Reuben 's be'n on 'em lots. He told 

me, 'Now don't yer be lookin' out 
ther winder or yer '11 git hurt ;' but 
I say, if yer don't look about, yer 
don't see no thin', and I 'low I'm 
goin' ter see. Where 'd you'uns 
come from ? We'uns live ten mile 
on yon side ther mountain. Yes, I 
alius walks to an' fro. We'uns got 
a nice cabin and field o' corn. I 
scattered two papers o' cabbage 
seed in ther plantin'. What we'uns 
goin' ter do with our crop? Sell 
it ! 'Pears like heaps of folks don't 
know enough ter git ready fer ther 
time thev '11 eit huno-rv ; then them 


's got ter 

home : my 
be realized. 

folks what don't hev, 

I had long wished to visit the 
mountaineer in his 
dream was about to 
We were on a little train which 
slowly climbed a mountain railroad, 
built for carrying coal and, inci- 
dentally, the public. The mercury 
stood at ioo degrees, and the trip 
was becoming wearisome, when I 
was aroused from a reverie of the 
land and people of John Fox by the 
consciousness of being watched. 

*When paths lead into the woods, as in this picture, it 
other end of the path. The government officers often find i 

Across the aisle a pair of bright, in- 
telligent eyes were studying me. 
Without hat, and with hands bare, 
I did not meet the social require- 
ments of this mountain maid, for 
over her sunny hair was the pictur- 
esque sunbonnet of that country, 
and woollen mitts covered her 
hands to the knuckles. The sudden 
stopping of the train gave us a com- 
mon interest, and an opportunity of 
entering into conversation which I 
was not slow in seizing. Only too 
soon we parted, and as I extended 

is supposed that some kind of business is carried on at the 
t to be a "moonshine still" 




my hand to express the good-bye of 
a New Englander, she put her arm 
around my neck and said : "Go 
home with me, won't yer?" Warm- 
hearted and trusting, ready to share 
his home if you treat him justly, 
ready to shoot if you play him false, 
is the Kentucky mountaineer. 
The terminus of the railroad, 

stopped over night in a typical 
mountain town a mile from the rail- 
road. Arriving at a pleasant hotel, 
surrounded with flowering vines, 
"mine host" greeted us most cordial- 
ly. Here among others we found 
the "Col. Carter" (made historic by 
Hopkinson Smith), an old-time 
Southern gentleman ; also a mine- 



which extended a hundred miles in- 
to the mountains, was only the 
starting-point of our trip. Before 
we reached our destination, fifty 
miles more over five mountains and 
up several river-beds must be 
travelled in carriage, on mule-back, 
or afoot, through a land unknown 
to steam or electricity. In order to 
make the journey in two days, we 

owner and coal expert, full of anec- 
dote and mountain experiences, and 
a revenue officer just returned from 
breaking up illicit distilleries, whose 
hair-breadth escapes were more fas- 
cinating than fiction. 

The next morning a rather start- 
ling conversation awakened us. 
We were to start at "sun up" for 
the most interesting trip we had 




ever taken. "Why. jedge," I heard 
our driver saying, "I haint never 
seed no sech roads, all gullied out 
an' nuther places filled in, till plum 
sure to be fallen someways." 
"Where's that, Uncle Jim?" 
"Why, von side o' wild cat." 
"What "side?" 
"Why, yon side, yon side." 
This was to be our route, and the 
prospect was not encouraging. The 
judge of the district court was not 
expecting re-election, for, as one 
politician expressed 
it, "He ain't wuth 
nothin' fur keepin' 
the roads goin' ; he 
ain't b e ' n along 
sence he gin inter 

Before the town 
awoke we were 
winding up the river 
bed into the moun- 
tains, surrounded by 
dense forests with 
distant glimpses of 
successive blue 
ranges. Travel is 
only possible where 
the rivers are low 
enough for their 
beds to form the 
highway. Even 
then it is somewhat 
dangerous to be 
caught on the way. 
river rise several feet in a few hours, 
fed by a passing thunder storm. 
The only "roads" are across the 
mountains and are wide enough for 
but one wagon, with an occasional 
"turn-out." At one place we hap- 
pened to meet a heavily loaded 
wagon. The mountain, hundreds 
of feet above us on one side, and 
hundreds below on the other, pre- 
sented a problem. With the calm- 
ness that characterized Uncle Jim, 

our weather-beaten driver, he said: 
"Now, I ain't nuthin' ter say, but 
ef you'uns wants ter git out, yer 
can." From a distant point I saw 
our vehicle almost literally carried 
around the other wagon, where the 
foothold was but scant. 

Burr-r-r, burr-r-r! came from a 
cabin, as we journeyed, and on 
opening the door, the pages of his- 
tory were turned back a hundred 


Before us was a beautiful 





We saw the lids" of blue 
patterns we 
looms," the 

singing to the music of the 
spinning-wheel, and 
swaying with that 
graceful motion that 
accompanies it. 
The soft brown hair 
|, drawn from her oval 

face was confined in 
a loose coil by the 
"tuck comb" of the 
mountains. She was 
\ gowned in "linsey 

\C woolsey," the thread 
■ f^- f which she had 
spun after her grand- 
mother had carded 
the wool, and her 
mother had woven 
it on a wooden loom, 
c o m mon in New 
England a century 
ago. With justifiable 
pride they showed 
us the "kive'r- 
and white; -.the: 1 Maine 
'prize in our "heir- 
towels, 'vthe flax for 
which they had raised, and blankets 
and cloth of their weaving. 

People of the outside world sel- 
dom penetrate these forests. Here 
generations live and die without, 
hearing the whistle of steam or see- 
ing a modern invention. We are in? 
the land of "our contemporary an- 

In Kentucky a majority of the 




mountain families may be traced 
back to rural England, by distinct 
English traits, legends, and even 
songs. We find survivals of Saxon 
speech. The Saxon pronoun "hit" 
holds its place almost universally. 
Strong past tenses — holp for helped, 
drug for dragged, and the like — are 
heard constantly. 

The houses, with few exceptions, 
are of logs, many having but one 
room twelve feet square and win- 
dowless. Often when there is a 
window it has a wooden shutter in- 
stead of glass. Frequently, when 
the house is enlarged, instead of the 
second room being joined to the 
first, it is built at a distance of 
twelve feet and the roof extended 
to the first cabin. Thus a third 
open room or court is formed. 
This is called the "dog run," but in 
reality is the family sitting room. 

The love of pets among the 
people is universal, and I saw few 
places where the aesthetic taste of 
the woman was not shown by a 
flower-bed. Stately hollyhocks al- 
most reached the eaves of the 
houses, trumpet-vines tossed their 
flaming blossoms on roof and chim- 
ney, and smaller blooms pushed their 
heads through fences which were 
festooned in vines. There was one 
house, where the beautiful flowers 
bordering the path and clustering 
about the cabin, were planted by a 
little boy so crippled with rheuma- 
tism he was obliged to crawl on his 
hands and knees to "tend" them. 
He said, " 'Pears like I can't live 
without a blossom-bed, I hev such 
a sorry time with rheumatiz." The 
perseverance of this child is one of 
the characteristics of the mountain- 
eers. As a class, they overcome al- 
most ^insurmountable obstacles to 
accomplish what they desire. One 
boy heard of the steam cars; he 

"aimed ter know jest what hit wus 
like," so he walked fifty miles to a 
town through which the railroad 
passed, obtained work and stayed a. 
month in order to see the cars every 


day. A girl wanted to go to school, 

and she said, "If yer '11 only let me 
go, I'll put my things in a meal sack 
and walk thar ; I'd ruther do that 



than not git to go." Walking there 
meant over the mountains forty 
miles. Many children walk ten 
miles a day to a little log school- 

The same quality of determina- 
tion is shown in making their mar- 
bles. A piece of limestone some- 
what larger than the desired marble 
is chosen. The edges are knocked 
off as much as possible, then it is 
put into the split end of a stick. 
This is held and rolled between the 
palms of the hands, with the stone 
revolving against a harder rock, un- 
til the marble is complete, and as 
round as if manufactured from clay. 
The girls make their jumping-ropes 
of the bark of grape vine. 

A house raising or "working" is 
most interesting, and an exact 
counterpart of those described in 
books. When the location is 
chosen, the trees are "banded," and 
the largest left standing. We saw 
acres of magnificent trees killed in 
this way. Most cabins are built by 
the side of streams and in the open. 

This is a land of feuds, and trees 
might hide an enemy. While walk- 
ing over a mountain, the gentlemen 
of the party pushed ahead, while I 
stopped at a spring. Presently a 
mountaineer came up and eagerly 
inquired, "Who's that man?" My 
explanation seemed satisfactory, as, 
soon there came along a team 
driven by a man of energetic ap- 
pearance. With him was a young, 
sad-eyed woman. The usual "how- 
'dye" was exchanged, and after they 
passed I saw a reason for the 
anxious question, for on his back 
was a shoulder holster which held a 
large pistol so placed that it could 
be instantly seized. As he drove 
and looked cautiously up the moun- 
tain road, the woman looked back- 
ward. The pathos of the mountain 

feud was brought home to me. 
Mothers, sisters, wives, watch for 
the ambushed enemy ; they see 
their dear ones shot, they expect 
them to be brought home dead. 
We met one man whose dearest 
friend was shot by his side from am- 
bush. He begged not to be left to 
die alone, and all through the night 
this man held his hand as his 
friend's life ebbed away. 

As there are no valleys, the 
mountain sides are cultivated. 
Some are so steep, it is said, that 
after two plantings the soil is 
washed away and carried off by the 
swift streams. The women, as- 
sisted by the children, plough, plant, 
hoe and garner the crops. They 
milk, feed the cattle or sheep, shear, 
wash the wool, card, spin, color, 
spool and weave it. They wash and 
iron, sew and cook, and when a 
neighbor is sick they nurse him. 
They do not have the latest 'inven- 
tions with which to work. In some 
places the utensils are made of 
wood. The wash-bowl is scooped 
from the end of a log, and is emptied 
by brushing out the water with the 
hand. The washing is done at the 
"branch," the clothes are battled 
with a paddle, the tub being a hol- 
lowed out log. Boats are made in 
the same manner. Candles, and 
sometimes lamps, are in use, but in 
many places a "pine knot," pointed 
at one end, and stuck between the 
logs in the side of the room, fur- 
nishes the only light. Besides weav- 
ing, the women make artistic 
willow and splint baskets, and beau- 
itful hats, of the inside bark of the 
horse-chestnut tree. 

"How can you tell the time away 
here in the mountains?" I asked. 
"Why, we'uns use sun time." 
Houses are built to "cast a time 
shadow." The older people keep 



January 6th as old Christmas, for 
they, like the Russians, have not 
adopted the Gregorian Calendar, 
which England and the colonies 
adopted 150 years ago. The young 
people often have their festivities 
on New Christmas, December 25th. 
On account of the sparce settle- 
ment, funerals are rarely or never 
held at the time of burial. Possibly 

ly that world outside the mountains. 
The custom still prevails of cover- 
ing the graves with little houses. 

Of all colonial customs, the most 
interesting to me was the "live em- 
ber." A hot July day, calling at a 
cabin, we found the "live coal" 
kept. A custom inherited was too 
strong to be overcome, and to this 
fact I am indebted for the choicest 


after years have elapsed and several 
of the family have passed away, the 
circuit "preachers" gather for the 
''funeral occasion." It is a great 
day. Preparations of pies and fried 
chicken are made, and from all the 
country round friends gather to 
hear the preachers discourse, not 
only on the shortness of life, but the 
wickedness of the world, — especial- 

memento of my trip — a water- 
color painted on the spot. The 
smoky walls, and stone fireplace, 
the gleam of fire and the memory of 
the woman's hearty welcome, a 
vivid picture of domestic life in the 
mountains, are mine. To her the 
picture gave the old place a new look, 
for she "aimed ter keep hit goinV 
she "didn't know hit wus so pretty." 



The "blind tiger" causes more 
trouble in the mountains than all 
the wild beasts. It is a cabin, at 
the single high window of which 
one may be served by an invisible 
bartender. Place the sum of money 
you wish to spend in whiskey on 
the window-sill, retire from the lo- 

help feeling that Uncle Sam could 
clear the mountains of illicit dis- 
tilling at less expense if he would 
establish in their fastnesses, indus- 
trial schools and send good social 
settlement workers instead of in- 
ternal revenue officers. Teach the 
people the use of their hands and 


cality, return and you will find in 
the window the quantity called for 
by your piece of silver. The moun- 
tain "still" is responsible for the 
"tiger," and usually for the feud. 
As I look at it, somebody is respon- 
sible for the still. I can't help sym- 
pathizing with the moonshiner. I 
can't help thinking somewhat as he 
does about his own corn, and I can't 

*It may be interesting to know, in this connection, 

minds, let them know how much' 
the world needs what is best in 
them, and they will do their part. 
To quote Pres. Frost : 

"That the native vigor and capacity of 
these people has been obscured but not 
extinguished is shown by the record of 
those few individuals who have made their 
way to the region of larger opportunities. 
Stonewall Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, Ad- 
miral Farragut, Munsey, the great Metho- 

that the mail is carried in saddle-bags thrown across a. 

horse, there being no roads over which wagons can pass all through the year. As it is impossible to travel more than 
fifty miles a day, a man leaves the town at the terminal of the railroad and travels twenty-five miles. At this point be is 
met by a man who has come a distance of twenty-five miles from the mountains. They exchange saddle-bags of mail,. 
and each returns to his starting place, distributing the mail at the several post-offices he passes. 



dist orator of Baltimore, are examples of 
the sterling abilities of the mountain 

The mountaineer is bound to 
have whiskey even if he has to make 
it with an iron kettle, a half barrel 
upturned over it, and a small copper 
tube for condensation. This copper 
tube is the part the revenue officers 
destroy when "breaking up a still." 

They pick it full of holes, using a 
pick that is called a "little devil." 
That these stills are numerous is 
illustrated by the story of a reve- 
nue officer who alighted at a station 
and wishing to find a government 
still, accosted a native with, "My 
friends, which road leads to the still?" 
"Wal, stranger, take most eny 
road and hit '11 bring you thar." 

Queen Catharine's Land 

By May Ellis Nichols 

DAME Nature must have been 
in a prodigal — or was it a reck- 
less? — mood, when she fash- 
ioned New York State ; certain it is 
that, after completely encircling it 
with natural gems, she seems to 
have jumped up and spilled her re- 
maining treasures, helter skelter, 
out of her apron, here a vista, there 
a mountain, now a long row of little 
lakes like pearls on a string, the 
whole so fascinating, so enchanting, 
that you may look long and never 
find another region of its size that 
equals it in quiet lovliness. 

Nor has this country all been 
"spied out." It is full of delightful 
surprises, by-ways in the usual 
routes of travel, so that, should you 
enter by Hendrick Hudson's door- 
way in New York Harbor, and sail 
up the Hudson past the pillared Pali- 
sades, the blue-peaked Catskills and 
hills, rolling to the scarcely less pic- 
turesque Mohawk; should you con- 
tinue to historic Lake George and 
Lake Champlain ; should you push 

on from there through the pine- 
scented Adirondacks, past the siren 
band of the Thousand Islands, till 
borne on Erie's broad bosom you 
reach the torrent of Niagara itself, 
still something remains. There is a 
beautiful valley far inland, as calm 
and sweet and fairylike as the gar- 
den of an enchanted palace and this 
valley is "Queen Catharine's Land." 

It is more than a century since 
the vicissitudes of war first revealed 
Catharine Valley to the white man. 
In 1779, after the Massacre of Wy- 
oming, General Sullivan marched 
his army up the Susquehana on their 
terrible mission of extermination, 
fought the battle of Newtown, where 
Elmira now stands, and from there 
followed Catharine Creek till it emp- 
tied into Seneca Lake. 

It was the first day of September, 
the very anniversary of that march, 
that we stood on the hill, a mile 
south-west of the village of Montour 
Falls, and saw Catharine Valley 
spread out below us. It extended 



for miles, a mere strip of vivid 
green between the deeper green of 
the forest-covered hills that rise five 
hundred feet on either side, while 
back and forth, in and out, a flash- 
ing silver line in the sunshine, 
weaves Catharine Creek, threading 
its way through the weeds and gay 
marsh blossoms to the broader silver 
expanse of Seneca Lake. 

rine Creek stood the town of Catha- 
rine Montour. 

Catharine Montour, or Queen 
Catharine, as she was called, was 
one of the most romantic characters 
in American history. She has been 
the heroine of many a romance, and 
the historian, as well as the novelist, 
has sometimes allowed her to fire 
his imagination. The authenticated 



On our right, a line of trees fol- 
lowed one of the gorges, which are 
so common in this locality, and the 
creek made a curve, as if to meet 
its descending stream. 4 This is Ha- 
vana Glen, once the hiding and rally- 
ing place of the Seneca Indians; in- 
deed, one square opening in the 
rocks is still called the "Council 
Chamber." At the entrance of the 
Hen, built on either side of Catha- 

facts of her history are all too few. 
She was the daughter of a French 
Governor and the Indian Princess, 
Margaret Montour, a granddaugh- 
ter of Madam Montour, so famous 
in early Pennsylvanian history, and, 
if tradition can be credited, a great 
granddaughter of the famous Fron- 
tenace. It is certain that she in- 
herited royal blood from the old 
world as well as the new. 




In her childhood she was cap- 
tured by a war party of Senecas and 
carried to this town three miles 
south of Seneca Lake. When she 
became a woman she married their 
fiercest war-chief, Telenemut, and 
after his death in battle, ruled the 
tribe herself. She not only super- 
intended the planting of grain and 
raising of horses and cattle, but at- 
tended the war councils of the Six 
Nations and even accompanied some 
of the chiefs to Philadelphia to lay 
some Indian grievance before the 
Continental Congress. 

There are many stories of the 
firmness and wisdom with which she 
ruled her treacherous, vacillating 
people. Those who saw her told 
much of her physical charms, her 
great lustrous eyes, her hair, like 
the purple grape in color, but silky 
and fine, the straight sensitive nose 
and full curved lips ; but, most of 
all, the sweet voice and dignity of 
bearing, well becoming a queen. 
She spoke French and English as 

well as several Indian dialects, and 
the idle beauties at Philadelphia 
found her interesting as well as 
amusing. They petted and flattered 
her, and long years afterward, told 
their grandchildren of the days be- 
fore the Revolutionary War, when 
they had entertained a real Indian 

When Sullivan's army drove her 
people from their homes and de- 
stroyed their village, she fled to Ft. 
Niagara and spent the winter of 
1779 there, as a prisoner. She was 
treated with respect and considera- 
tion by the soldiers, but after her re- 
lease, she crossed into Canada and 
when last heard of in 1790, was still 
living near the Canadian border. 

She must have had a strong and 
unusual personality to so impress 
herself, not only on her savage tribe, 
but on the surrounding region. 
Catharine Valley has had many fair 
women, but the only one whose 
name is perpetuated is Catharine 
Montour, the half-breed queen of a 
practically extinct race. It is in- 
teresting to notice how often her 
name is on the lips of those who 
have never so much as heard of her 
existence. The township is named 
Catharine — Cathareen the country 
folk pronounce it — and there is 
Catharine Valley and Catharine 




Creek ; on the banks of the creek 
is a dilapidated barn-like building, 
once intended for school purposes, 
that is interesting to us because it 
is called "Queen Catharine's Hotel ;" 
there is also a township named Mon- 
tour, beside the waterfall called 
Montour Falls and the village of the 
same name. 

We turned and looked far down 
the valley to the south, where the 
hills met in the blue haze. It was 


there Sullivan's men came down, but 
not in the blue and gold of the Sep- 
tember day; they were approaching 
the very stronghold of the Senecas 
and took up their line of march after 
the sun had set. It was an unknown 
country and the banks of the Catha- 
rine Creek were an almost impassa- 
ble swamp, a very slough of des : 
pond to the heavy-laden, discour- 
aged men. Together with the weary 
pack-horses, loaded with ammuni- 

tion and tent equipments, but all too 
little provision, they floundered 
along till midnight, almost forget- 
ting their fear of ambuscade in the 
present misery of the quagmire be- 
neath their feet. "A march through 
roads that cannot be described," 
wrote Major John Burrows in his 
journal. "A most horrid, thick, 
miry swamp," recorded another of- 

They spent the whole night strug- 
gling, wading, floundering along, 
with Catharine Creek apparently al- 
ways in front of them. It turned 
and doubled and impeded them as 
if in alliance with their savage foes. 
No one knows how many times 
they crossed and recrossed it; some 
say nine, some fifteen, some thirty 
times. Now it is as merry a little 
river as Dr. Van Dyke ever found 
in his travels, and as we stood on its 
bank and watched its current, it was 
hard to believe that it was the same 
stream that flouted and tormented 
those disheartened men till some 
were ready to lie down with their 
exhausted horses and give up the 
struggle. Indeed we found it so en- 
ticing, as it rippled on its winding 
course, that we yielded to its per- 
suasion and followed along its 
bank. In and out it went; the wil- 
lows hung low, almost dipping their 
slender branches in its waters, the 
golden rod and purple asters nodded 
to each other from either shore, the 
bright flecks of sunshine showed the 
stones in its bed and all the time it 
was humming the cheeriest of little 
songs. How we did wish we could 
understand what it was saying, for 
surely it must often babble of those 
old days when Queen Catharine's 
lodge stood on its bank and her 
Seneca husband guided his birch 
canoe down its coarse to the lake 
three miles away. 



But if Catharine Creek keeps its 
secrets, a record, though a more pro- 
saic one, remains. Before the days 
of daily papers, every one kept a 
journal and some of those written 
by Sullivan's soldiers have been 
carefully preserved. Quaint old rec- 
ords they are with here and there 
a refreshing touch of humor. Major 
Jeremiah Fogg, for instance, de- 
serves a more fitting name, for he 
lights up his accounts by many 
vivid bits of description. He tells 
us, among other things, that "the 
surrounding country was as uneven 
as a sea in the tempest" and was 
seamed by "prodigious gullies." 

The army spent the second of Sep- 
tember in camp and evidently they 
took the opportunity to write up 
their journals. They all record the 
terrors of the night in Bear Swamp 
and the day's rest at Catharine's 
town. Each one varies the name to 
suit his individual taste. They write 
it Katareen's Town, French Cath- 
rene, Queen Catharene's Castle, 
French Catherone's Town and Cheo- 
quock, and there are almost as many 
ways of spelling Catharine as there 
are writers. The Indian name of the 
village was Sheoquoga. 

We learn from these journals that 
the village consisted of forty or 
fifty houses and as each house was 
a "long house/' that is built to shel- 
ter five or six families, there must 
have been several hundred Indians 
in the settlement. These houses 
were not rude wigwams of bark or 
skins stretched on poles, but sub- 
stantial dwellings : indeed, we are 
told that "the Queen's Palace was 
.a gambril ruft house about 30 feet 
long and 18 feet wide." Neither was 
the village surrounded by forests 
as we might imagine, but by fields 
of corn and by "apple and peach 
trees fruited deep." 

. The soldiers heard the barking of 
dogs as they approached and the 
fires were still burning, but the town 
was deserted except for one old 
squaw, too feeble to go with the 
others. She was a veritable "find" 
for the annalists and no one who 
brought his record down to Septem- 
ber second failed to use her as ma- 
terial. Major Fogg dubbed her 
"Madam Sacho," and said she was 
a "full-blooded, antediluvian hag." 
They made various guesses as to 
her age and Lieutenant Beatty, who 
evidently believed "a woman is as 
old as she looks," boldly pronounced 
her to be a hundred and twenty 
years old at least. They treated her 
kindly, however, building a little 
hut for her in a secluded place and 
leaving her some bacon, a bag of 
meal and some of their few remain- 
ing biscuits, though not an officer 
under the rank of a field officer had 
tasted any since leaving Tioga. The 
same Lieutenant Beatty remarks, a 
little grudgingly perhaps, "I sup- 
pose now she will live in splendor." 

In turn she told them, and truth- 
fully, as f they afterward learned, 
that Col. Butler had been there a 
few days before stirring up the tribe; 
that the women had begged to re- 
main in their homes, but had not 
been permitted to do so for fear they 
would be captured and held as hos- 
tages ; that they had been sent away 
in the morning, but that the braves 
had waited till they could hear the 
march of the army and the voices 
of the soldiers. 

Some say that Queen Catharine 
lingered behind and hid under the 
"Rushing Waters" that are now 
called for her, Montour Falls. They 
may be seen from almost any point 
in the village, rushing from one of 
Major Fogg's "prodigious gullies." 
The stream starts high up in the 



western hill and, reaching its brink 
two hundred feet above the town, 
plunges down only to rise again half 
its height in mist that catches the 
sunlight and reflects all the rain- 
bow's tints. When it first flashed 
its spray before the dazzled eyes of 
Sullivan's soldiers, one of them, at 
least, believed it to be the great 
Niagara of which he had heard the 
trappers tell. If you creep close 
to the edge you can see the cavern 
under the fall where the fugitive 
queen concealed herself, or rather, — 
though not quite the same thing to 
be sure — where tradition says she 
was hidden. 

But the sun was already setting 
on the western hill, for, alas, it does 
not stand still even in this enchanted 
land, and we reluctantly turned from 
the site of Queen Catharine's town 
to follow a little further the path 
she took when she bade a last fare- 
well to the village that still bears 
her name. On the one side, the 
mountains rose precipitously two 

hundred feet from the well-trodden 
road; on the other side, Catharine 
Creek ever wound in and out, as if 
guiding us to the broader pathway 
down which Queen Catharine disap- 
peared. At last Seneca Lake lay 
before us, like a second heaven with 
its white mass of reflected clouds. 

We looked far down its smooth ex- 
panse till the blue hills were blurred 
into the rosy haze of the September 
sunset, and, as we gazed, a vision 
came of that September dawn, more 
than a century ago. We seem to 
hear the dirge of a departing race. 
From the southern shore a flotilla of 
canoes shot out and, leading them 
in the royal canoe, the eagle's feath- 
ers in her hair, the robes of beaver 
and martin beneath her feet, Queen 
Catharine sat, a fugitive but still a 
queen, like Arthur of old "going a 
long way," while in fancy, we stood 
as stood Sir Bedivere, 

"Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge 

of dawn 
And on the mere the wailing died away." 


By Charlotte Becker 

One only heard the beating rain, 
The low wind stir the grass, 

A vagrant bee drone drowsily, 
A lilting robin pass. 

But one heard, laughing from the sky, 
And singing from the sod, 

And whispering from each least thing, 
The messages of God ! 

Firft Admiral of New England 

By Alexander Cameron 

WITH the rise of the Tudors in 
England, her navy took defi- 
nite shape and became of ac- 
knowledged importance. It is true 
she had possessed at various times 
quite formidable fleets. Three hun- 
dred years earlier, under the great 
Plantagnet, two hundred vessels 
had been used to convey her army 
to the crusade in the Holy Land, 
and for generations the ceasless 
wars between France and England 
had necessitated some means of 
transporting soldiers across the 
Channel. But it was due to the 
first Tudor king that any amount 
of thought was given to systemati- 
cally strengthening the very small 
collection of miscellaneous vessels 
that by courtesy might be consid- 
ered the Royal Navy of England. 

In those early days England did not 
dream of becoming the successful 
rival of Spain, who was unquestion- 
ably the mistress of the seas, but her 
attempt at a navy gave Bartholomew, 
the younger brother of Columbus, 
when efforts elsewhere had been fu- 
tile, the suggestion to appeal to Henry 
the Seventh to furnish ships and 
money for the Cathay project. The 
king turned a deaf ear to his entreat- 
ies and thus lost to England the 
opportunity of discovery that finally 
became the glory of Spain. Columbus, 
in pursuing the theory of the shorter 
route to Cathay, discovered a world 
of which he had never dreamed and 

the magnitude of his discovery he 
never realized. No more did Europe. 
For over a century the belief in the 
existence of the passage that led di- 
rectly to the treasures of the East was 
unshaken, and even in the face of ac- 
cumulating testimony that overthrew 
the old theory, the world was slow to 
learn that it was America, not China, 
that had been discovered. 

During these years England forged 
steadily ahead; her power upon the 
sea was growing. Henry the Eighth 
is accredited with planning a method- 
ical arrangement for the government 
of the navy, and he could boast four 
men-of-war and fifty-three other ves- 
sels, in all. Under his daughter, 
Mary, the navy was permitted to go 
to ruin ; her reign, however, was 
short, and when the last of the Tu- 
dors wielded the sceptre, Elizabeth's 
navy was one to be feared, not on ac- 
count of the number or superiority of 
her vessels, but in the quality of the 
men who manned them, winning for 
her the proud title of "Restorer of 
Naval Power and Sovereign of the 
Northern Seas." Her dauntless sea- 
men were inspired by four motives, 
war, discovery, commerce, and colo- 
nization. Howard, Drake, Hawkins, 
Raleigh, Frobisher, each have added 
to England's fame, while the united 
efforts of all made possible the defeat 
of the Armada. Their life work 
called forth some of the noblest quali- 
ties of manhood, for it was an age of 



fearlessness and adventure, an age of 
ambition and courage, of steadfast- 
ness and patient endurance, this gold- 
en age of Elizabeth. True, these 
men had many faults, but they were 
heroes, and the age of hero-worship- 
pers has never passed. If we admit 
that a child's education begins a 
hundred years before he is born, 
then we must look to many in- 
fluences such as these, to appreciate 
the forces that shaped the life of one 
man and the destiny of a continent. 

At Willoughby, in the county of 
Lincoln, there lived a well-to-do 
farmer by the name of George Smith, 
to whom was born in the year 1579 a 
child to be known to future genera- 
tions by the prosaic name of John 
Smith ; but the name is the only thing 
about him that is prosaic, for his was 
a life full of stirring events, crowned 
by noble achievement. As a child he 
dreamed dreams, the life upon the sea 
attracted him and, fired by the exam- 
ple of the men of his day whose ad- 
ventures were repeated again and 
again in every home in England, he 
ran away from the merchant of Lynn 
to whom he had been apprenticed 
since his father's death, and at the age 
of fifteen went to France in attend- 
ance on Lord Willoughby's second 
son, and there he first began to learn 
the life of a soldier. But it was not 
long ere Henry of Navarre agreed to 
the Peace of the League, against 
which he had struggled for so many 
years, and civil war was at an end in 
France. Smith then drifted to. the 
Low Countries, where for four years 
he fought for the Protestant cause 
before he returned to his old home in 

No doubt he became the hero of 

the hour, but the interested rustics 
evidently wearied him, for, as he ex- 
presses it, he was "glutted with too 
much company," so with one servant 
he retired to the woods, where "by a 
faire brooke he built himself a pavil- 
lion of boughs;" here, with the exer- 
cise of horse, lance, and ring, and 
with two books, "Marcus Aurelius 
and Macheavillie's Arte of Warre," 
he passed some little time in rest and 
study. But such a spirit as Smith's 
could not remain long inactive; he 
was only nineteen, with all the inex- 
perience, over-confidence, and enthu- 
siasm of youth. The thought of the 
slaughtered Christians appealed to the 
poetic and chivalrous side of his na- 
ture, and he determined to try his for- 
tunes against the Turks. 

His first experience was to make the 
acquaintance of some Frenchmen, who, 
seeing in him an easy victim, repre- 
sented themselves as also eager to 
fight the Turks and begged him to 
join their party; when they lured him 
to France they promptly robbed him 
and left him to make his way as best 
he could to Marseilles, where he took 
ship for Italy. The other passengers 
were all Roman Catholics on their 
way to the Eternal City, and when a 
severe storm arose and he was discov- 
ered to be the only Protestant aboard, 
it was decided to follow the example 
of the ancient mariners of Joppa, and 
cast the offender into the sea. No 
great fish was provided for his trans- 
portation, but he was not far distant 
from the deserted little island of St. 
Mary's, and being an expert swimmer 
reached the shore. Fortunately in 
this uninhabited spot he was destined 
to remain only twenty-four hours be- 
fore a passing French vessel was 



hailed and took him on board; then 
came a cruise in the Mediterranean, 
terminating in a fight with a Venetian 
vessel, more than twice the size of the 
French, in which the latter was victo- 
rious, and as Smith was conspicuous 
for his valor, he obtained a corre- 
sponding share of the spoils. 

Meanwhile the armies of Rodolph 
of Germany were waging war with 
the Turks under the Third Mahomet. 
Smith after reaching Italy, made a 
leisurely journey to Gratz in Styria, 
the residence of Ferdinand, Archduke 
of Austria, afterwards Emperor of 
Germany. Here he was soon intro- 
duced to several persons of distinc- 
tion in the imperial army and was for- 
tunate in attaching himself to the staff 
of the Earl of Meldritch, a colonel of 
cavalry. The year 1601 was nearly 
closed, and the advantage of the con- 
flict had so far been with the Turk. 
Hungary had been the battlefield, and 
many of the strongest fortresses were 
taken, and the crescent was waving 
triumphant as far even as Canissia 
on the border of Styria. This was no 
time for one who merely sought the 
spoils of war to join the Christians, 
yet, young as he was, our soldier of 
fortune offered his free lance with 
so much heartiness and such evident 
love of the science of war, that he at- 
tracted the attention of those highest 
in command, who listened to his va- 
rious plans for conducting the cam- 
paign with a sense of good-natured 
amusement, that quickly gave place 
to the feeling that here might be a 
budding genius. And so it proved. 

The Turks had moved on as far as 
Olympach and were besieging that 
important place with twenty thousand 
men. Baron Kisell, with the cavalry 

of Meldritch, ten thousand men in all, 
had gone to the relief of Lord Ebers- 
baught, but unless the besieged and 
the relieving party could act in unison 
nothing could be effected. Smith 
told Kisell that one day he had dis- 
cussed with Lord Ebersbaught the 
subject of telegraphing by means of 
torches, a practice that had once been 
used by the ancient Greeks and Ro- 
mans. Permission was given him to 
attempt this means of communication, 
and that night on the mountain, 
Smith built three fire signals to 
which Ebersbaught, keenly on the alert 
for aid, replied in like fashion. The 
message was carefully spelled out, the 
number of torches displayed at one 
time corresponding to the letter of the 
alphabet. "On — Thursday — night 
— I — will — charge — on — the — 
east — at — the — alarm — sally — 
you," and Lord Ebersbaught an- 
swered: "I — will." 

Smith unfolded another plan to di- 
vide the strength of the Turks and to 
render half their force useless. The 
Turkish army lay on both sides of the 
river; behind one of these divisions 
he arranged at stated intervals "two 
or three thousand pieces of match,'' 
connected by lines, and "armed with 
powder," this was to be fired before 
the alarm and would thus seem so 
many musketeers. This manoeuvre 
kept half of the Turks chained to the 
spot, where they awaited in vain the 
full charge of Kisell's forces, while 
Ebersbaught made a successful sally 
from the town. The Turks were 
slain in great numbers and the siege 
was raised. Smith received well- 
earned honor and reward, and was 
given a command of two hundred and 
fifty horse, and, though but twenty 



years old, he bad won his way to 
recognition with only his clear intel- 
lect, undaunted bravery, and single- 
heartedness of purpose. 

His next commendable plan was the 
adoption of the "Fiery Dragon," 
round earthen pots filled with gun- 
powder and bullets ; these bombs were 
thrown into the besieged town of 
Alba Regalls with great effect, not 
only slaughtering the Turks, but set- 
ting the place on fire. Finally this 
stronghold fell. The campaign was 
pressed with unremitting zeal till the 
Christians were before the walls of 
Regall, a city of the mountains which 
was regarded by the Turks as abso- 
lutely impregnable. Meldritch was 
determined upon its fall, and his can- 
non were dragged through almost in- 
accessible passes and his troops sta- 
tioned on the table-land of the moun- 
tain. Regall, confident in its own 
strength, laughed at the slow steady 
efforts of the besiegers and tauntingly 
sent a challenge from Lord Turbishaw 
to the Earl of Meldritch, stating that 
as the Turks feared that the Chris- 
tians would have no opportunity of 
affording amusement to the ladies, 
they begged that one of their captains 
would come forth to single combat, 
the victor to possess the head, the 
horse and the armor of the van- 
quished. Such eagerness to accept 
prevailed among the Christians that 
the choice had to be made by lot, and 
John Smith was the lucky man. On 
the appointed day the Turks, with 
their fair ladies, took an advantageous 
position on the walls of Regall, while 
on the table-land was drawn up the 
Christian army, displaying every ban- 
ner and holiday device that was theirs. 
It was all conducted in the manner of 

a hundred years before, Turbishaw, 
gorgeous in armor, as the chal- 
lenger, arriving first on the field, 
preceded by a 'noise of howboys to 
announce his coming." "On his 
shoulders were fixed a paire of great 
wings compacted of eagle's feathers, 
within a ridge of silver, richly gar- 
nished with gold and precious stones. '* 
Smith was dressed very simply, but 
his old training in the woods of Lin- 
colnshire with horse, lance and ring 
gave him such skill that at the first 
encounter his lance pierced the eye 
and penetrated to the brain of Lord 
Turbishaw, before that nobleman 
could inflict upon him a single blow. 
The intended amusement for the 
Turkish ladies was turned to bitter 
lamentations when the body of the 
commander of Regall was laid at 
their feet. 

But the fury of Grualgo, Turbi- 
shaw's clearest friend, knew no bounds 
and breathing vengeance against 
Smith, he sent him a challenge, offer- 
ing his own head to win back that of 
Turbishaw. Smith gladly accepted 
his offer and the next day the combat 
was repeated. The result was defeat 
for Grualgo ; his head was the forfeit, 
and again Regall's gates opened to 
receive the body of her dead cham- 

Nothing more was heard from the 
city suggesting further amusements, 
but after some little time Smith him- 
self took the initiative and sent a most 
courteous message, addressed to the 
ladies of Regall, saying that he would 
be delighted to return to them the 
heads of their knights, and his own, 
as well, if they would send a cham- 
pion to win the prize. A third time 
the contest of valor was made and a 



third time Smith was successful, and 
Mulgro met the same fate that had 
befallen his two friends. 

But individual acts of prowess, al- 
though very cheering to the arm}, 
could accomplish nothing in the face 
of the overpowering force of Crim 
Tartars the Christians were soon to 
meet in November, 1602, in Rothen- 
thurm, a pass in Transylvania. There 
they were utterly defeated and the 
victor of Regall was left wounded on 
the field. His rich dress saved him. 
however, for it argued he would be 
worth a ransom. His wounds were 
carefully tended and he was bought 
as a slave by Bashaw Bogall, who 
destined him as a present to his "faire 
mistresse," Charatza Tragabigzanda, 
and by "twentie and twentie chained 
by the neckes" the conquered Chris- 
tians marched to Constantinople. 
Charatza could speak Italian ; Smith 
had also acquired some familiarity 
with that language, and his dignity, 
bearing and accomplishments attracted 
the "faire mistresse," who, as Smith 
expresses it, showed him "compas- 
sion." But the pity soon grew to 
love, and fearful lest her mother 
should discover it, she appealed to her 
brother, Timour Bashaw, of Nal- 
britz, on the Don, in Tartary, 
to take Smith under his protec- 
tion and treat him as an honored 
prisoner of war. Charatza was still 
under the control of her mother 
and not yet free to act as she chose, 
but, alas, for her well-laid plans. In 
a letter to her brother her interest in 
the prisoner was too evident, her se- 
cret was revealed, and the haughty 
Turk, while accepting Smith, deter- 
mined to countenance no such love af- 
fair on the part of his sister. Ac- 

cordingly, for about six months, 
Smith's life was as hard as the 
Bashaw could devise. He was treated 
worse than the lowest slave, and every 
time the Bashaw visited his grange 
where Smith was at work, he never 
failed to administer a flogging to his 
sister's unhappy lover. But Smith 
was not the kind of man to endure 
bondage longer than was absolutely 
necessary. He had talked of escape 
to the other prisoners, but found them 
useless as confederates ; the difficulties 
were too many, their spirits too 
crushed ; so with a patient acceptance 
of the inevitable present he abided his 

One day when Smith was doing his 
appointed work of thrashing corn in 
rather a secluded place, the Bashaw 
approached alone on horseback. Dis- 
mounting, he advanced to his prisoner 
and as usual struck him. Quick as a 
flash the heavy flail descended on the 
Bashaw's head. The long-suffering 
prisoner had turned, and before the 
strong arms ceased their blows the 
brother of Charatza was dead. Smith 
then stripped the body and hid it and 
his own clothes under the straw; he 
could not unfasten the heavy iron 
ring, the mark of slavery, from about 
his neck, but clothed as a Turkish 
Bashaw and mounted on a Turkish 
horse, he made a wild dash for the 
desert and for liberty. It was a des- 
perate flight; for eighteen or twenty 
days he rode for life, till he reached 
Ecopolis, a fort on the Don held by 
the Russians. Here was safety and 
protection. The governor received him 
gladly, took off his irons and treated 
him most kindly; he was also pre- 
sented to the Lady Callamata, prob- 
ably the governor's wife, who "largely 



supplied all his wants," the governor, 
moreover, gave him the protection of 
a convoy to Transylvania. There he 
met a royal welcome, many of his old 
friends, his colonel, the Earl of Mel- 
dritch, and his general, Prince Sigis- 
mundi, who had mourned for him as 
dead. The Prince, in • memory of 
Regall, gave him a grant of arms 
(three Turks heads) and five hundred 
ducats of gold. Smith's cup of hap- 
piness was full ; as he expresses it in 
his own words, he was "glutted with 
content and neere drowned with 

A few more experiences, this time 
in Northern Africa and the Canary 
Islands, and then Smith set his face 
towards home. At the time of his 
return, in 1604, England was eagerly 
and hopefully determined to colonize 
in the New World with the ultimate 
view to a plentiful increase of gold 
for the mother country. The Span- 
iards had reaped such a harvest from 
Peru, Bolivia and Mexico, why 
should not England find correspond- 
ing wealth in Virginia? So far 
Smith had been a free lance, he had 
fought for the pure love of adventure, 
but now, on his return home, patriot- 
ism, that had lain dormant, stirred 
within him, and it was to England 
and for England's glory that the re- 
mainder of his life was given. 

Both the Virginia and Plymouth 
Companies were busy fitting out ex- 
peditions to colonize. Smith threw 
himself heart and soul into the inter- 
ests of the former, assisting in the 
work .as much as lay in his power and 
investing £500 as a stockholder. 
The affairs of this company were gov- 
erned by thirteen men appointed by 
the Crown. They selected the local 

council for each colony, which chose 
its own president from among its 
members. With great lack of wis- 
dom the names of the Council were 
kept a profound secret; the box of 
instructions, though given in London, 
was not to be opened till the little 
colony of one hundred and five men 
had reached the New World. In 
ignorance of who was in command, 
during the long months of the voy- 
age, dissensions broke out, and 
Smith, suspected of being one of the 
leaders, was put in chains. But the 
man who had endured slavery in Tar- 
tary wasted no force in useless fret- 
ting, but accepted the humiliating, 
though temporary, condition with 
calm patience, for in the young colony 
he knew that every strong arm would 
be of value and his freedom would 
soon come. 

They had left England on Decem- 
ber 19th, 1606, and on the following 
23rd of April, after a voyage of more 
than four months, the three little ves- 
sels were finally driven by a severe 
storm into Chesapeake Bay, and the 
point of land at which they touched 
was so refreshing to the weary trav- 
ellers that, to give expression to their 
satisfaction, they called it Point Com- 
fort. The box of instructions was 
then opened and the seven following 
men found appointed : Newport, 
Wingfield, Martin, Smith, Gosnold, 
Ratcliffe, and Kendall. Smith being 
in chains was excluded, and the Coun- 
cil elected Wingfield as president. 
They tarried here but a short time 
before exploring Powhatan's river, as 
the Indians called it, but which they 
named the James, in honor of the 
King, and established themselves on 
May 13, 1607, on the site which they 



called Jamestown. In some respects 
the position was favorable, being a 
peninsula two and one-half miles 
long, three-quarters of a mile in 
breadth, and with a strip of land fifty 
feet wide connecting it with the main- 
land. Upon this isthmus they built 
the block house. The harbor, with its 
six fathoms depth, was all that could 
be desired, but unfortunately the land 
was low, marshy, and subject at high 
tide to encroachments from the river, 
and malaria lurked in the air. 

Though still regarded as a prisoner, 
Smith, was entirely too necessary a 
man to the success of the enterprise 
not to be given his personal liberty. 
Soon Newport with twenty others, in- 
cluding Smith, explored the James 
River to its falls, where Richmond 
now stands, the main object being to 
find the lake or channel that led to 
Cathay, at the same time to visit the 
mighty Powhatan, and with numerous 
gifts endeavor to propitiate the 
Indians to the presence of the 
Europeans. The great chief of Vir- 
ginia accepted the gifts, professed 
friendship, but determined upon 
treachery. Newport managed the ex- 
pedition well, but it is needless to say 
no short cut to Cathay was discov- 
ered, and the Indians proving quite 
unfriendly he thought it best to re- 
turn to Jamestown. Soon the infant 
colony was surrounded by four hun- 
dred savages, and it was necessary to 
disperse them by means of shells from 
the boats. By the time peace was re- 
stored, the ships were ready to return 
to England, and Wingfield concluded 
it was an excellent opportunity to get 
rid of his difficult associate, so he 
decided to accuse Smith of mutiny 
and let him be tried before an English 

court." Smith forced his opponent's 
hand and demanded an immediate 
trial on Virginia soil, at which 
trial he was unanimously acquitted 
and Wingfield ordered to pay £200 
damages, which sentence did not tend 
to endear Smith to the heart of the 

Smith was now admitted to his 
rightful place as a member of the 
Council, and through the influence of 
the Rev. Robert Hunt, temporary 
peace was established. Soon New- 
port returned with the ships to Eng- 
land to report the condition of the 
colony to the London Company and 
to await further instructions. The 
fine of £200 was chiefly in stores 
and clothing, and was used by Smith 
to relieve the wretched condition of 
the colonists. The excessive heat, 
miserable food, and severe labors 
were proving fatal to European 
health; the summer dragged along, 
fifty died, and the rest were ill, many 
too ill to work. The Indians were 
restless and showed daily signs of 
hostility. Wingfield, who desired 
only the honors of office and courted 
no such dangers as were imminent, 
decided to betake himself, with a few 
chosen friends, quietly home in the 
pinnace, and, that Smith might not 
be grieved at the parting, they did not 
take him into their confidence. When 
he accidentally heard of their pro- 
jected trip, he laid a detaining hand 
upon the president, and when, a few 
months later, in Smith's absence on 
the Chickahominy expedition, a sec- 
ond attempt at flight was made, Rat- 
cliffe, who was now elected to the 
presidency which Smith had declined, 
kept Wingfield a prisoner in the 
pinnace, shot his confederate Ken- 



dall, and ordered to be unloaded from 
the boat the provisions Smith had with 
such infinite, pains secured from the 
Indians, and that were intended to 
last the mere handful of colonists 
throughout the winter. 

There is another and a darker tale 
connected with the shooting of Ken- 
dall. It was a well-known fact that 
Spain, uneasy at England's success 
upon the seas, was even more uneasy 
at the thought of her establishing a 
colony in the New World. Had not 
his holiness Pope Alexander VI., a 
native of Arragon, given all this 
western land of North America to 
their Most Christian Majesties Ferdi- 
nand and Isabella and to their heirs 
forever, and was the heretic to plant 
his foot upon these Western shores: 
Therefore the colony was to be 
watched closely, and Kendall is ac- 
credited with being the paid agent of 
Spain. Wingfield states that he him- 
self was accused of conspiracy with 
Spain and his papers were searched, 
but no treasonable evidence found. 
The Spanish Ambassador Zuhiga 
wrote to Philip in September, 1607, 
that he had secured a "confidential 
person" in the London Council and 
some one was also a spy in the colony. 
No wonder summary action was taken 
upon Kendall. The situation was not 
a happy one ; there was treachery to 
guard against from Spain ; there was 
a constant demand from the London 
Company for either the gold of 
America or the discovery of a passage 
by sea to the gold of China; the col- 
onists had but little food ; there were 
hostile savages on every side; those 
on whom the government of the col- 
ony depended were jealous of each 
other, and, with the exception of 

Smith, possessed very little ability to 
meet the strenuous necessities of the 
times; worst of all the majority of 
the colonists were totally unfit for the 
difficulties of the life before them. 

Meanwhile, thinking the colony 
comparatively quiet, for a time at 
least, Smith had, with a small party, 
undertaken the trip up the Chicka- 
hominy for the purpose of explora- 
tion. After a journey of seventy 
miles Smith left most of the men in 
the larger boat, and taking with him in 
a canoe two of his friends and an 
Indian went a little further up the 
stream. Then, leaving the canoe in 
the charge of the two white men with 
positive instructions not to come 
ashore, Smith plunged into the wilder- 
ness with the Indian guide. In a very 
short time, to his perfect amazement, 
he saw behind every tree there lurked 
a red skin, and treachery was in the 
air. Seizing his guide, he used his 
body as a shield from the arrows of 
the hostile Indians, and commenced 
backing towards the river and the 
canoe, but he dared not look over his 
shoulder to watch his steps, and soon 
he found himself sinking into a 
morass. It was a wretched predica- 
ment ; surrender was the only sensible 
course, and Smith was sensible. So 
with a good grace he yielded to the 
unavoidable and permitted himself to 
be taken prisoner without sign of fear. 
Opechancanough, the brother of Pow- 
hatan, to whom he had surrendered, 
decided to put the courage of the white 
brave to the test. He was first fas- 
tened to a tree and arrows shot pain- 
fully near him, to prove his nerve. 
The chief gloated over the capture of 
so great a "prince" and had him borne 
in state from village to village, where 



for three days the wildest kind of 
orgies imaginable were held over the 
captive. His high courage never 
flinched, and even as a prisoner he 
contrived to impress his foes with the 
superiority of the white race. In- 
timidations had availed nothing, per- 
chance bribery might win this fearless 
stranger ; he was offered "life, liberty, 
land, and women" if only he would 
show them how to get possession of 
Jamestown. He would not even con- 
sider the suggestion, though if he re- 
fused he might have to endure the 
torture, an art of which the Indians 
were past masters, yet he scorned to 
betray the men whose necessities and 
dangers had lain so near his heart. 
The Indians, however, were in no un- 
due haste to kill the pale face ; he had 
taught them the use of his compass, 
he should also instruct them in the 
use of his firearms. Smith gravelv 
advised them to plant the gunpowder 
in order that they might have a crop 
next year, and in showing them the 
use of his pistol was so clumsy as to 
break it. Thus their pursuit of 
knowledge in that direction was ar- 

The next destination of the cap- 
tive was Werowocomico, the capital 
of Powhatan. Two hundred warriors 
were there assembled and a large 
retinue of women, whose custom it 
was to participate in their councils. 
That Smith was regarded as no mean 
prize was evidenced even in trifles, 
for no less a personage than the 
Queen of Apamattuck was ordered to 
serve him. He was provided with 
food; and then the long consultation 
of the chiefs began, which finally ter- 
minated in the sentence that by lot his 

fate was to be decided. And Fate de- 
creed death. 

A little child with wide open eyes 
was watching the scene with eager 
anxiety. There he lay bound and 
helpless, that wonderful pale-faced 
chief who had sailed far over the 
seas from another world, a world that 
was a veritable fairy-land to the little 
princess. Had she not seen the treas- 
ures he had brought, bells and beads, 
hobby horses, and musical instru- 
ments, and was this glorious being to 
be slain before her very eyes, and 
she utter no protest? She was only 
between ten and twelve years of age, 
yet the child plead with her father, 
the mighty Powhatan, to spare the 
life of the captive. The powerful 
chief thrust his little daughter aside 
and the simple preparations were 
made. Two great stones were ar- 
ranged to pillow the head of the vic- 
tim, Smith was eagerly dragged to the 
spot, and the clubs of the warriors 
raised to beat out his brains, when 
with a child's impetuosity and a 
woman's wisdom the dauntless little 

"Pocahontas, the King's dearest daughter, 
when no entreaty could prevail, got his 
head in her arms and laid her own upon 
his to save him from death; whereat the 
Emperor was content he should live to 
make him hatchets and her bells, beads, 

Thus Powhatan pictured the future 
life of Smith, and two days later 
adopted him as his son. After a few 
days had elapsed Smith was allowed 
to return to Jamestown, accompanied 
by an Indian escort, which was to 
bring back the guns and grindstone, 
besides the vprious trinkets promi.'xd 
Powhatan and others of the tribe. 
The grindstone was so heavy and the 



gun, which had been fired for their 
benefit, terrified them so, that both 
those treasures were left behind in 

About six weeks had elapsed since 
Smith left the settlement and again 
he found the malcontents, headed this 
time by Ratclifre : , ready to flee. The 
lazy, shiftless men, with broken for- 
tunes, who left England on a fruitless 
quest for gold, had no mind to endure 
the privation of the life before them. 
The few fortunate ones who could 
have fled would gladly have loaded 
the pinnace with provisions and 
sailed away, leaving their less fortu- 
nate comrades to die of starvation or 
be massacred by the Indians, but 
Smith inexorably held them to their 
duty. The power of his presence was 
so great they dared not disobey him. 
So they plotted against him, accusing 
him of being responsible for the 
death of the two men who had been 
left in the canoe, and although such a 
foolish accusation came to naught, for 
the men could easily have escaced 
had they but remained in the canoe 
and followed Smith's instructions, he 
was held a prisoner. Luckily at this 
juncture Newport returned from Eng- 
land and liberated both Smith and 

The other members of the council 
became jealous of the regard the In- 
dians had shown for Smith, for Pow- 
hatan had created him a Werowance, 
or chief of the tribe. Smith under- 
stood the Indian nature as did none 
of his contemporaries, moreover he 
possessed the traits the Indians most 
admired : cool intrepidity, patience 
and the cleverness to outwit them. 
Powhatan was a wily politician, get- 
ting the better of the whites in nearly 

every dealing with them. Smith 
alone was his superior and the means 
of saving the infant colony from utter 
annihilation. Moreover, in Pocahon- 
tas, Smith had a powerful ally. Re- 
peatedly she visited Jamestown, fas- 
cinated by the strange sights she saw 
there, and bringing back with her on 
each occasion liberal supplies of pro- 
visions. But the colonists, most of 
them careless and self-indulgent, 
never seemed to appreciate the situa- 
tion. Smith was giving his all, "his 
goods he spent, his honor, his faith 
and his sure intent — but 'twas not 
in the least what these men had meant 
— they did not understand." 

The winter of 1607-8 was severely 
cold; the great granaries Smith had 
built, and by tact and diplomacy in 
trading with the Indians had suc- 
ceeded in filling with grain, were 
totally destroyed by fire, as well as 
the church and a number of the set- 
tlers' homes. This was a terrible 
calamity, and the exposure and priva-. 
tion that followed caused the death of 
one-half of the settlement. But in the 
spring, with the help of one hundred 
and twenty additional colonists, the 
church, storehouses, dwellings and 
fortifications were again rebuilt, and 
none too soon, for though peace had 
been concluded in the winter through 
the efforts of Smith, yet the Indians 
were once more growing restless and 
began their depredations by stealing. 
Smith was again to the fore and in 
an expedition attacked and defeated 
the Indians, taking eighteen prisoners. 
Through them he learned of another 
conspiracy in his own household, to 
deliver him into the hands of the 
Indians that they might put him to 
death. His enemies in the colony, who 



had brought many accusations against 
him, finally asserted that he exceeded 
his authority and they resorted to this 
last cowardly expedient to get rid of 
him. They could not see that he was 
abundantly able to defend himself 
from harm, while they without him 
could scarcely preserve themselves 
from utter destruction. 

Sick at heart he left them for a 
while, and that summer he spent in 
making two exploring expeditions, 
the first along the Potomac, the sec- 
ond to the mouth of the Susquehanna. 
He found no gold for the London 
Company, but he made a close study 
of the Indian life and also drew up a 
map of Chesapeake Bay and its trib- 
utaries, an invaluable addition to the 
geography of the world. Meanwhile, 
in the colony, RatclifTe had been de- 
posed from the presidency and Smith 
elected in his stead. It was an office 
he had refused more than once and 
had never desired. Nor on the other 
hand did the majority of the colo- 
nists, idle, dissipated, "unruly gal- 
lants," as Smith termed them, desire 
him, but they had begun to realize 
that he was the only man who could 
save them, that he alone could carry 
them through the approaching winter. 
Smith had a strong backing in thirty- 
eight soldiers, the best men in the 
colony, who remained through life his 
staunch friends, and upon whom he 
could absolutely rely; two of these 
men had served under his command 
in Rothenthurm. His first work as 
president was to strengthen the fort, 
rebuild many of the houses and es- 
tablish a weekly drill. Soon a ves- 
sel came from London bringing again 
Newport and between seventy and 
eighty additional colonists, and also 

the most visionary, impracticable or- 
ders from the home company. A 
number of presents were prepared for 
Powhatan, including a crown sent him 
by King James, with a bedstead and 
furnishings. The haughty Indian 
objected to kneel to receive a crown 
from England's King; was he not 
already the ruler of Virginia in his 
own right? Newport, under the in- 
structions of the London Company, 
was determined upon discovering 
gold, and also upon finding Raleigh's 
lost colony; both of these misdirected 
efforts only exhausted the strength 
of his men and accomplished nothing. 
One of Smith's strongest points lay 
in the fact that he was quick to recog- 
nize actual conditions, while most of 
his countrymen, either in Virginia or 
London, clung to a theory and wasted 
their energies in pursuing phantoms. 
But the London stockholders must 
get some return for all their outlay of 
money, and the importance of the 
very existence of the colony was lost 
sight of in the lust for gold or its 
equivalent. So Smith at this time, 
much against his good judgment, was 
obliged to take men from the im- 
portant work of providing for the 
coming winter, and by the orders from 
London was forced to manufacture 
what goods he could. Newport had 
brought with him a few skilled work- 
men, and the colonists learned amidst 
the greatest difficulties to manufac- 
ture glass, while others worked at tar, 
pitch and soap ashes. And none 
worked harder than Smith himself. 
Meanwhile winter, with its usual 
scarcity of food, was approaching, 
and again Smith started on a forag- 
ing expedition. But Powhatan had in- 
fluenced his people not to trade, and 



it was only by heeding the Emperor's 
request that some carpenters be sent 
to build a house for his fine bedstead 
that Smith could succeed in bargain- 
ing- for any grain. These carpenters 
were Dutchmen, and thinking it would 
be very unlikely that Smith could 
keep the colony alive during the win- 
ter, betrayed its weakness to Pow- 
hatan in order to save themselves 
from starvation. Feeling that now 
Smith was in his power, Powhatan 
determined to kill the one English- 
man whom he feared. Smith's little 
party after trading with Powhatan 
was unable to leave that day, for the 
tide was too low when the corn was 
brought, and they suspected no 
treachery. But early that night the 
little maid Pocahontas made her way 
to the English camp and told Smith 
of her father's plan. Forewarned 
was ever forearmed with him, and 
again this Indian princess, though but 
a child, saved his life and that of the 

Still there was not enough corn and 
Smith next tried trading with Ope- 
chancanough. This mighty chief first 
tried to entrap the white man and 
then sought to kill hirn, but Smith 
was too clever and succeeded in tak- 
ing Opechancanough himself prisoner. 
Upon his demand for corn it was 
given and given in abundance, though 
some of it, they discovered to their 
sorrow, was poisoned. Next came 
the news from Jamestown that two of 
the Council, Scrivener and Gosnold, 
were drowned, and Smith hastened 
home with his provisions — and none 
too soon, for a strong hand was needed 
in the colony. Through the treachery 
of the Dutchmen, the Indians were 
no longer afraid, and were stealing 

from the colony everything they could 
lay hands on. Smith took command 
of a small fighting party, killed six 
or seven Indians, took a few prison- 
ers, and burned several wigwams, 
before he succeeded in intimidating 
them. Peace was then established, 
and when the spring time came Smith 
ordered the first planting of corn that 
was ever done by the English in 
America. The live stock, too, was 
more flourishing in this spring of 

In England, affairs were taking a 
new turn. The London Company had 
been re-organized and several ves- 
sels had set sail for Jamestown, bring- 
ing the old enemies of Smith — Rat- 
cliffe, Martin and Archer. Some con- 
sider it an accident, others again 
regard it as another plan to murder 
him ; be that as it may, when Smith 
was up the river one hundred miles 
from Jamestown in an open boat, the 
bag of gunpowder on which he slept 
exploded. That he escaped death was 
miraculous, but the magnificent con- 
stitution of the man of thirty con- 
quered the frightful burns, though he 
was in no condition to remain and 
endure the hardships in the colony. 
He bade farewell to Percy, the new 
governor, who had been elected by 
the malcontents, and sailed for Eng- 
land, October 4, 1609. 

At last he was gone. Their ill- 
disciplined, reckless natures would 
brook no prudent restraint. Most of 
them were so self-centred that they 
considered only their own individual 
hardships, with very little thought of 
the good of the whole. John Smith 
summed up the situation in one sen- 
tence : "Nothing is to be expected 
thence but by labor," and labor was 



the last thing they desired. They 
longed for gold. The wretched fail- 
ure of the expeditions under both 
Raleigh and Granville were caused 
chiefly by the lack of food; Smith's 
diplomatic treatment of the Indians 
procured in a large measure both food 
and peace. His time had been mainly 
devoted to obtaining for them the ac- 
tual necessities of life, but "the excel- 
lent things he planned, the work of 
his heart and hand, were given to the 
men who did not know, and did not 
understand." On that weary voyage 
home, beyond the agony of his physi- 
cal pain, was the consciousness that 
though "some of him lived, yet most 
of him had died" in that fair new land 
of Virginia. His bright hopes, his 
noble ambitions, his wise plans for the 
success of Jamestown were slain by 
the men who could not be made to 
comprehend the condition and with 
the remembrance of those former lost 
colonies it was with a heavy heart he 
crossed the seas. Three times Eng- 
land had tried and failed, and if she 
now retreated, Spain, her hated foe, 
would unquestionably take possession 
of North America, as she had of the 
Southern continent. 

Once again in England the report 
he gave of the colony seriously 
alarmed the London Company, and 
provisions and the right kind of men 
under Lord Delaware were sent as 
soon as possible to the relief of James- 
town, and none too soon did they ar- 
rive, for the miserable, nearly fam- 
ished sixty survivors of the terrible 
winter known as "Starving Time," 
were all that remained of the prosper- 
ous five hundred colonists that Smith 
had left six months before. These 
sixty wretched men, unable to face 

further disaster, had broken up the 
settlement, and in the pinnace had 
determined to set sail for home, but 
with abundant food and additional 
men, hope revived, and Jamestown 
again renewed the struggle for exist- 
ence. Thus whether in Virginia, or 
in London, John Smith's protecting 
care was felt. Unknown to himself 
his life work had been accomplished, 
his impress had been made on Virginia 
forever. Though only two years he had 
been in the colony, he had given a 
permanency to the settlement, and in 
the eyes of both the Spaniards and the 
Indians the position of England was 
henceforth established. 

The London Company did not relish 
Smith's advice though they followed 
it, and asked his counsel on more than 
one occasion. His "rude answer/ 1 
written several months before his re- 
turn, stated the distressing condition 
of the colony and in no honeyed 
phrases had expressed his opinion of 
the unreasonable demands of the com- 
pany. Now his presence was a too 
constant reminder of their mistakes 
and they cared to meet him as little 
as possible. Moreover, the men who 
had been with him in Virginia, in 
order to vindicate their own actions, 
united in denunciations of his ; they 
could prove nothing, but their tongues 
created the fire, the smoke of which 
for years enveloped him like a cloud, 
that burned even more cruelly than 
the gunpowder. He then wrote and 
published a book entitled "The Pro- 
ceedings & Accidents of the English 
Colony in Virginia," a vindication 
of his conduct there, and also "A 
Map of Virginia," as well as books 
and pamphlets on war, trade and 



He was not alone in the endeavor 
to clear his name and reputation. 
About this time, 1612, William Phet- 
tiplace and Richard Potts, two of 
the sixty survivors of that horrible 
"Starving Time," published a state- 
ment in which they speak of Smith. 
These men did know and understand. 
They were no politicians or office- 
seekers; they desired no appointment 
from the London Company; they 
merely testified to the character of the 
man as they had seen him day by 

"What shall I say? but this we lost 
him (4th Oct. 1609) that in all his pro- 
ceedings made justice his first guide & ex- 
perience his second ; ever hating base- 
ness, sloth, pride, & indignity more than 
any dangers; that never allowed more for 
himself than his souldiers with him; that 
upon no danger would send them where he 
would not lead them himself; that 
would never see us want what he either 
had, or could by any means get us; that 
would rather want than borrow or starve 
than not pay; that loved actions more 
than words, & hated falsehood & cozen- 
age than death;* whose adventures were 
cur lives, & whose lives our deaths." 

A noble vindication truly. 

In 1614, restored in health, his de- 
sire for an active life reasserted itself. 
He would not return to Virginia; the 
memory of wounds received in the 
house of his friends could not so soon 
be forgotten, but in the early spring 
days, in command of two small ves- 
sels, fitted out by some merchants of 
London, he sailed north of his old 
course to the land which he named 
New England. This was no coloniz- 
ing expedition ; perhaps Smith had 
had enough of that at present; gold, 
copper and whale fishing were his 
chief objects. He made a careful sur- 
vey of the coast, and finding neither 

gold nor copper, he wisely took the 
treasures within reach, fish and furs; 
of the latter an immense quantity. 
The map he made of New England 
he presented to Prince Charles, after- 
wards King Charles the First, who 
graciously accepted the gift, but 
changed many of the names. Thus, 
the Massachusetts cape that in calling 
Tragabigzanda Smith sought to per- 
petuate the name of his old love in 
Constantinople, the prince changed to 
Cape Ann. Cape James he altered to 
Cape Cod, and Accomack he changed 
to Plymouth. The name the prince 
left untouched was the group of three 
islands off Cape Ann, which still is 
known as the "Three Turks Heads," 
in memory of the three victories be- 
fore the walls of Regall. 

The following year, 161 5, he again 
sailed for New England, and fell in 
with what appeared to be a pirate ves- 
sel, but these "pirates" were mostly 
English soldiers who had been 
stranded off the coast of Africa, had 
stolen the vessel and were making for 
home, and strange to say, many of 
them had served under Smith in the 
Transylvania wars. Smith was of- 
fered the command of the vessel, but 
it was for England that he labored and 
not for his own personal gain, so he 
declined the offer of his old soldiers 
and sailed away to encounter two 
other pirate ships, but from these he 
skillfully escaped, only to be captured 
by a French man of war. To be a 
prisoner was no novelty for Smith, so 
he philosophically spent his time in 
writing an account of his voyages to 
New England. When in France, 
many came to his aid, and he mentions 
Madame Chanoyes of Rochelle, with 
deep gratitude. 



He returned home in December, 
1615, and in June of the following year 
a bit of his old life drifted back to 
him. Six years had elapsed since he 
had been in Virginia. Pocahontas, 
then a child between ten and fourteen 
years of age, now developed into a, 
blooming woman, had become the 
wife of John Rolfe, one of the colon- 
ists who at this time had returned to 
England with his bride. Upon learn- 
ing this news, Smith in a long letter 
to her Majesty Queen Anne told how 
this Indian princess had repeatedly 
saved the colony in Virginia and often 
at the risk of her own life, 

"the lady Pocahontas hazarded the beat- 
ing out of her owne braines to save mine; 
and not onely that, but so prevailed with 
her father, that * * * had the salvages 
not fed us we directly had starved/' 

So Smith paved the way for her 
favorable presentation at Court by 
Lady Delaware. - 

Poor Pocahontas, — her life had 
been a sad one.. Her friendship for the 
whites had antagonized her father 
and she had been forced to make her 
home with the King and Queen of the 
Potomacks, who had treacherously 
sold her to an Englishman, named 
Argall, for the price of a copper 
kettle, and she was carried a prisoner 
to Jamestown, where the English held 
her, their best friend, for a ransom, 
demanding from her father all the 
English fire arms in the possession of 
the Indians. Powhatan refused. The 
following year she had been married, 
and three years later came with her 
husband to visit England. 

It was some time before Smith met 
Pocahontas in person; she had been 
told by his enemies that he was dead, 
yet it is evident that she and her father 

had their doubts of the truth of this, 
for in her interview with Smith she 

"they did tell us alwaies you were dead, 
and I knew no other till I came to 
Plimouth, yet Powhatan did command 
Vittamatomakkin to seeke you, and know 
the truth, because your countriemen will 
lie much." 

Alas for the reputation of truth and 
honor among the colonists; in Smith 
alone the Indians had faith. And now 
her joy in this interview was great. 
"You did promise Powhatan what was 
yours should bee his, and he the like to 
you; you called him father being in his 
land a stranger, and by the same reason 
so must I doe you. * * * Were you 
not afraid to come into my father's 
countrie and caused feare in him and all 
his people (but me) ; and feare you here 
I should call you father; I tell you then 
I will, and you shall call mee childe, and 
so I will bee for ever and ever your coun- 

She had spoken truly, never again did 
she see the dusky faces of her own 
people; she had cast her lot with the 
English and on English soil she was 
to die, for when preparing to leave 
for Virginia, before her ship sailed, 
she fell a victim to consumption and 
the gentle spirit of this princess passed 
away. A little son she left behind 
her, Thomas Rolfe, whose descend- 
ants now are manifold in Virginia. 
Though the English blood has pre- 
dominated and has almost wiped away 
all vestige of the Indian nature, yet 
it is with pride they trace their ances- 
try to this noble princess who so 
bravely aided John Smith to accom- 
plish his great work. 

About 161 7, the Plymouth Com- 
pany promised Smith the command 
of twenty ships to sail the following 
spring and created him for life 



Admiral of New England. But this 
hope of colonizing was never to be 
fulfilled. He offered to lead the Pil- 
grims to the land of promise, but their 
religious scruples hindered his desire. 
He was a Protestant of the Church 
of England, they, Puritans yearn- 
ing for a freer land than England 
in which to worship God. Smith's 
record in Virginia showed that 
a cross, no matter how rude, had 
been erected by him in every place 
he visited in the New World, and 
the church at Jamestown bore witness 
of his faith. On that ground alone 
he was not permitted to be the captain 
of the Mayflower, although he met 
their ideals in every respect, as he was 
"from debts, wine, dice, and oaths so 
free." The Plymouth Company would 
tolerate no adherent of the Church of 
England as its founder in the new 
world, and the New England of which 
he had been created Admiral he was 
never to see again, and he who was so 
able with the sword at last fell back 
upon the mightier weapon of the pen. 
John Smith had never married ; no 
home ties had been his ; only in early 
childhood had he known his parents' 
loving care ; when they had died he 
eagerly fled from the apprenticeship 
of the merchant of Lynn, and for years 
his life had been that of the camp or 
the sea — strenuous, full of difficulties 
valiantly met and bravely conquered. 
And now at the age of thirty-eight, 
with fourteen years more of life before 
him, the years that might have been 
so full of active joy, were to hold for 
him the bitter sickness of the heart 
that is known as hope deferred. To a 
man of his eager activities, with so 
much work to be done, and he so com- 
petent to do it, the restraint was 

galling. But the full beauty of his 
life shone forth when, frustrated in 
every hope of employment, he did not 
allow his own sorrows to fill his hori- 
zon, but the clear eyes looked out 
across the sea to that wondrous new 
land that stood in need of him, and 
with a generosity and patient helpful- 
ness that was so characteristic, aided 
others to accomplish the work he was 
not permitted to do. 

In his own words he writes towards 
the end of his life 

"Having been a slave to the Turks; 
prisoner among the most barbarous sav- 
ages; after my deliverance commonly dis- 
covering & ranging those large rivers 
and unknown nations with such a handful 
of ignorant companions that the wiser 
sort often gave me up for lost; always in 
mutinies, wants, and miseries; blown up 
with gunpowder; a long time a prisoner 
among the French pirates, from whom 
escaping in a little boat by myself, and 
adrift all such a stormy winter night; 
when their ships were split, miore than 
100,000 lost which they had taken at sea, 
and most of them drowned upon the Isle 
of Rhe — not far from whence I was driven 
on shore, in my little boat, &c. And 
many a score of the worst winter months 
have (I) lived in the fields; yet to have 
lived near thirty seven years (1593 — 1630) 
in the midst of wars, pestilence, and fam- 
ine, by which many a hundred thousand 
have died about me, and scarce five living 
of them that went first with me to Vir- 
ginia, and yet to see the fruits of my 
labours that well begin to prosper 
(though I have but my labour for my 
pains) have I not much reason, both pri- 
vately and publicly to acknowledge it, 
and give God thanks?" 

Of his voyages he spoke most lov- 
ingly as his children, and from this 
time on till his death in 1631, he occu- 
pied his time in writing and distrib- 
uting his writings through the south 
and west of England. The earnest- 
ness he displayed, the good sense and 


practical views he advanced were 
strong influences in mouldingthe lives 
of many who were to make their home 
in America, and he showed that not 
"unruly gallants," but steadfast men 
were needed. His writings possessed 
in themselves no literary value; their 
importance lay in their power to turn 
the current of English thought in the 
right channel. Never again did Eng- 
land repeat her mistake of demanding 
that her colonists be forced to become 
manufacturers before they were capa- 
ble of self-support or self-protection. 
The old idea which had. hampered 
former discoverers and had ruined 
the success of other colonizers gradu- 
ally gave way. Heretofore, unless the 
leaders of an enterprise could return 
with the material success of gold, or 
find a passage to the riches of China, 
all their other - achievements were 
considered fruitless and many were 
misunderstood, misjudged and ac- 
counted failures. Smith was not only 
to be the first to securely establish the 
Anglo-Saxon race in America, but on 
his return to London, out of his rich 

experience and clearsightedness he 
did a great work in helping to destroy 
the false theories of the English peo- 
ple and in preparing them to justly 
estimate the goodly heritage that lay 
before them. 

And now, with three hundred years 
between his life and ours, with a 
truer perception and clearer vision we 
can appreciate the debt we owe to him, 
and this colonist of Virginia, this first 
Admiral of New England could have 
no fitter monument than the preserva- 
tion of the old landmarks at James- 
town. The tides wash over the penin- 
sula as they did of old, and unless 
means are soon taken to shut out the 
river, the water will claim every foot 
of this historic ground and all trace 
of the first successful colony will be 
swept away, and Jamestown remain 
only a memory, while its restoration 
would stand as a lasting expression of 
a nation's gratitude to the man whose 
indomitable courage, patience and 
sagacity shone forth most brilliantly 
when the future of that nation was 
obscured in darkest clouds. 

Noted Inns of New England 

By Mary H. Northend 

THE most modern hotels of the 
present day cannot compare in 
importance with the ordinaries 
or inns that were opened in the early 
settlement of our country, by order 
of the General Court, in every town 
under the direct jurisdiction of the 
minister and the tithing man. These 
worthies were given authority to en- 
force the laws that prohibited the 
inordinate sale of liquors. As the 
inns were often required by law to 
be situated next the meeting house, 
many a pleasant nooning did our 
ancestors spend before the hospi- 
table fire; for scant comfort did the 
footstoves of our forefathers' time 
give during the long church services 
in the winter months. 

The landlords were men of dis- 
tinction, being often the local magis- 
trates, and the walls of the inn were 
posted with items of interest, such 
as notices of town meetings, elec- 
tions, new laws, bills of sale and auc- 
tions. With these exciting topics 
before them, the men of the town 
might sit before the great wood fire 
and sip their toddy while discussing 
the news. 

The tavern in Ipswich was pre- 
sided over in 1771 by no less a per- 
sonage than the granddaughter of 
Governor Endicott, thus showing 
that some of the best families in New 
England were represented in this 
business, also showing that women 
were appointed innkeepers in many 
places by the advice of the General 
Court, so well did they perform their 

The business of inn-keeping was 

not a particularly profitable one, as 
the sale of liquor was at times pro- 
hibited, no games were allowed, and 
the sale of cakes and buns forbidden. 
Small wonder that the town of New- 
bury was fined twice in those early 
days for inability to secure a person 
to open an ordinary. These houses 
were primitive affairs, often having 
but two rooms and a lean-to. Com- 
fort was not expected, and frequent- 
ly travelers had difficulty in secur- 
ing beds. One's dinner cost six- 
pence by order of the General Court, 
regardless of quality or quantity of 
food served, the landlord and his 
wife always acting as host and host- 
ess at the table. 

Among the signs that were or- 
dered placed on conspicuous parts 
of the houses where was provided 
"good entertainment for him who 
passes, horses, men, mares, and 
asses," was one representing a bust 
of General Wolfe, surrounded by a 
wreath of scroll work. It was carved 
by William Davenport of Newbury- 
port, and was partially destroyed by 
the great fire that swept through that 
city in 181 1, laying the principal part 
in ashes. A new sign was then 
painted by Samuel Cole to replace 
the original one, and it is still used 
at the same tavern. In Georgetown 
also, ten miles from Newburyport, 
a very ancient sign, bearing a por- 
trait of General Wolfe, is in an excel- 
lent state of preservation. The 
house on which it originally hung 
was built twenty years after the Pil- 
grims landed at Plymouth. The 
original frame of the house still re- 





mains, together with the heavy oak 
beams and interior panelling. In 
other respects the building presents 
a modernized appearance. 

Concerning this old sign the 
following interesting incident is 
vouched for. Just after the battle of 
Lexington and Concord, a company 
of Yankee soldiers were on their way 
from Ipswich to the seat of war. 
Passing through Georgetown, they 
came to the old inn, over the front 
entrance of which hung the portrait 
of General Wolfe, swinging in the 
brisk morning breeze. Up to this 
time of "unpleasantness" between 
the mother country and our own, 
the memory of the brave Wolfe had 
been revered and loved alike by 
Englishmen and Americans. But 
now, in their intense hatred of every- 
thing British, the soldiers halted, 
lifted their old flint locks to their 
shoulders and riddled with bullets 
the offending sign. Several passed 
clean through it, while a few re- 
mained imbedded in the wood, and 
are plainly discernible at the present 

An old tavern at Medford dis- 
played a sign representing two old 
men shaking hands and bowing, 
which gave to the place the name of 
"The Palaver's Tavern." But it 
proved so offensive to the innkeeper 

that he substituted another and more 
appropriate design in the form of a 
fountain pouring punch into a large 
bowl. This "Fountain Tavern" had 
substantial platforms in two large 
shade trees connected with each 
other and the house by bridges. In 
these tree nests the traveler might 
sit through the long afternoon or in 
the early twilight, cool and remote 
among the branches, drinking tea ; 
watching horsemen and cartmen, 
and sturdy pedestrians come and go, 
and the dashing mail coach rattle 
up, — a flash of color and noise and 
life, — pour out its motley passen- 
gers, and speedily roll away with re- 
newed patrons and splendor. 

Among the several ancient inns 
standing at the present time, is one 
in By fiel'd, Massachusetts, kept by 
"Old J. P." as he was familiarly 
known, from the fact that these 
initals were stamped on the barrels 
of rum with which his cellar was 
filled. This tavern of Jeremiah 
Pearson's was a lively center on 
Muster days, and many a yarn was 
spun across the board in Indepen- 
dence Hall, so christened at a din- 
ner given the returned troops after 




the Revolutionary War. Hither al- 
so, the eccentric Timothy Dexter, 
often wended his way and drank 
deep of the flowing bowl, — a habit, 
no doubt, that enhanced his eccentri- 

Copied from one of the favorite 
signs of England, "The Bunch of 
Grapes" formerly hung from the 
tavern of that name on State Street, 
Boston. It was made of baked clay 
and had been brought from Eng- 
land. A portion of this sign can be 
seen in the Essex Institute, Salem, 

spirits of the Ohio Company, called 
their first meeting. At the expira- 
tion of the lease, the old land-mark 
was torn down and a granite struc- 
ture erected, and nothing now re- 
mains for us but the memory of this 
by-gone splendor. 

The Ames Tavern of Dedham, 
the original license of which was 
granted in 1658, was kept by the cele- 
brated almanaC maker, Nathaniel 
Ames in 1735. The sign on this 
tavern was unique and is said to 
have portrayed some family history. 

llt'\*f ' - 

. • • : - 


while two bunches of the grapes are 
stored in a steel vault in the Masonic 
Temple, Boston, for the Masons take 
every precaution to preserve this 
old relic of the inn, in which all the 
meetings of the oldest benevolent 
association in New England were 
held in 1767-8. Here also the first 
President of the United States 
stayed. The tavern of "The Bunch 
of Grapes" was moved to Congress 
Street, and here General Stark came 
after his victory at Bennington. 
Here also General Rufus Putnam 
and Manasseh Cutter, the moving 

In the settlement of his son's (Fish- 
er Ames) estate, a suit was brought 
into court. This so disgusted the 
inn-proprietor, that, although the 
suit was decided in his son's favor, 
he expressed his dislike by causing 
the whole court to be painted on a 
sign board for his tavern. So faith- 
fully were each of the judges repre- 
sented, they could not fail to be 
recognized. The august court heard 
of the proceeding and sent a sheriff 
to seize the sign. Ames was in Bos- 
ton at the time, and hearing of their 
intention, rode post haste to Ded- 



ham, reaching the tavern first, and 
in time to save the sign before the 
sheriff's arrival. What a thriving 
business would the sign painters of 
today have, and where should we 
find space for the signs, if all men 
showed their disgust of law suits 
in this manner? 

A sign verse which hung in front 
of "Mother Red Cap Inn/' Holway, 
England, and which was reproduced 
on ancient signs in America, savors 
strongly of our dear old Mother 
Goose, and possibly these old dames 
were relatives. 

"Old Mother Red Cap, according to her 

Lived twenty and one hundred years, by 

drinking this good ale; 
It was her meat, it was her drink, and 

medicine beside; 
And if she still had drunk this ale, she 

never would have died." 

As the settlement of New Eng- 
land increased, the demand for pub- 

lic houses became greater, more at- 
tention being paid to the preferences 
of guests. A public parlor became 
a necessity for the entertainment of 
private parties, and gradually the 
tavern became more like a well-to-do 
private house, where one could re- 
ceive the best of care. 

Although a few of the original 
New England taverns still exist, 
many of those now standing are 
more recent ones built on the same 
site and bearing the same name. 
The house at Stockbridge, Massa- 
chusetts first built in 1773, and added 
to from time to time, was on the 
stage route between Boston and Al- 
bany, and was a large and popular 
hotel when burnt in 1896. In the 
public room of the present tavern, 
which was re-built on the old site, is 
a collection of old-fashioned furni- 
ture, crockery and bric-a-brac, con- 




sidered by collectors of the antique, 
the best in the country. What bet- 
ter advertisement could any hotel 
of our day want than the reputation 
which these inns have won, — that of 
hospitality, bountiful store and up- 
right management. 

"The Wayside Inn" at Sudbury, 
Massachusetts, made famous by 
Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside 
Inn" was the assembly place of the 
soldiers after the Battle of Lexing- 

"Wright's Tavern" at Concord 
calls to mind a thrilling scene when 
Major Pitcairn, the British com- 
mander, stirring a glass of brandy 
with his bloody finger the morning 
before the Battle of Concord, boasted 
that he would thus stir the blood 
of his enemy before night. A great 
structure once stood on the site of 
the present Stearns Building, Sa- 
lem, Massachusetts, known as the 
"Tavern with many peaks" later on 
as "The Ship Tavern." Here was 
formed the Social Library in 1760. 
The "Salem Coffee House" was kept 
in a building near the site of St. 
Peter's church, while "Thomas 

Beadle's Tavern" stood on Essex 
Street, nearly opposite its present 
juncture with Pleasant Street. In 
this latter house were held the pre- 
liminary examinations in witchcraft 

Many Manchester-by-the-Sea 
people will tell you of one Elizabeth 
Crafts, an ancient innkeeper of that 
town, who went to Boston either by 
packet or on horseback for her 
goods. She was an industrious wo- 
man and sitting on the deck of the 
vessel one day, knitting, the sail sud- 
denly veered and Elizabeth was 
knocked overboard. Tradition, that 
truth teller, says that she kept on 
with her knitting and took seven 
stitches under water before being 
rescued. This remarkable woman 
also had a romance. A Scotchman, 
before leaving his native land, 
dreamed of a fair-haired American 
girl with a blue ribbon in her hair. 
That very night Mrs. Crafts, then 
a young girl, dreamed that she mar- 
ried a sailor. Not long after the 
lad's arrival in Boston, he spent the 
Sabbath in Lynn. Entering the 
meeting house (this act being the 




proper thing to do in those days) 
he saw his dream-girl seated in the 
choir. He made inquiries, followed 
her to her home in Manchester, and 
married her not long afterward. 
We presume they lived happy ever 
after, though that was not vouched 

"Fountain Tavern" at Marblehead 
was the resort of sea captains and 
the gentry of the town, and it has 

drew rein at the door of the tavern. 
Sir Harry Faulkland, a young Eng- 
lish gentleman who had been sent 
to superintend the building of the 
fort and who was also collector of 
the port of Boston, alighted, and 
attracted by the maiden's beauty, 
stopped to speak with her. The ac- 
quaintance ripened into a love that 
pride of race and position prevented 
from culminating in marriage at 


been rumored that the pirates, who 
were finally captured in the streets 
of Marblehead, made this tavern 
their rendezvous. What better ro- 
mance could our twentieth century 
girls have, than that which fell to 
the lot of Agnes Surriage, a girl of 
sixteen who was scrubbing the floor 
of the inn, to be sure, but who was 
also strikingly handsome. In the 
autumn of 1742 a coach and four 
dashed through the streets and 

that time. But after long years, 
through her devotion in saving his 
life, the thought of class distinction 
passed away and they were married 
with the sanction of the Faulkland 
family. After a brief residence in 
London, they removed to Boston, 
where Sir Harry died. 

The first temperance inn was 
opened in Marlboro, New Hamp- 
shire, when liquor was of prime im- 
portance in all taverns. This inno- 



vation was looked upon with dis- 
favor by drivers of stage coaches and 
loud were their lamentations. Be- 
ing assured, however, that coffee 
and tea would be served them, the 
tavern became one of the most popu- 
lar in New England, and thus our 
first coffee house was started many 
years ago, being heartily recom- 
mended by stage drivers. \ 
One of the quaintest and mostj 

make the six-footer duck his head, 
while the broad fireplaces easily ac- 
commodate seven-foot logs. 
Ancient china, books and prints are 
here in profusion, and there are 
canopied bedsteads, claw foot chairs, 
and two arm chairs once the prop- 
erty of Robert Burns. The paper 
on the office walls is Shakesperian, 
a old English landscapes are in the 
f hall, while hunting scenes and sports 


picturesque taverns in all Essex 
County is "Ferncroft Inn," located 
on the old Boxford road. The views 
from the piazzas are unsurpassed in 
diversity and grandeur. It would 
indeed puzzle the heads of our mod- 
ern architects should they attempt 
to duplicate the architectural de- 
signs of this ancient structure that 
was erected in 1692, with low ceil- 
ings and heavy oak cross beams that 

of "Merrie England" delight the 
eye in the dining room. The front 
of the inn is an exact imitation of 
the home of Ann Hathaway. 

At a bend of the road we come 
upon a sign used in the beginning 
of the last century at the old tavern 
in Topsfield, kept by William Ready. 
On one side of the sign is a port- 
rait of George Washington, on the 
other, that of John Quincy Adams. 



"The Boynton Tavern" in old 
Newbury was presided over by a 
most eccentric man. One of his 
sons, who was born while the tav- 
ern was being torn down, was named 
Tearing. The second son, coming 
when an addition to the new inn 
was under way, received the name 
of Adding. Mr. Boynton was the 
inventor of the first silk reel. Groves 
of mulberry trees were set out in 
different parts of Byfield, furnish- 
ing proper food for the worms. 
With Tearing and Adding, these 
groves grew in size and beauty. 
Several of the trees are in a flourish- 
ing condition on a Byfield farm at 
the present time. 

The "West Parish" of Boxford 
boasted for many years an old tav- 
ern that was erected in 1776, where 
the militia met to be reviewed. The 
fine country inn, now located in the 
"East Parish" was refitted from an 
old tavern, by Deacon Parker Spof- 
ford. Here the first post office was 
kept, mails being brought by the 
stage coach. The mails were taken 
to the church and distributed by Mr. 
Spofford to the people living at a 
distance. Even in those days the 
good deacons used drawing cards 
for church services, it seems. 

In the town of Danvers stands 
the old "Berry Tavern" originally 
built in 1741. This public house has 
been maintained continuously from 
that time, being at the present day 
a thoroughly equipped hotel. Could 

we, for a short time, bring before us 
pictures of the young farmers on 
their way to Boston from all parts 
of New England, on their jumpers, 
or long sleds, where were heaped 
the corn, grain, bundles of yarn, 
homespun cloth, etc., which were to 
be exchanged for other merchan- 
dise; of the severe storms they en- 
countered, making them willing 
prisoners for a while at these hos- 
pitable houses; of the buxom lasses 
met and oft times made the partner 
of their joys ; and of the merry-mak- 
ings in the long winter evenings, — 
would not all this compare favor- 
ably with the present mode of en- 
joyment of our young people, and 
does it not make us wish for a 
glimpse of some oldtime inn? for: 

"No longer the host hobbles down from 

his rest 
In the porch's cool shadows to ' welcome 

his guest 
With a smile of delight and a grasp of the 

And a glance of the eye that no heart could 


"When the long rains of Autumn set in 

from the west, 
The mirth, of the landlord was broadest 

and best ; 
And the stranger who paused over night 

never knew 
If the clock on the mantel struck ten or 

struck two. 

"Oh. the songs they would sing and the 

tales they would spin 
As they lounged in the light of the old 

fashioned inn; 
But a day came at last when the stage 

brought no load 
To the gate, as it rolled up the long dusty 


Our Front Parlor Alligator 

By Bradley Gilman 

Author of "Ronald Carnaquay, 

IN those days my father often sent 
home to us boys rather queer 
presents. It was just after the 
war, and he was "travelling" for 
"Kip and Kidd/'boot and shoe people, 
with whom he was later joined in 
partnership. My mother had died, two 
years before, leaving Eph and me to 
the home-care of Mother's unmarried 
sister Lydia. She was a faithful, lov- 
ing aunt to us, but very sensitive and 
timid, and I fear that some of our 
pranks seriously shook her nerves. 

My own preference, in the way of 
boyish possessions, was for books, 
curios, stamps, birds' eggs and the 
like — such objects as would "stay 
where you put them" ; so I said to 
Eph; but he scorned my "dead 
things," and was most pleased with 
pets, and live creatures of all sorts. 
So that while Father at times sent me 
rare stamps, or a book, or a stuffed 
bird, or an Indian relic, he was more 
likely to send Eph some boxed-up 
live insect or animal, like a bird, or a 
pair of guinea pigs, or — as once hap- 
pened — two live chameleons. 

These presents from Father, who — 
best of fathers — seemed always to 
have us in mind, though hundreds of 
miles away, brought dismay to ner- 
vous Aunt Lydia, but filled our 
youthful hearts with joy, and made 
us the envy of our schoolmates. So 
we were a little surprised, but not 

alarmed, when one day a telegram 
came from New Orleans: 

"Have sent alligator by express. Do not 
be afraid. 


Well, we were not exactly afraid, 
but we felt a certain amount of per- 
plexity and anxiety. I had read 
about ferocious alligators, and how 
they seized animals or human beings 
at the brink of some river or lake, 
and dragged them into the muddy 
depths ; and sometimes they snatched 
boat-men from boats, or overturned 
the boats themselves ; and then what 
chance had a man, when in the water 
with them ! So we were eager but 
uneasy. As for Aunt Lydia, she stood 
speechless for five minutes, when she 
read the telegram, and then trembled 
so that she had to go and sit down 
in the big arm-chair, where she con- 
tinued to sit, — removing and wiping 
and replacing her spectacles on her 
peaked nose at least five times. 

There was, however, another mem- 
ber of our household, who must here 
be mentioned. It was Uncle Zack, 
Aunt Lydia's brother ; he was by occu- 
pation a farmer, or had been one in 
earlier life, and now came to us on 
occasional visits. We boys never en- 
joyed Unzle Zack, partly because he 
was always preaching to us on our 
conduct, and lecturing to us on 
themes which interested him far 

7 6 



more than they did us, and partly be- 
cause we were expected to black his 
old-fashioned leather boots, reaching 
nearly to the knees and pulling on by 
stout leather straps at the sides. 

He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, 
with a bald, dome-like head, fringed 
with greenish-white tufts of hair. He 
wore spectacles, and stooped as he 
walked. Slow in movement and im- 
pressive in speech, he believed him- 
self an oracle; whereas I fear he was 
rather a walking dictionary, and a 
rheumatic one, at that. In other 
words, he had much learning, but 
very little practical sense. He knew 
a great many book-things, but always 
failed to connect them with daily 
human needs. 

Such, at least, is my judgment of 
him, as I now recall him, after thirty 
years have passed away. Possibly 
this opinion may have been reached 
by me without sufficient ground, but 
at least one definite bit of evidence 
comes up vividly before me as I 
write. That was during one of 
Uncle Zack's earlier visits to us, 
when he explained to us boys the 
law of centrifugal motion, and led 
the way, in a lordly fashion, out 
into the kitchen, where our colored 
cook, Susannah, was baking. There 
he laid hold of a two-quart pail 
nearly full of milk, and, — despite 
alarmed Susannah's protests, — 
warning her grandly back with one 
arm, with the other he set the pail 
in motion, swinging it, and finally 
attempting to revolve it, at arm's 
length, around his head. I remem- 
ber that he was just saying how 
simple the experiment was, and that 
he had done it several times, with- 

out spilling a drop, when — bang! 
The pail struck the gas-bracket, 
nearly over his head, and down 
came the white torrent over him 
and over Susannah's clean floor. 
His theory was all right, but he 
failed to apply it to existing condi- 
tions, and he had to go dripping to 
his quarters in the back-parlor, 
leaving a trail of milk behind him 
all the way. 

So when Uncle Zack, in turn, was 
handed the alligator telegram, he 
read and re-read it, as if it had been 
a Chinese manuscript, and difficult 
to decipher. He never allowed him- 
self to be caught off his guard, — al- 
ways held himself up to every occa- 
sion, however unexpected. So he 
presently turned to his sister, and 
spoke in his loftiest and most re- 
assuring tone. "Lyddy, don't get 
flustered ! I never get flustered. 
Getting flustered shortens the life, 
by increasing the heart-beats, and 
wearing it out before its time. I 
have reacj — " 

He was going off on some medi- 
cal studies of his younger days, but 
recalled himself. "As for this alli- 
gator, Robert doubtless has some 
plan about keeping him, or he 
wouldn't have sent him. There is 
Hillside Park. They have animals. 
Very likely the creature is to be 
sent there." Then he turned toward 
us boys and started on a lecture 
about the alligator and his points 
of variation from the crocodile ; but 
Eph and I bolted for the door, and 
left him to make his speech to Aunt 

Two days later the expressman 
brought the alligator. We ex- 



pected to see him unload a huge 
box, or perhaps tank, requiring sev- 
eral men to carry it. We had dark- 
ly implied this to the other boys. 
But, instead, the expressman came 
gaily skipping up the walk, bearing 
his big record-book in one hand, and 
a box, not half so large, in the 

The box contained our alligator. 
It was a wooden box, perhaps ten 
inches long, four wide, and four 
deep, with a bit of wire screen over 
one end. The alligator was alive, 
stared at us out of his filmy, ex- 
pressionless eyes, and occasionally 
emitted a little sound like the 
squeak of a small French doll. His 
long tail looked so much like a 
handle that we used it as such, and 
transferred the sluggish creature to 
the bath-tub, experimentally, and 
later to a small hand-tub. 

Of course all the neighbors were 
eager to see the little reptile, but 
they were manifestly disappointed 
when they gazed upon his diminu- 
tive scaly form, in the front parlor, 
by the window, where we kept him 
most of the time for readier ex- 
hibition. Our boy-friends tempted 
him with flies and worms and pieces 
of raw meat, but nobody ever saw 
the shy little saurian eat. I think 
he did eat, however, but in the 
night. He was much more active 
after night-fall than during the day. 
He developed an unexpected de- 
gree of agility also, during the 
night. Usually he seemed sluggish 
and sleepy; but sometimes after 
dark, we could hear him splashing 
in the shallow water of his tub, and 
often, when we brought a light sud- 

denly near, he leaped away from it 
very actively. 

Uncle Zack professed to have no 
fear whatever of the uncanny crea- 
ture, but I noticed that he never 
touched him ; he often looked on 
sagely, as Eph deftly handled him, 
and generally contributed informa- 
tion about the reptile's nature and 
habits. One day, when a neighbor 
came in to see the little beast, Eph 
put him down on the floor, and he 
lay still, as usual. Uncle Zack was 
laboriously unloading some of his 
learning about the "genus" and 
"species" to which the reptile be- 
longed, when I noticed that "Allie" 
(as we boys had come to call him) 
had twisted around, and was walk- 
ing across the room, in the general 
direction of my reverend Uncle's 
slippered feet. Uncle Zack, ab- 
sorbed in his monologue, did not 
notice the movement, and was just 
confuting Cuvier or some other 
naturalist, when "Allie" reached one 
of his feet, and proceeded to climb 
over it. When the little reptile's 
claws pricked through Uncle Zack's 
thin sock, the owner thereof forgot 
both his learning and his dignity, 
and with some emphatic interjec- 
tion, sprang to his feet and showed 
a disposition to even step up into 
his chair. But he quickly mastered 
his trepidation, and went on, as well 
as he could, with his lecture. He 
seemed relieved, however, when 
Eph picked up the scaly little mon- 
ster and popped him back into his 

Father did not return from his 
Southern trip for several weeks. 
There was no need for his presence, 



so far as the alligator was con- 
cerned. Evidently the creature was 
intended for a sort of curio-pet, and 
as such afforded us all much amuse- 
ment. We hit u|gpn various names 
for him, sometimes calling him 
"Hard-Shell, " from his bony exte- 
rior, and sometimes "Diogenes," 
because he "lived in a tub." But 
"Allie" he was, most of the time ; 
and little as his evil merciless eyes 
expressed of friendliness, I think he 
learned to distinguish Eph from the 
rest of the family. 

When father returned, a month 
later, the alligator was no longer a 
member of our family ; and the 
cause thereof I must now relate. 

One morning, when Eph slipped 
into the front parlor, as usual, be- 
fore going to school, to have a look 
at his queer pet, the creature was 
not in his tub. Just what had hap- 
pened we were not sure, but Eph 
had put a flat stone into the tub the 
day before, and the distance from 
the top of this stone to the edge of 
the tub was not very great. This 
fact, joined to our knowledge of 
"Allie's" nocturnal activity, made us 
suspect that he had climbed over 
the edge and tumbled out upon the 
floor. Either that, or somebody 
had taken him out. Who could 
have done it ? We were quite sure 
that Uncle Zack would not have 
handled the creature, and as for 
Aunt Lydia, she had a horror of him 
that sometimes threatened hyster- 
ics. We began to feel uneasy, after 
we had looked in vain for him, and 
Susannah had stated her entire ig- 
norance of his whereabouts. Some- 
how the situation grew more and 

more uncanny, as we failed to find 
him. "Allie" or "Hard Shell," or 
"Diogenes" — by whatever name we 
called him — was a well-conducted 
member of the household, when in 
his tub or when under our eye, upon 
the floor ; but when loose, and in 
hiding, nobody knew where, — that 
added an element of mystery which 
was akin to open terror. 

We enjoined upon Susannah to 
say nothing, and jto keep a look 
around, in case the creature hove in 
sight. Then we hurried off to 
school, resolved that afterward we 
would make a thorough search, 
even moving desks and bureaus, 
behind one of which he was prob- 
ably lurking. During the session 
of school I fear that Eph's thoughts 
were not on his lessons, and I know 
that mine were not. At recess, 
when some boy asked Eph, casual- 
ly, about "Allie," he received a curt 
response that puzzled him. Eph's 
face showed anxiety, and his rumi- 
nations took about the same course 
that mine did. As we left school, 
at noon, he asked me, in an off- 
hand way, which poorly concealed 
his agitation, "How fast did Uncle 
Zack say those alligators grew? 
Do you remember?" 

I did not remember; but I saw 
the trend of my brother's disturbed 
reflections. It evidently struck him, 
as it did me, that if the alligator 
were not discovered, he might take 
to himself some dark haunt in the 
house, under it or near it, and con- 
tinuing his nocturnal activities, 
might support himself, and grow, 
and grow — and — grow — "How 



large, Eph, did Uncle Zack say they 
sometimes grew to be?" 

The prospect was serious, and 
even thrilling. "Think, Eph, of 
having a live alligator, a really 
large one, living somewhere in the 
house or garden, and ready to 
spring out at you in the dark — you 
remember how he could spring — 
and bite off — O there ! Let's not 
say that ! We shall find him, when 
we get home. Perhaps Susannah 
has already found him." And home- 
ward we hurried. 

Alas, Susannah had not found 
him, although she had taken a little 
time from her regular work, to 
make a superficial search. At this 
stage of proceedings Aunt Lydia 
surmised that something was 
wrong, and asked such penetrating 
questions that the truth had to be 
told. When she had the plain 
truth from Eph, "she did not feel 
any the better for having it," as 
Eph remarked. She hurriedly told 
her brother, and then sank down in 
her arm-chair, and carefully ar- 
ranged her feet and clothing on 
another chair in front of her. "Find 
that — that — O find him !" she ex- 
claimed, in woful tones, not daring 
even to call poor "Diogenes" by his 
generic name. 

By this time the household was 
in a demoralized condition. The 
mystery of the situation greatly en- 
hanced poor "Allie's" supposed 
powers of injury. My own fancy 
being tolerably vivid, I pictured our 
family as haunted, for weeks, 
months, years, by this little demon, 
who would remain hidden by day 
but would wander at night, like? 

Hamlet's father's ghost, rendering 
one's bed his sole safety, until — 
until — until the creature grew large 
enough to — to jump up upon a bed! 
bed! | 

Even if we moved out (thus my 
fancy ran on) what would happen 
to the next unsuspecting family 
coming in? Indeed, would we be 
morally justifiable in allowing an- 
other family to come in, without 
warning them of the growing and 
strengthening monster Who lurked 
in the walls or dark cellar-depths 
of the rather broken-down old 
house ? 

Meanwhile we were keeping up a 
desultory and increasingly nervous 
search for the animal. But now my 
uncle came to the rescue. He took 
charge of the search. It was his 
great opportunity for leadership. 
Susannah was scrutinizing her pan- 
try, hardly daring to put her hand 
in a dark place, even on an upper 
shelf. We boys were desperately 
taking down the books from the 
top row of a book-case, thinking he 
might have gone in between it and 
the wall. "There, now, cease that !" 
said Uncle Zack, with calm dignity. 
"Such indiscriminate searching will 
never result in anything. As soon as 
you have looked in one place, you go 
into some other room, and the creature 
very likely slips over and hides in the 
place you have just left. Those 
saurians are very clever ; I have 
heard— " Then he checked himself 
from going into the subject which 
opened invitingly before him, and ar- 
ranged a plan of campaign. 

"Let us all make thorough search of 
one room, — this front parlor, let us 



say, — and when we are sure he is not 
here, we will go out and close the door, 
and lock it, and — " 

"What! And leave me in here? 1 ' 
screamed Aunt Lydia, from her for- 
tress of the armchair. "Never ! O 
Zachariah, you wouldn't, you couldn't 
do such a thing." And she burst into 
tears and rocked hysterically, until she 
discovered that her dress was being 
rocked down toward the floor ; then she 
convulsively gathered it up and softly 

"No, Lyddy !" responded Uncle 
Zack, solemnly, "we will not be un- 
mindful of you. Perhaps you would 
best go up stairs, now. You — " 

"O, I can't; I can't;" exclaimed 
nervous Aunt Lydia. "I never can 
feel safe until I see that awful monster 
back in his tub." But, being morally 
and physically supported by her dig- 
nified and sagacious brother, she did 
manage to cross the room, and went 
flying up the stairs, and later was dis- 
covered sitting on top of a high chest 
of drawers, in her room. 

"Now," said Uncle Zack, mar- 
shalling his forces, — to wit, Eph and 
Susannah and myself, — "Now let us 
take each room in turn. And remem- 
ber this, for it is best to make an intel- 
ligent use of our faculties, that a small 
alligator like — like yours, Eph " (here 
he showed a retributive tendency 
toward my brother), "could not pos- 
sibly climb up to any height above a 
few inches, at most a foot ; so we need 
not examine any places, upstairs, or 
any places on this floor, higher than a 
foot above the floor level." 

Here Susannah, who was furtively 
turning a picture around, on the wall, 
hastily desisted, and gave close atten- 

tion. Then the search began, although 
I am compelled to say that Uncle Zack 
kept well in the centre of the room, and 
issued his orders wtih firmness and 
gravity, while we three tugged and 
pushed at the furniture, resting not 
until every article had been moved 1 
and every square inch of the floor in- 
spected, and every nook and cranny 
explored by somebody's trembling 

No result. The clever little beast 
was not to be found. He was cer- 
tainly not in that front parlor. Then 
we went out, closing the door, and 
made the same careful search, under 
our general's orders, of the other 
rooms on the floor; last of all Uncle 
Zack led his brigade into the back par- 
lor, his own room, and there directed 
operations, repeatedly enjoining upon 
us that there was no use in searching 
any spot a foot above the level of the 
floor. In this, his own room, he did 
deign to assist a little, taking one or 
two garments gingerly from the floor, 
and changing his tall leather boots, — ■ 
which were standing stolidly in a cor- 
ner, — to a centre-table, the better to 
facilitate our search over the entire 

So at it we went (on all fours, most 
of the time), peering and feeling, and 
making most thorough work of it. 
But no result ; and at length we 
paused, in breathlessness and perspira- 
tion. We looked inquiringly at our 
uncle, feeling inclined to hold him re- 
sponsible, as general-in-chief, for the 
failure of our campaign. Just then he 
zioticed that the side door leading to 
the garden was slightly open, and a 
new idea struck him ; but, as ever, he 
showed no unbecoming surprise. "I 


am inclined to think," said he, with de- 
liberation, "that the wily creature has 
gone out through that door," pointing 
slowly and convincingly to the door, as 
he spoke. "They are amphibious ani- 
mals, hence they love the water ; and 
with last night's heavy rain, the water 
is standing in pools, outside, I have ob- 
served ; and I believe that the members 
of the saurian genus often scent water 
a long distance, and seek it ; indeed I 
once read—" 

Here he again checked himself, with 
an effort, leaving the genus and re- 
turning to the particular specimen we 
were most interested in. "We will all 
go out into the garden, keeping up the 
same system we have thus far fol- 
lowed, and, I doubt not, we shall find 
our recreant pet disporting himself in 
some shallow pool in the garden." 

His face showed traces of satisfac- 
tion at his own acuteness, and a faint 
smile was traceable on his usually 
compressed lips. "Wait a moment," 
he said, raising a warning finger to us 
impulsive boys, "and I will direct the 
search." Then he glanced at his feet, 
in slippers, and mindful of his rheu- 
matic tendencies, he stepped across the 
room and took down hat and cloak 
and boots, and began to make ready to 
lead his forces. 

One of the boots he put on, without 
remark ; then he put his other foot 
down into the other boot. Then he 
sprang about a yard into the air, de- 
spite his years and his dignity, emit- 
ting an indescribable shriek as he rose, 
and, as soon as he reached the floor, he 
began pounding his foot, — in the 
boot, — upon the floor, with desperate 
energy, vociferating spasmodically as 
he did so; and then he fell over on his 

bed, exhausted, more dead than alive, 
but still feebly waving that booted leg 
in the air. 

Eph and I were not slow to guess 
the truth. Eph, readier than I in an 
emergency, seized the gesticulating 
leg, gave a great tug at it, and pulled 
it off. Then he turned it upside down 
and all that was left of an eight-inch 
alligator dropped, in a shapeless mass, 
to the floor. 

Uncle Zack's cries had subsided to 
moans, but his dignity and his 
omniscience had quite departed. His 
poor old nerves had received a severe 

When tranquillity at length was re- 
stored, my uncle slowly sat up, called 
for his spectacles, and tried to solve 
his problem. "How did that alligator 
climb up to the top of that table and 
into that boot?" It was utterly con- 
trary to the principle which he had so 
repeatedly laid down, as a guide to our 

Then poor black Susannah found a 
voice. "I — I tink he muss hab clomb 
in when dey wuz on de floor." 

"Not so ! Not so, Susannah I" re- 
sponded my uncle, severely. "I still 
maintain my general principle, regard- 
ing the saurians ; he could not have 
climbed or leaped as high as the top 
of those tall boots. 

"Sartin ! Shore !" exclaimed Su- 
sannah, "but I 'spect he clomb in when 
dey wuz a lyin' flat down. I come in, 
dis mawnin', an' dey wuz a-lying flat, 
like dey usually is, an' I done stood 'urn 
up, jes' absent-like, in de corner. " 

Enough said ! The mystery was ex- 
plained. The problem in natural his- 
tory was solved. The saurian species 
was still true to its reputed habits ; and 



the mangled remains were carried out 
and buried. Uncle Zack slowly recov- 
ered his equanimity, Aunt Lydia was 

rescued from her perch, in her room, 
and the family gradually resumed the 
even tenor of its way. 

The Utility of Humour 

By Zitella Cocke 

IN one of her books, but in which 
one, I frankly confess my present 
inability to remember, George 
Eliot has said that there is no great- 
er or more frequent cause of mis- 
understanding between friends, than 
a difference of taste in jokes. Who 
will deny it? Surely not one who 
has made a study of human nature, 
or who has had any experience in 
life, although that experience may 
have been of the most commonplace 
character. The comprehension and 
appreciation of a joke, is, in too 
many instances, much like ortho- 
doxy and heterodoxy in the crass 
opinion of the vulgar herd, which, 
after all, amounts to nothing more 
nor less than "my doxy" and "your 
doxy," and every attempt to explain, 
only becomes another fruitful 
source of unlimited disputation. 
There can be no doubt that the man 
who gets the wrong end of the joke, 
discovers, for that time at least, the 
exceeding inconvenience of jesting, 
and thoroughly realizes the strain 
upon graciousness and ge'nerosity: 

"For he who does not tremble at the sword, 
Who quails not with his head upon the 

block, — 
Turn but a jest against him, loses heart: — 
The shafts of wit slip through the stoutest 

There is no man alive that can live down 

The inextinguishable laughter of man- 

and we do not need the poet's pen 
to inform us of the dread which all 
men feel of the rash dexterity and 
conflict of wit. The knife of the 
surgeon is not more feared than the 
spear of the jester, or the scalpel 
of the satirist, who, unlike the sur- 
geon, have not the grace to offer 
the alleviation of an anesthetic. The 
well known lines of old Dr. Johnson 
who was such a Trojan in repartee 
and in every war of words : — 

"Of all _the griefs that harass the dis- 
Sure the most bitter is the scornful jest." 

prove that even this sturdy old 
fighter was vulnerable to the jester's 
attack, and we have confirmation of 
this sensitivity in his speech con- 
cerning the noted actor and wit, 
Samuel Foote, "Indeed, if he mim- 
ics or ridicules me, I will break 
every bone in his body!" 

Yet, whatever may be urged 
against ridicule or humourous in- 
vective, the wholesome effect of le- 
gitimate humour and merriment can- 
not be denied, and Sterne was clear- 
ly in the right when he said that a 
taste for humour was a gift from 
heaven. It is a blessing, a very 
angel of consolation, without whose 



presence the thorny, briary path in 
this work-a-day world would be un- 
cheered. In the legend of Pandora's 
box, we are told that Hope was left 
at the bottom, as a compensation for 
the many ills to which poor hu- 
manity is heir, but I think the most 
efficient and the most ready anodyne 
is a sense of Humour. Hope is in- 
deed an inspiration and often a sal- 
vation, yet the promise it offers is 
too often broken, while Humour 
presents an immediate solace, — a 
real and present help in time of dis- 
couragement and despondency. Let 
but the unhappy victim have the 
prehensibles by which to seize up- 
on the proffered good, and he is as- 
sured of a temporary, if not a final 
reprieve. In the annals of English 
Court-history, we read that a crown 
was paid to one who had succeeded 
in making the king, Edward II., 
laugh — a medicine which was doubt- 
less more valuable and efficacious 
than a dozen prescriptions from the 
pharmacopeia. A hearty laugh is 
medicinal and remedial and Hip- 
pocrates believed and declared that 
a physician should possess a ready 
humour as a part of the equipment 
for healing, and Galen informs us 
that Esculapius, himself, wrote com- 
edies and commanded them to be 
read to his patients for the promo- 
tion of a healthful circulation of the 
blood. A noted physician of Rich- 
mond, Virginia, Dr. Robert Cole- 
man, whose success was eminent, 
was said to have accomplished as 
many cures by his wit and humour, 
as by the drugs he prescribed. His 
entrance into a sick chamber 
brought an atmosphere of cheerful- 
ness, which assisted the receptivity 
of the patient and, to quote the home- 
ly comparison of Mother Hubbard's 
dog, many a friend who left a sick 
one with the thought that nothing 

more was needed but a coffin, re- 
turned to find him laughing, and on 
the high way to recovery. The 
world is not without illustrious ex- 
amples and advocates of the excel- 
lence and benefit of a hearty laugh. 
The emporer Titus insisted that he 
had lost a day, if he had passed it 
without laughing, and Chamfort 
was accustomed to tell his friends 
that the most utterly useless and 
lost of all days, was the one upon 
which he had not laughed, — "II y a 
trois medechis qui ?ie se trompent 
pas. La gaiete, le doiix exercise, et 
le modeste repast 

Yet there is nothing more difficult 
than an exact definition of humour. 
When Democritus was asked to 
give a definition of man, he an- 
swered, "It is something we see 
and know;" and when Dr. Johnson 
was asked to define poetry, he re- 
plied : "Sir, it is easier to see what 
it is not, — we all know what light 
is, but it is not easy to tell what it 
is." And so, it may be said of hu- 
mour, and an att> nipt to define it 
with explicit and logical accuracy 
would be much like an experiment 
to make a portrait of Proteus. The 
Protean forms of humour cannot be 
photographed or measured upon the 
Procrustean bed of analysis. The 
very elusiveness of humour, which 
is its chiefest charm, defies dissec- 
tion. Who could ever square the 
circle of a joke, or postulate a pun? — ■ 
and it is almost as difficult to estab- 
lish the boundary line between wit 
and humour. One who spent no lit- 
tle time in the undertaking, H. R. 
Haweis, says : "I have lain awake 
at night, trying to define the differ- 
ence between wit and humour, and 
there is none." Whether this be 
true or not, we know that the essen- 
tial features are the same in each, — 
a pretended union or juxtaposi- 



tion where exists customary incom- 
patibility. That most accomplished 
essayist, William Hazlitt, has de- 
fined wit by a series of happy illus- 
trations ; a prism, dividing the sim- 
plicity of our ideas into motley and 
variegated hues; a mirror broken 
into pieces, each fragment of which 
reflects a new light from surround- 
ing objects; or, the untwisting of 
the chain of our ideas, whereby each 
link is made to hook on more readi- 
ly to others than when they were 
all bound together by habit; but in 
no comparison, perhaps, has he been 
more happy than when he calls 
wit the polypus power of the mind, 
by which a distinct life and mean- 
ing is imparted to different parts of 
a sentence or object after they are 
severed from each other. Yet, we 
know it as we know light, when we 
see it, and realize the effect not- 
withstanding our inability to form- 
ulate it. Humour prefers to 
laugh with men, while wit laughs at 
them, — one is the comedy of ignor- 
ance, the other of knowledge; 
one is of the heart, the other of the 
intellect; one is broad, large-heart- 
ed and kindly, while the other is too 
often cynical and unkind; one is 
apt to be indefinite, the other cold 
and definite. 

A more concise and thorough 
definition of wit could hardly be 
given, than in the famous reply 
of Dr. Henneker to Lord Chat- 
ham, who had asked him to de- 
fine it: "My lord, wit is what a pen- 
sion would be, if given by your lord- 
ship to your humble servant, — a 
good thing well applied." Here we 
have the soul of wit, — the "mul turn 
in parvo" in absolute perfection, 
yet when we turn from Locke's 
cumbrous and insufficient analysis 
of wit to Dr. Johnson's name for it, 
— a discordia concors, — a combi- 

nation of dissimilar images, or a dis- 
covery of occult resemblances in 
things apparently unlike ;" or, to 
the words of Sydney Smith, "The 
pleasure arising from wit proceeds 
from our surprise at suddenly dis- 
covering things to be similar, in 
which we did not suspect similari- 
ty," — we have an approximation, at 
least, to a definition of that which 
is so happily illustrated in Dr. Hen- 
neker's brevity. And Humour, 
which deals so largely with the im- 
agination and the affections, finds 
quite as much as wit, hidden analo- 
gies in the midst of differences, and 
if an impromptu reply is the very 
touchstone of wit, so humour, which 
is a more subtle essence, must be 
spontaneous. Schopenhauer speaks 
its most essential characteristic 
when he calls it the triumph of intu- 
ition over reflection, and Arnold 
Ruge is equally felicitous when he 
says it is the ideal, captive by the 
real. To laugh heartily we must 
have reality and naturalness. Sure- 
ly the laughter at strained and un- 
natural conceits must be that mirth 
which Scripture describes as the 
crackling of thorns under a pot. 
Genuine humour is* too delicate to 
endure the pressure of force, and 
the rule of the Gospel is very apt 
to be reversed, since they who seek 
it, are not likely to find it. 

"For every touch that wooed its stay, 
Has brushed its richest hues away." 

Like the lambent light of the fire, 
or the play of lighting on a summer 
sky, wholesome and genuine hu- 
mour is natural and harmless. The 
original meaning of the word hu- 
mour is "moisture," and is not inapt, 
for as moisture fructifies the earth, 
so humour humanizes mankind. 

How naturally are we attracted 
to the man who laughs genuinely, 
and laughs, too, in the right place! 



His character is indexed at once : 
we know where to find him, — the 
honest laugh does not emanate from 
the scoundrel. A man may smile 
and be a villain still, and may laugh 
grimly and sardonically, or, the 
loud, unsympathizing, unmeaning 
laugh may betray the vacant mind ; 
but the laughter which rings with 
genuineness and appreciation, is the 
catholic note of sympathy, culture 
and integrity. And what a teacher 
is well timed wit, or genuine hu- 
mour! How it punctures the blad- 
der of conceit, pretence, and hy- 
pocrisy! But, unlike those of wit, 
the shafts of humour wound to 
heal, and heal without leaving a 
scar. There is nothing, says Sydney 
Smith, of which your pompous gen- 
tlemen are so much afraid as a little 
humour. How often a bloated mass 
of self-complacency and ignorance 
is reduced to insignificance by the 
genial rays of wholesome humour ! 
Says an eminent English author: 
"I will find you twenty men who 
will write you systems of metaphy- 
sics over which the world shall 
yawn and doze and sleep, and pro- 
nounce their authors oracles of wis- 
dom, for one who can trifle, like 
Shakespeare, and teach the truest 
philosophy when he seems to trifle 

Yet, the gift of wit is too often 
a dangerous possession. As the 
diamond is worn for display, wit, 
which like that precious stone, cuts 
as well as shines, is unhappily too 
much employed for the satisfaction 
and vanity of its possessor, rather 
than for the benefit of others, and 
the professional wit is as much de- 
spised as dreaded. What can be 
more boresome than the man who 
is always trying to be funny ! Nor 
is it the try, try again which ulti- 
mately achieves success. Humour, 

like happiness, often flees from her 
pursuer, and in the mouths of these 
indefatigable aspirants, we are some- 
times tempted to think it has length, 
breadth and thickness! But what 
is more delightful than the spon- 
taneity and elusiveness of genuine 
humour; and we are not surprised 
that Cicero and Quintilian in their 
instructions upon Oratory, insisted 
upon a true understanding of hu- 
mour as essential to the perfection 
of the actor and the orator. 

That the spirit and essence of 
humour thrived in the mercurial at- 
mosphere of Greece, we have abun- 
dant proof. In fact, a Court of Hu- 
mour was held periodically at Her- 
acleum, a village near Athens, which 
consisted of sixty members, and 
their sayings and doings were cur- 
rent among the people, bearing al- 
ways the stamp of the "sixty" in 
order to prove their genuineness. 
It would be interesting to know if 
the acts and sayings of that Court 
gave origin to the common parlance 
of today — ''behaving like sixty !" At 
any rate, Philip of Macedon es- 
teemed their jokes so highly that he 
asked for a written copy of them. 
The Greeks undoubtedly perpetra- 
ted a masterly practical joke in the 
taking of Troy, and Homer repre- 
sents Olympus as resounding with 
laughter, on more than one occa- 
sion, and the gods themselves were 
not superior to practical jokes, as, 
for instance, when they seduced, by 
promise of fair weather, poor mor- 
tals to venture upon a picnic, and 
when enjoyment was at its height, 
sent a sudden shower of rain upon 
them, at the same time laughing up- 
roariously at the ridiculous plight 
of the merrymakers. Douglass Jer- 
rold says that the golden chain of 
Jove was nothing but a succession 
of laughs, — a chromatic scale of 



merriment, reaching from earth to 
Olympus. No less an authority 
than Socrates insisted that a tragic 
poet should be a comic poet also. 
We commonly picture Plato and 
Aristotle as solemn personages, of 
dignified mien, clad in stately robes, 
whereas they laughed with their 
friends like other men and lived 
simple, cheerful lives. We know 
that Plato sent to Dionysius of Syra- 
cuse, that work of Aristophanes en- 
titled "The Clouds," as an answer 
to the tyrant's question if Athens 
was given to humour. Yet the 
Athenian law forbade a judge of the 
Areopagus to write a comedy, which 
enactment was probably meant to 
invest the office with a. severity of 
dignity which would prevent con- 
tempt of court ! 

Thersites made the Greek heroes 
the subjects of the broadest and 
most robust jokes, and Diogenes, 
who was called "Socrates gone 
mad," was not destitute of humour 
when he replied to the man who 
asked him what kind of wine he 
liked best, "Another maris," and 
to one who inquired of him the 
proper hour for dining, "If you are 
rich, when you will ; if you are poor, 
when you can." 

The humour of Alcibrades was so 
proverbial in Athens, that sometimes 
it became what humour and the 
quality of mercy ought not to be, — 
somewhat strained ; and the flog- 
ging he gave the pedagogue because 
the latter was without a copy of 
Homer at hand, savored more of 
bravado than of genuine humour. 

Cicero's joke that the more Greek 
a man knew the greater knave he 
would prove, is well known, and 
the element of satire which dis- 
tinctly prevades Horatian wit has 
furnished precedent for many a 
satirist of later generations. Scipi r > 

Africanus was a good natured hu- 
morist, and a strong, pronounced 
vein of humour ran through the 
whole Caesar family. Indeed, the 
sententious alliteration uttered by 
Julius Caesar, veni, vidi. via', was 
claimed by his friends to have been 
spoken in jest, which seems alto- 
gether credible. Imagine the stal- 
wart, grotesque egotism of a man 
who could make that speech in ear- 
nest ! Such self-inflation smacks 
rather of twentieth century bombast 
than of the age in which Caesar 
lived! Besides, we must remember 
that Caesar was not from the 
Middle-West of the United States! 
The reply of Augustus to the abject 
flatterers who informed him that 
they had erected an altar to him, 
proves that a sense of humour was 
common to the Caesar family: "I 
thank you : how often you must 
have kindled a fire on that altar ! I 
saw a tree growing on it!" 

General biography offers ample 
testimony to the fact that a sense 
of humour is a feature of great 
minds ; hence Locke's argument that 
wit and^humour are not ordinarily 
accompanied with judgment well de- 
serves the stigma put upon it by 
Sterne, who says that ever since its 
pronouncement it has been made the 
Magna Charta of stupidity. On the 
contrary, it would seem that among 
the greatest minds, the sense of hu- 
mour never faileth. And why should 
it not be so? Since humour is the 
result of an unexpected fitness or 
incongruity observed either in the 
world without or in association of 
ideas within, acting upon a mind 
qualified to appreciate this fitness 
or incongruity, it is to be expected 
that keen and powerful intellects 
should not be wanting in this quali- 
fication. That great powers of ac- 
quisition and absorption can and do 



exist without this sense is hardly 
denied, but its absence is strangely 
incompatible with the grasp or sen- 
sitivity of genius. It is equally true, 
as Amiel says, of wit, that while 
humour is useful for everything, it 
is sufficient for nothing. It is the 
wine and good cheer of life ; not its 
food or sustenance. As La Bruyere 
has sententiously put it: "Wit is the 
god of moments, as Genius is the 
god of ages." 

The word wit is of Saxon origin 
and was formerly applied to sense 
or intellect, and even in our time 
we are accustomed to speak of 
natural or inherited mentality as 
mother-wit, thus furnishing ad- 
ditional argument that wit in its 
present signification is not necessa- 
rily dissociated from judgment, and 
like that gift which Burns so hearti- 
ly commends, enables us to see our- 
selves as others see us, thereby res- 
cuing us from many a blunder and 
folly. How often an author, lacking 
a sense of humour, becomes not only 
insipid but absorbed. Paradise 
Lost, sublime as it is, might have 
been saved from the absurdity of 
representing the great hierarchy of 
heaven as strategists and tacticians, 
conducting a campaign upon the 
principles and methods of European 
warfare, had its author possessed 
a keen appreciation of humour. The 
novelist who is without this valuable 
sense may startle us with impossible 
situations, encyclopaedic knowledge 
and cumbrous masses of erudition, 
but he will never present a faithful 
picture of life and will never stir 
the hearts of his readers, to what- 
ever degree he may awaken or stimu- 
late curiosity. 

And as humour inhabits the 
strongest intellects of all, so too it 
belongs to minds of finest quality. 
The great masters of pathos have 

been endowed with" the finest hu- 
mour : — 

"There's not a string attuned to mirth, 
But has its cord in melancholy." 
and we know that one, greater than 
Hood, that unparagoned master- 
mind in tragedy and comedy, and 
in the sublimest poetry of all time, 
dealt with the pathetic and the hu- 
mourous as no author has done be- 
fore or since ; and the more we study 
his production the more we real- 
ize that no brain could have created 
Hamlet and Lady Macbeth, and no 
heart could have held the woe of 
King Lear and the sorrow of Ophe- 
lia, but the brain and heart which 
had the unquenchable elasticity of 
FalstafT and Midsummer Night's 
Dream and the humour which por- 
trayed Polonius and Malvolio. 

It was a wise and just admonition 
of Lord Chesterfield that a man 
should live as much within his wit 
as within his income, and he who 
exceeds the propriety and boundary 
of wit, reveals his weakness as much 
as his fault. And who is not im- 
pressed with the wholesomeness and 
genuineness of Shakespeare's wit! 
Never does he transgress the bounds 
of propriety or justice, and although 
he lived in an age when the Church 
and her offices seemed to invite the 
shafts of wit and ridicule, he speaks 
of her priests and her ministrations 
with profoundest reverence, and of 
womanhood with the utmost re- 
spect. The famous Thomas Fuller, 
who was himself a great wit and 
noted for his pointed and pithy say- 
ings, was horrified at the man who 
dared "to jest with the two-edged 
sword of God's word," and staunch 
old Dr. Johnson characterized such 
a mode of merriment, as that which 
a good man dreads for its profane- 
ness and a witty man disclaims for 
its easiness and vulgarity. 



Of the noble and masterly Addi- 
son's sense of humour, Macaulay 
says : "If a portion of the happiness 
of the Seraphim and just men made 
perfect be derived from an ex- 
quisite perception of the ludicrous, 
their mirth must surely be none 
other than the mirth of Addison, — 
a mirth consistent with tender com- 
passion for all that is frail, and with 
profound reverence for all that is 
sublime." Such is true humour, and 
such its real province ; not to de- 
grade, but to enliven and regener- 
ate, — a recreation, and, as has been 
said, recreation is re-creation. 

If there is but a step from the 
sublime to the ridiculous — a saying 
which has been attributed to both 
Napoleon and Tom Paine — it is quite 
as true that thoroughly gross na- 
tures, ambitious to shine as "wits", 
are all too eager to take that step and 
too frequently mistake that for wit 
which is nothing else than the 
merest and coarsest profanation. 
The man who looks to see the 
ridiculous in the sublime, surely is 
not to be envied, and he can hardly 
fail to remind us of the cat so ably 
chronicled in the melodies of Mother 
Goose, — who went to London to see 
the Queen, and saw the mouse un- 
der the chair ! Poor Pussy saw what 
she had the eyes to see. How often 
are we disgusted by the vulgarian 
in society who, in the vain effort 
to render himself interesting, en- 
deavors to bring into ridicule not 
only that which is properly a sub- 
ject for the highest art, but that 
which commands our reverence and 
worship ! And here, I beg leave to 
say with, I trust, becoming humility, 
that if there is no such word in the 
English language as "vulgarian'' 
there ought to be; these aspirants 
constitute a class, and ought to have 
a denning and distinctive name ! 

Since these would-be-wits never 
attain the coveted notoriety of hav- 
ing said a really good thing, it must 
have been a prostitution of greater 
ability which elicited from Pascal 
the notable aphorism: "Diseur de 
dons mots, mauvais caractere." Yet 
Pascal, himself, was a master of 
irony, as his Provincial Letters 
amply illustrate, and no one better 
than himself knew how to wield the 
weapon of wit, which fact his ad- 
versaries well understood. This ut- 
terance was probably directed 
against the abuse rather than the 
use of wit, which he handled as a 
Damascene blade, since few men en- 
joyed the hearty laugh of true de- 
light more than Pascal. In the 
same sense De Maistre made the 
wise remark, "Le mechant ?iest 
jamais comique" and it does not ap- 
pear illogical to assume the converse 
to be true, " Le vrai comique iiest 
jamais mechant" It is when wit 
or humour transcends its privileges 
that it loses its charm and its power. 
No one will deny the wit or humour 
of Rabelais, who seems to have made 
a business of being a jolly good fel- 
low his whole life, and when he said, 
"I owe much, I have nothing, and I 
leave the remainder to the poor," 
he appeals at once to our sense of 
humour and to our sympathy; but 
when in his last illness he put on a 
domino and uttered the words, 
" ' Beati sunt qui moriuntur in Domi- 
no" he was not witty but sacri- 
legious, and merited disdain rather 
than applause. Indeed, both the act 
and the utterance are so cheap that 
I am inclined to believe them inven- 
tions, but that he said to those who 
stood weeping around his death-bed, 
"If I were to die ten times over, I 
would never make you weep half 
so much as I have made you laugh," 
seems entirely consistent with his 



merry and sympathetic nature. The 
late Bishop of Alabama, Richard 
Wilmer, whose sayings were pithy 
and pertinent as well as famous, pre- 
served a nimble wit to the last hour 
of his life, and when asked if he 
felt the symptoms of approaching 
death, replied : "I cannot say, I have 
never had that experience." 

The power, province and limita- 
tions, as well as the timeliness of 
wit, were fully appreciated by Eras- 
mus, who sent many a stinging 
arrow into the ranks of the dispu- 
tants of his age, and at the same 
time promoted peace and good feel- 
ing by the wholesomeness of his 
humour. It never lost in him its es- 
sential feature of spontaneousness ; 
hence every thrust or parry he made 
was in itself its own excuse. It is 
the malice prepense and fore- 
thought, the prepared strategy and 
attack of the satirist, that is most 
likely to excite a resentment which 
refuses to forgive, and, like most 
other wicked practices, has its re- 
flex influence upon the perpetrator. 
As brilliant as was the wit of Sheri- 
dan, it was too often the achieve- 
ment of malicious and laborious 
preparation, and he degenerated in- 
to a mere poseur. It cannot be 
argued that this was the cause of 
his profligacy and worthlessness, 
but that it ultimately had its part in 
destroying all earnestness of pur- 
pose and integrity of character, we 
may safely infer. 

Swift's wit, though caustic, was 
natural and spontaneous ; he never 
designed it beforehand or set a trap 
for his enemy, but he was indiscreet 
in its application and thereby lost a 
much desired bishopric, because he 
had grievously offended one of 
Queen Anne's courtiers who was in 
Her Majesty's grace. It is said that 
the Dean never laughed at his own 

wit, — he said it on the spur of a hot 
temper and did not chuckle over it, 
but Voltaire did, as we might ex- 
pect: his meanness would never per- 
mit another to enjoy anything in 
which he had no share. 

How pure, genuine and delicious 
are the witticisms of Sir Thomas 
More ! They have, too, a scholarly 
flavor which commends them at 
once to a refined taste, and a gra- 
ciousness which stamps them with 
spontaneity. His reply to Manners, 
who had lately been made Earl of 
Rutland, is inimitable and the very 
flower of felicitous retort. Sir 
Thomas had recently entered upon 
the office of Chancellor, and the 
Earl, accusing him of too much ela- 
tion over his new preferment, said: 
"Sir Chancellor, you verify the old 
proverb — ' { Honor es mutant mores,' ' 
to which More replied with charac- 
teristic urbanity, "No, my lord, the 
pun will do better in English — 
"Honors change manners" A hap- 
pier retort could not be imagined. 
On the day of his execution, seeing 
the insecurity of the steps to the 
scaffold, he showed his serenity of 
mind by his merry remark : "I pray 
you, master Lieutenant, see me safe 
up, and for my coming down I will 
shift for myself." 

Shaftesbury's" reply to Charles II. 
was most apt, and deserved the ap- 
proving laugh it won from his sov- 
ereign. "You are the greatest rogue 
in all England, Shaftesbury," said 
Charles. "Of a subject, I think I 
am," was the well-timed answer. 
And Charles was as fruitful in witty 
retorts as he was in expedients 
when pursued by Cromwell's sol- 
diers. The famous couplet which 
was written on his door by the Earl 
of Rochester, representing him as 
never having said a foolish thing 
and never having done a wise one, 



was well answered in the words: 
"No wonder ! my sayings are my 
own, — my doings are those of my 
ministers !" 

Sydney Smith's reputation as a 
wit and humourist is too well 
known to need comment here, and 
his sayings were reinforced by the 
sterling worth of his character, yet 
there was sometimes an over strain 
and pressure of constantly recurring 
wit, which probably elicited the 
criticism of Lord Brougham, that he 
was too much of a Jack-pudding! 
However, it cannot be gainsaid that 
he was a great exponent and ex- 
ample of English humour. 

But what a heritage of charming, 
healthy and healthful humour has 
Charles Lamb bequeathed to all 
English speaking peoples! How it 
sparkles with personality, how it 
beams with good' feeling and glows 
with sympathy and kindness ! How 
permeating and pervading, like the 
redolence of flower-beds, or the 
light and warmth of an open fire ! 

Thackery's humour has the charm 
of subtlety and pervasiveness : it 
seems to create an atmosphere, so 
to speak, in which his characters 
move and have their being, and un- 
like that of Lamb, has the bite of 
satire, although without its venom, 
and the whole world has inherited 
a treasure in the work of this great, 
if not the greatest of England's 

The humour of Dickens is by no 
means aphoristic, yet it is "sui 
generis," and although many critics 
characterize it as possessing the 
salient features of caricature, an ac- 
quaintance with the classes and per- 
sonalities he portrays offers convinc- 
ing testimony to his realism, not- 
withstanding the opinion of Mr. 
Howells. One who lives in London 
for any length of time, frequents its 

courts, and walks its streets, can 
hardly fail to recognize his charac- 
ters in individuals who look as if 
they had stepped out of his pages, 
so aptly do they embody his concep- 
tions, and it is a remarkable fact 
that very young persons — growing 
boys and girls — are captivated by 
the humour of this novelist and find 
his books irresistible. However 
valid the argument against the judg- 
ment of these juvenile readers, their 
predilection is strong proof of the 
naturalness of the author's humour. 
I cannot forget the fascination 
David Copperfield had for me when 
I was only thirteen, and as my moth- 
er permitted me to read only a cer- 
tain number of pages a day, the an- 
ticipation of the promised delight 
was my last thought at night and 
my first in the morning. I happened 
to see a lad of same age receive from 
a Public Library attendant, a copy 
of "Dombey and Son," with an un- 
mistakable tremor of happiness, as 
he exclaimed : "Oh, I was so afraid 
it might be out and I couldn't get 
it!" "Do you like to read Dickens?" 
I asked. ^ "Oh, I just love him," he 
answered, "he's so funny, he's im- 
mense!" Walter Scott is hardly 
read for his humour, yet whenever 
the Wizard of the North offers hu- 
mour to his readers, it is wholesome 
and palatable, and many of us be- 
lieve that both he and Dickens write 
very good stories and we enjoy 
them, and sometimes not without 
the vague suspicion that posterity 
may enjoy them when, perhaps, Mr. 
Howells shall have been forgotten. 
The utility of humour takes on 
another phase when it appears in 
the form of repartee : then it becomes 
a weapon of defence, and self-pro- 
tection is its justification, as has 
been seen in instances already given. 
Mrs. Grote's reply to Louis Na- 



poleon is unsurpassed in brevity or 
delicacy, yet its quality, like the 
famed blade of Damascus, pierced 
through the joints of the Emperor's 
armor. His Majesty had been well 
acquainted with the Grotes during 
his sojourn in England, while his 
fortune and his hopes were preca- 
rious, but when they visited Paris 
after his sudden elevation to the 
throne, he ignored them, which neg- 
lect the great historian and his wife 
thought unjustifiable. One evening 
he met Mrs. Grote at a general re- 
ception, and being obliged to recog- 
nize her, said coldly : "Do you stay 
long in Paris, Madam?" "No, do 
you?" was her withering reply, and 
the Emperor turned from cool to 
hot, if the redness of his face was 
any indication. As brilliant as had 
been his coup d'etat, the lady's 
shaft had gone home ! Perhaps he 
took comfort in the recollection of 
Sydney Smith's facetious remark, 
when, on one occasion, the English 
wit saw Mrs. Grote arrayed in a most 
astonishing head-gear : "Now, I un- 
derstand the meaning of the word 
grotesque!" So Dr. Emmon's re- 
ply to the infidel physician was 
elicited, and apt. The physician 
was boldly inveighing against all 
belief in the Old Testament, and 
especially against any faith in the 
story of Adam and Eve and the ac- 
count of the first transgression. "It 
is all stuff, not a word of truth in it. 
I was just as much in the garden of 
Eden as Adam and Eve were!" 
"Ah ! I always heard that there was 
a third party present, but I did not 
know it was you," quietly answered 
Dr. Emmons. 

The reply of a naval officer to 
Louis XIV. deserves special mention 
for its aptness, as well as readiness. 
He had persistently presented a pe- 
tition for promotion at every oppor- 

tunity, until one day the King, irri- 
tated by his frequent application,, 
turned from him and said in a low 
tone to a courtier standing near: 
"This man gives more trouble than 
any man in my army !" The officer 
overheard the remark, and with 
ready wit responded : "That, Sire r 
has been said more than once by 
Your Majesty's enemies!" 

When Theodore Hook, brought 
back from India to England on the 
charge of peculation, meeting a 
friend on the street in London who 
asked him why he had returned, 
answered : "Something wrong about 
the chest," it will be gained that 
he was far more witty than wise. 
The reply to the question, "Is life 
worth living?" — "That depends up- 
on the liver." — is surely the perfec- 
tion of readiness, as was the answer 
to a speaker in the House of Com- 
mons, who grandiloquently declared 
that England ought to put her foot 
down in several places at once, on 
the globe. "England is not a cen- 
tipede !" sternly answered a voice 
in the rear of the enthusiastic orator. 

The beggar's flattering speech to* 
Louis XIV. well merited the coin 
bestowed by the monarch: "Ton 
image est partout excepte dans ma 
poche" And not unfrequently, the 
very vagueness or indirectness, 
which is not generally a character- 
istic of wit or humour, becomes a 
source of both, — as when an English 
statesman said of the French people,. 
"They do not know what they want, 
and will never be satisfied until they 
get it," — or when Heine said, "It is 
curious that the three greatest ene- 
mies of Napoleon perished miser- 
ably; Castlereagh cut his throat, 
Louis XVIII. rotted on his throne, 
and Professor Saalfeld is still a pro- 
fessor at Gottingen !" Also, an in- 
ferential sarcasm, very kindly ut- 



tered by Prof. Silliman of Yale was 
not bad. There was a sort of merry 
war between him and one of his 
colleagues, who, passing Silliman's 
laboratory one day, heard him ply- 
ing a hammer rather vigorously, and 
opening the door suddenly, said : 
"Shoeing asses, are you?" "Yes, 
come in," answered Silliman with a 
significant smile. 

Douglas Jerrold's solemn negation 
affirmed much to the discerning 
mind : "There is no God, and Miss 
Martineau is his prophet." Those 
who are familiar with Harriet's va- 
garies as well as her virtues, will 
see a world of meaning in Jerrold's 
wit, and also in the sententious 
speech of the gentleman who went to 
a Positivist Club in London where 
the doctrine of Humanity was 
preached, only three or four being 
present. "Three persons and no 
God !" said he as he walked out of 
the club-room. In these instances, 
we have the soul of wit, — brevity — 
one blow only, but that is decisive. 

No form of wit or humour has 
been more criticised or depreciated 
than the pun, and Erskine's reply 
when he was told that a pun was the 
lowest form of wit, — "Yes, and 
therefore the foundation of all wit," 
— may be hardly considered logical, 
nor is it exactly consistent with 
fact, that only those persons de- 
spise puns who cannot make them, 
but it cannot be gainsaid that those 
who can make them seldom leave 
their ability unexercised, and how 
intolerant does patience itself be- 
come of the inveterate punster ! In 
these days of specialists, we are al- 
most tempted to wish that there 
might be special treatment for this 
monomania, yet a pun often justifies 
itself so handsomely that we can do 
nothing less than applaud it. The 
totality of time and place and per- 

son should be considered in this, as 
in every other form of wit or hu- 
mour. That a pun should be, as 
Lamb says, "begotten of the occa- 
sion," is absolutely essential to its 
respectability. The hunted and far- 
fetched pun shows a face so distort- 
ed and unattractive, that we will 
none of it. It is painful to dissent 
from any utterance of the inimitable 
Elia, but I cannot accept his dictum 
that the pun is as perfect and satis- 
factory as a sonnet. When, how- 
ever, he insists that it is not bound 
by the laws which limit nicer wit — 
that it is a pistol let off at the ear — 
an antic which does not stand upon 
manners, and does not show less 
comic for being dragged in some- 
times by the head and shoulders, I 
accept his pronouncement with the 
proviso that there be limitations to 
the distance of the dragging! 

The forcefulness, copiousness and 
variety of source which characterize 
the English language, render it a 
fruitful field for puns, and Sydney 
Smith, Archbishop Whately, Sheri- 
dan, Samuel Foote, Erskine, Jerrold 
and scorers of others have abundantly 
proven it. There can be no ques- 
tion of the spontaneousness of Jer- 
rold's puns, as when at the Vatican 
he saw an old Roman statue of Ju- 
piter which had been differentiated 
into a statue of the Apostle Peter, 
he exclaimed : "Oh, it is only Jew- 
Peter after all !" — nor of Archbishop 
Whately's, when he said upon the 
spur of the moment, "Yes, Noah's 
ark was made of gophir wood, but 
Joan of Arc was Maid of Orleans!" 

Queen Elizabeth had a keen sense 
of humour and made good puns, and 
England in the sixteenth, seven- 
teenth, eighteenth and nineteenth 
centuries, shows such an array of 
these arabesques of language, as to 
defy enumeration. In America, 



Franklin and John Randolph made 
notable puns, those of the latter 
often showing the rapier point and 
thrust of satire. In Congress, upon 
one occasion, Mr. Archer of Mary- 
land, whose name was on roll-call 
after that of Oakes Ames, voted by 
mistake and voted again at the call- 
ing of his own name, whereupon 
someone exclaimed : "Insatiate 
Archer would not one suffice?" — and 
Archer instantly replied : "A better 
archer would have had better aims !" 
So Americans are not likely to lose 
the spirit of their ancestors in pun- 

The parody has not the excuse of 
the pun, as it is the palpable evi- 
dence of malice propense, and amus- 
ing as it may be, is not so useful or 
admirable. It neither reproves nor 
corrects, except where it takes the 
form of burlesque which is broader 
and farther reaching in effect. Hip- 
ponax, a Greek comic poet of the 
sixteenth Olympiad, is said to have 
invented it and whatever may be 
said in its favor, it does not hit at 
one blow, and not unfrequently 
proves that the hand which cannot 
erect a hovel, may destroy a palace. 
Our papers and books abound with 
spurious humour, and, paradoxical 
as it may appear, this charge cannot 
be laid to the nonsense books which 
constitute a real contribution to the 
pleasure of nations. Ruskin pro- 
nounced Edward Lear's Book of 
Nonsense as most beneficent and 
innocent, and I confess I do not ad- 
mire the taste of the man who does 
not find the lyric, entitled "The Owl 
and The Pussy-Cat," delicious. The 
wisest men ought to relish such 
nonsense and I think they do, and 
Lord Chatham uttered the words of 
wisdom when he said: "Don't talk 
to me about sense. I want to know 
if a man can talk nonsense !" — and 
to be able to write delightful non- 

sense is a gift not to be despised by 
any who know Lear, Gilbert and 
Burnand, or have ever read "Non- 
sense Botany," which humourous 
production ought to cure the se- 
verest attack of the dismals. 

American humour lies chiefly in 
exaggeration, although Mrs. Part- 
ington's account of the "two buckles 
on her lungs," and her views of an 
"unscrupulous Providence," and 
willingness to attend divine service 
"anywhere the Gospel was dis- 
pensed with," possess a charm quite 
independent of this national charac- 
teristic, as does the narration given 
by Sam Patch of the "aqueous Em- 
pedocles who dived for sublimity." 
Some of the newspaper stories are 
not without a kind of humour, as 
for instance, the announcement that 
a woman attempted to kindle a fire 
by means of kerosene oil, and the. 
editor simply added, without com- 
ment, that the attendance upon the 
funeral would have been larger but 
for a wet day! Imagination, of 
course, supplied all the details, but 
much that is put forth as humour 
and wit in our current publications 
is a spurious article, and as Addison 
says, only resembles true humour 
as a monkey resembles a man. 

It has been said that French hu- 
mour is of the passions, German is 
abstract, Italian esthetic, and Span- 
ish romantic, while English humour 
is of interest and social relations, 
which general classification is doubt- 
less correct, like rules in grammar, 
with the usual number of excep- 
tions. The humour of the Briton is 
of such stout fibre that he is prone 
to think that other nations scarcely 
know how to be funny, and the 
Frenchman returns the compliment 
in coin of like value. I distinctly 
remember an accomplished French 
gentleman at Biarritz who laughed 
immoderatelv at what he called the 



stupidity of English jokes, and 
when I asked him if he did not 
think the English had a fine sense 
of humour, he answered with an 
eloquent shrug of the shoulders, 
which put an end to further interro- 
gation. Not three weeks afterward, 
in a pension in Lucerne, an English- 
man mentioned an incident and con- 
versation in which a German and 
Frenchman took part, and added his 
comment: "That is their absurd 
idea of humour!" The American 
hesitates not to speak of the Eng- 
lishman's density in apprehending 
a jest, and the Englishman declares 
that a Scotchman's skull requires 
trepanning to let in a joke, while 
the Irishman accepts nothing as 
real humour which has not the 
breadth and quality of his own. It 
happened during a sojourn in the 
moutains, that our landlord re- 
marked to us at breakfast, that he 
had been "much inconvenienced 
lately as to milk." I could but re- 
call the rule and example in Latin 
grammar concerning use of dative, 
and in our walk to the spring I 
laughed about the landlord's way of 
putting his embarrassment. A very 
sensible man in the party, having 
occasion to speak of me, subsequent- 
ly remarked with utmost serious- 
ness, "She seems an innocent kind 
of person, — how she laughed be- 
cause the landlord couldn't get 
milk, — there is nothing funny in 
that!" So true it is that a jest's 
prosperity lies in the ear of him who 
hears it ! But the most obdurate 
national prejudice will not deny the 
possession of both wit and humour 
of highest degree to the English, 
nor the wisdom and exquisite grace 
which constitute the charm of the 
best French wit. As a French phi- 
losopher says, "La pointe Francaise 
pique comme V aiguille pour {aire 

passer le fil" — and in gracious com- 
bination of sentiment and humour, 
French literature abounds, as when 
Sophie Arnauld says, in her sigh for 
lost youth : Les heureux jours ou 
fetais si malheureuse! " What a 
history in that one sentence ! 

The charm and vitality of Spanish 
humour will not be disputed by 
those who are familiar with the 
proverbs of the people. Don Quix- 
ote could hardly have been born 
of another nation, and Cervantes de- 
clares that his work would have 
been more humourous but for his 
fear of inquisitorial investigation. 
The most illustrious age of Italian 
literature is illustrious with humour, 
and the grave and reverend Floren- 
tine seigniors did not disdain the 
pastime of practical jokes, while 
the repartee of a Florentine was as 
celebrated as the song o f a Neapoli- 
tan or the art of the Venetian. The 
German may reach his joke by a 
more circuitous route than the 
Frenchman, but he arrives, and the 
pedantry of the Hollander in his 
most scholarly periods did not blind 
him tq__ the seductions of humour. 
Even the grimness of the Puritans 
sometimes relaxed, as in the pun, 
"Great praises to God and little 
Laud to the devil," — and, to quote 
Macaulay, although they frowned 
at stage-plays and amusements, 
they did smile at massacres ! So 
humour, l ; ke the sunlight, shines for 
all, and like the relief-corps in battle, 
offers comfort in disastrous emer- 
gency. It is said that when the 
English were repulsed by the Rus- 
sians at Redan, — driven helter-skel- 
ter into the trenches and falling 
over the wounded and dead, — they 
burst into roars of laughter at their 
own ridiculous plight. 

There are persons born without 
humour, as there are persons with- 



out sight or hearing, but, like Fal- 
staff, they are the cause of humour 
in others, as when the Scotchman 
and his wife discussed the doctrine 
of election: "And how many elect 
on earth now?" "I think, Janet, 
about a dizzen." "Hoot, mon, nae 
so many as that." "Why, Janet, do 
you think naebody to be saved but 
yoursel and the minister?" "Weel. 
I sometime hae my doots about the 
minister," — or, when the four 
Scotchmen and an Englishmen, sit- 
ting together in an Edinburg hos- 
telry, saw a son of Burns enter, and 
the Englishman remarked : "I would 
rather see the father enter this 
room," — and the Scotchman re- 
plied: "That is impossible, he is 
dead !" Certainly these examples 
might justify the keenest sa;ire of 
the old lexicographer. To balance 
on the other side, Coleridge tells of 
a man from Yorkshire, at a dinner- 
party, who sat dumb and unap- 
preciative amid a flow of humourous 
conversation, until a dish of apple- 
dumplings was brought in, when 
he laughed ecstatically and ex- 
claimed : "Oh, them's the jockeys for 
me !" Evidently the cat had found 
the mouse under the chair! 

Careful research on the part of 
antiquarians informs us that the 
printing of jest-books began a little 
over three hundred years ago, but 
the momentous undertaking of col- 
lecting jokes was first assumed in 
the early Christian years, by Hiero- 
cles, and he showed as the harvest 
of his arduous labors, only twenty- 
one jokes ' That is, a joke was made 
every two hundred and fifty years. 
A long interregnum, and recalls the 
famous telegram sent by the Gov- 
ernor of one of the United States 
to the Governor of another of the 
United States, that it was a long 
time between drinks! No doubt 

some of these jokes are doing duty 
still, and are fathered by many a 
foster-parent of the present day. 
The clever speech about the wine 
being small of its age, has been 
traced as far back as Haroun al 
Raschid — and we all know the 
gleam and subtlety of Arabian wit; 
again it glitters upon the tongue of 
a Greek philosopher — enlivens the 
feast of a Roman senator — is as- 
cribed to a dozen English wits, and 
claimed by men in every part of 
America ! Byron tells us of a man 
who had the same joint of meat 
every Sunday that he might pro- 
duce the same joke, which he did 
with unwavering fidelity, and it is 
safe to infer that the man of one 
joke is as much to be dreaded as 
the man of one book. 

Savages are greatly devoid of hu- 
mour, possessing little, if any sense 
of the incongruity or propriety of 
things. The stern necessities and 
rigorous demands of uncivilized life 
leave no room for humour, which is 
a fair flower of culture and civili- 
zation. The Veddahs of Ceylon are 
said by those who best know them, 
to be utterly incapable of appreciat- 
ing humour, and the cannibals of 
Africa smile only at the torture in- 
flicted upon their enemies. The 
Turk rarely laughs, and when he 
does, it is rather a sense of triumph 
over another, than of humour. Yet 
many of the Turkish proverbs are 
not wanting in wit, but the kindli- 
ness and sympathy of spontaneous 
laughter, as well as the depths of 
tenderness, are not the inheritance of 
Ottoman hearts. Joy and sorrow 
are strangely knit together and there 
is a mystical union between smiles 
and tears, and the wisdom of Solo- 
mon is verified by common ex- 
perience : "Even in laughter the 
heart is sorrowful." 



Yet without that laughter, what 
a Sahara of barrenness would life 
be! Upon its journey, refreshing 
wells of humour gladden and re- 
new the soul, and history and biog- 
raphy agree in the verdict that the 
capacity for gladness is but the other 
side of the capacity for pain, and 
they who sorrow most are they who 
laugh most heartily. A Scotch 
essayist, with discriminating judg- 
ment, says of the author of the 
Moslem religion, "Mahomet had 

that indispensable requisite of a 
great man, — he could laugh." The 
laugh of the author of In Memo- 
riam, was thrilling and triumphant, 
and he who sees no good in humour 
is least likely to perceive the true 
and the beautiful; nevertheless, 
while humour is unfettered by 
written canons, let us remember 
that it is for the outer courts of 
God's temples, nor should dare enter 
the Holy of Holies. 

A New Hampshire Log -Jam 

By Walter Deane 

IN the picturesque valley of the 
Androscoggin River, in the town 
of Shelburne, New Hampshire, 
nestled at the foot of a heavily- 
wooded ridge with a broad outlook 
over the wide-spreading intervale 
backed by the masses of Mount Mo- 
riah, stands the spacious house of 
the Philbrook Farm. Here we 
agreed to settle for rest and pleasure 
during the month of June when the 
early spring plants are still linger- 
ing and the resident birds are in 
full song. All our anticipations 
were fully realized. We were on 
old and familiar ground, but we had 
never been there earlier than the 
month of July. The beautiful Lin- 
naea borealis carpeted the woods, 
the noble Pileated Woodpecker, the 
wildest and grandest among its 
northern New England relatives, 
screamed as it flew over the high 
trees, the Banded Purple ( Basil archia 
arthemis) that exquisitely tinted 
White Mountain butterfly, flew past, 

displaying its snow-white bow as it 
sailed along, while in the meadow 
on a sunny day every stalk of the 
Golden Ragwort (Senecio Robbinsii) 
seemed to have, poised dainti- 
ly on the rich yellow flowers, the 
Mountain Silver-Spot (Argynnis 
atlaiitis)^ Bad weather, however 
prolonged, cannot entirely break up 
the attractions offered by these gifts 
of Nature, but on this particular 
month of June the fates seemed to 
vie with each other to render each 
day worse than the preceding. 
Dense smoke, the result of forest 
fires, followed by continual rains, 
gave us very few chances of seeing 
the genial sun, but there is a com- 
pensation in all things, and what we 
lost in one way, we gained in an- 
other, for we were treated to a won- 
derful spectacle which fair and 
sunny days would have denied us. 

The Androscoggin River is the 
highway along which float the logs 
that form the immense drives that 



every spring are sent down from 
the wooded regions along its upper 
sources. The second great drive 
was in progress when we reached 
Shelburne during the last week in 
May, and we loved to sit on the 
river bank or lean against the rail- 
ing of the bridge and watch the logs 
as they glided silently by either 
singly or in groups. It was with a 
feeling of sadness that my mind re- 


verted to the barren stretches 
in the valleys and on the 
mountain slopes, left by the 
woodsman's axe. It is more 
profitable, as far as immediate 
gain is concerned, to strip the 
forest of every tree rather 
than to leave the small ones. 
This I was told by one long 
used to lumbering in New 
Hampshire. As we gazed at these 
messengers from the northern woods, 
we were occasionally attracted by a 
fine large relic of primeval days, 
but as a rule the logs were not more 
than six inches to a foot and a quar- 
ter in diameter. They were cut in 
the neighborhood of Lake Umbagog, 
the source of the Androscoggin 
River, and were on their way to 

Rumford Falls on the same river in 
Maine, there to be ground to pulp 
for the manufacture of paper or cut 
into boards, in the immense mills 
of the International Paper Company, 
the Rumford Falls Paper Company, 
and the Dunton Lumber Company. 
Each log bears the private mark of 
the owner cut upon it, generally at 
each end, with an axe, so that they 
are readily separated into their re- 
spective booms when they 
reach their final destination. 
During early June every- 
thing proceeded quietly, most 
of the logs keeping on an even 
course down the stream. As 
always happens, many were 
stranded along the banks, 
owing either to some sharp 
turn in the river or to the fall 


of the water as the season advances. 
These are all removed later by the 
rivermen. On the night of June 12, 
however, without the slightest warn- 
ing, the river rose eight feet. It 
had been raining for a few days pre- 
viously, but no rise in the Andro- 
scoggin was perceptible. In fact 
long continued rains may produce 
but little effect on the river. The 



cause of this tremendous flood was 
doubtless due to a cloud burst in 
the valley of the Peabody River, a 
tributary of the Androscoggin and 
flowing into it a few miles above the 
center of Shelburne, and in the val- 
leys of the main streams near by. 
No rise was noticeable above the 
mouth of the Peabody River, but 
much damage was done to the 
bridges over that river. The effect 
of this accession of water was re- 
markable. By ten o'clock in the 
evening the wide intervale before 
our house was submerged, in some 
places to a depth of three feet, and 
though the waters receded very 
rapidly in the night, their effects 
were seen the next morning ,in the 
tell-tale logs quietly resting here 
and there over the broad meadow 
far from the river bed whither the 
floods had retreated. It was, how- 
ever, on the immense drive of logs 
in the river itself, that the storm had 
shown its power. In the hands of 
this mighty rush of water, the huge 
logs were but as jack straws in the 
hands of a child. They were tossed 
up on the river banks in wild dis- 
order and in places lay in great piles 
along the shore, or on the small 
islands. Immense log-jams were 
formed both at Shelburne Bridge 
and farther up stream, a short dis- 
tance below Lead Mine Bridge — ■ 
from which one obtains that view of 
the White Mountains that Starr 
King has rendered famous. At Shel- 
burne Bridge the logs were piled in 
gigantic confusion against two of 
the iron piers, extending several 
hundred feet up the stream, and in 
height reaching from the bed of the 
river to several feet, in some places, 
above the level of the bridge, mak- 
ing a total elevation of at least fif- 
teen feet. These are called "centre 
jams" and they were estimated to 


contain a million feet of lumber. 
It was here that we had our first 
experience in witnessing the excit- 
ing work of jam breaking. On the 
very morning following the storm 
we found a gang of rivermen hard 
at work. They are a set of noble 
fellows full of brawn, muscle and 
courage, and always excelling in 
courtesy as we experienced on many 
occasions. Each man was armed 
with his cant-dog, consisting of a 
stout maple handle furnished with a 
square iron point. A piece of curved 
iron or "dog," as it is called, with a 
sharp point at one end, is hinged to 
the iron base of the handle. The ef- 
ficiency of this weapon in the skilled 
hands of a riverman is marvellous. 
The huge logs are "canted," that is, 
pushed, pulled, rolled forward 
or backward, or pried out from un- 
der overlying masses, and I saw one 
man work a small log up perpen- 
dicularly from the jam by a sort of 
twisting process with his cant-dog. 
The extraction of this log caused the 
easier removal of others adjoining. 
Indeed, it was astonishing to note 
how quickly the men attacked the 
important or "key" log on every oc- 
casion. Of course where the jam 
rests heavily on the river bottom, 
it cannot be broken up by the re- 
moval of any one log. 




As the men urged on their mighty 
efforts, the logs rolled into the water 
one after another and at times a 
large section of the jam would 
"haul" or settle, often with the men 
on it, and frequently they were 
carried down stream on the floating- 
mass. Then the batteau would fol- 
low and take them back. The bat- 
teau is a large, long-pointed dory 
worked by two rivermen with oars, 
paddles or pick-poles as the occa- 
sion requires. The pick-pole is a 
long pole furnished with a square 
iron point. This square point, both 
in the cant-dog and the pick-pole, 
enables one to thrust it into a log 
and then pull hard without releas- 
ing the weapon. A slight twist in 
either case readily frees it. As in all 
things, there is a knack in doing 
this. The batteau is a very im- 
portant adjunct to the work of a 
riverman, especially when the water 

is swift and deep and there are falls 
in the vicinity. Often the axe must 
be used wheie a refractory log re- 
fuses to budge and yet must be re- 
moved, and here again it was a 
pleasure to see the axe wielded in 
the hands of one who had used it 
from boyhood and never missed his 

Another point upon which the 
rivermen pride themselves is their 
firm footing on the unstable founda- 
tion that they work upon. This is 
acquired by long practice and the 
use of heavily calked boots, the 
sharp spikes furnishing a ready hold. 
The boots are hand-made and are 
sold to the men by the companies 
employing them. Clad in these 
they run about with perfect ease 
over wet, floating logs that are often 
too small to bear them up, but they 
step nimbly from one sinking log 
to another and rarely make a misstep, 
Their skill in riding a single log is 




very great and it was a beautiful 
sight to see a man standing erect as 
a statue on a log as it sped down 
the current. These calked boots, 
with the cant-dog, pick-pole and 
axe, constitute the working outfit of 
a riverman. 

After breaking up one of the cen- 
ter jams and a portion of the other, 
a work which took but little more 
than two days, the men were sent 
back up stream nearer the end of 
the drive where there was more 
pressing need. A single riverman, 
Larry (Lawrence) Howard by 
name, was left to watch the bridge 
and report any fresh accumulation 
of logs. He was a Canadian by 
birth and in every way a typical 
riverman, strong, active and well-in- 
formed on the leading questions of 
the day. I had many interesting 
talks with him and he took me over 
the jam and the floating logs. The 
drive consisted of the following 
species: — Pine ( Pinus St rob us) 
which is classified as Pine and Past- 
ure Pine ; the former, the typical 
tree of the woods with long, straight 
branchless trunk; the latter, the 
scrubby pasture form, branching 
low down and hence much inferior 
in quality ; Spruce {Picea rubra), the 
timber spruce of the New England 
mountains; Fir {Abies balsamea)\ 
Hemlock ( Tsuga canadensis) with 
the bark always removed; Cedar or 
Arbor Vitae ( Thuya occidentalis ) ; 
Poplar or "Pople" {Populns grandi- 
de?itata) with the bark removed as 
in the case of the Hemlock. The 
bulk of the logs consisted of Spruce 
and "Pople." 

The jam below Lead Mine Bridge 
a few miles up the river, was very 
extensive. At this point there are 
three islands lying at intervals 
across the river and making four 
channels. Three of these channels 

were "plugged" or completely closed 
by an unbroken mass of logs that 
extended far and wide in every di- 
rection. It reminded one of Kip- 

"Do you know the blackened timber? Do 

you know that racing stream, 
With the raw right-angled log-jam at the 

end ?" 

We walked over the logs with per- 
fect freedom, enjoying this new ex- 
perience, and drew close to the men 
at work. Here was the greatest ac- 
tivity. It was the rear of the drive 
when we visited it and all the men 
to the number of fifty-five were con- 
centrated at this point. The pictur- 


esqueness of the scene was greatly 
enhanced by the addition of eight 
pairs of horses that were employed 
in the shallow water in pulling out 
logs where there w r as little or no 
current, and we often saw them 
working up to their middle, a driver 
on the back of one of each pair. 
Chains attached to the horses are 
furnished at the ends with iron dogs 
which are driven into the floating 
logs by a few strokes of a mallet. A 
single blow of a cant-dog on a 
raised projection of the dog readily 
releases it. 

The great jam melted away visi- 
bly as we watched. There was al- 
most no noise, the men needed their 



strength for their work, and at it 
they went tooth and nail, gathered 
in groups here and there, many of 
them up to their knees in water, a 
boss superintending the whole. In 
no undertaking is perfect unanimity 
of action more important, and it was 
truly thrilling to see a row of men 
drive their cant-dogs into a giant 
log with a precision almost military 
and send it tumbling down into the 
water. It is a life of continual ex- 

at two o'clock. These are taken to 
the men if they are at a distance 
from the wangan, or camp, that no 
time may be wasted. At seven 
o'clock they stop work and walk 
back to headquarters which, on one 
occasion during our visit in Shel- 
burne, were three miles off. Here 
they enjoy a hearty supper and a 
long rest. If any man earns his two 
dollars a day, food and lodging, it 
is a riverman. They work hard, 


citement and the dangers attending 
it are not few. Still such is the skill 
of the men, and they are ever so on 
the alert, that I heard of no accident 
during our visit. 

The working hours of these river- 
men, which include Sundays as well 
as week days, would stagger the 
city workman. Rising at half past 
four in the morning they wash, 
dress, eat a hurried breakfast and 
are off to their labors by five o'clock. 
Lunch is served at ten and dinner 

eat heartily of the best of food, and 
sleep soundly. One fellow, a strong, 
muscular specimen, told me that he 
had worked consecutively, Sundays 
included, for sixty-five days, and had 
been wet above his knees during 
almost the whole time, and yet was 
in perfect physical condition. They 
often do not stop even to dry them- 
selves before turning in at night. 
One man informed me that on the 
evening before, as he was returning 
to camp, he slipped into the water 



"all over," but went to bed just as he 
was, slept hard and woke up "steam- 

The wangan, as the camp is al- 
ways called, is moved along from 
time to time to keep pace with the 
men. On the occasion of our visit, 
it lay in a lovely stretch of meadow 
close by the cool waters of the river. 
Four sleeping tents extended in a 
row near the water. Within each 
tent on either side for its entire 
length, stretched a long heavy blank- 
et lying on the fresh meadow grass, 
each sleeper's place being desig- 
nated by a large number on the can- 
vas of the tent. These blankets were 
broad enough to wrap over the men, 
thus making, as it were," a huge 
sleeping-bag in which twelve men 
could pass the night in well-earned 
slumber. A cook tent contained the 
provisions, large dishes of tempting 
hot custard, bread, hot biscuits, bar- 
rels of crackers, cakes and dough- 
nuts, and meats of various kinds. 
I saw a loaf of gingerbread three 
feet long. The fact that Charlie 
Tidswell, well known to Maine 

campers, presided over the cooking, 
was sufficient guarantee for its 
quality. A large vessel was steam- 
ing over an open fire near the cook 
tent and we saw the cook bury a 
large pot of beans in a hole in the 
ground and cover it over with hot 
embers and burning sticks that had 
been keeping the place warm for its 
reception. A long table protected 
by a canvas covering was used to 
serve the meals upon and near by 
stood a horse and wagon ready to 
take the lunch and dinner to the 

One cannot but admire the en- 
durance and courage of these hardy 
men whom no dangers can daunt. 
Many of them spend the entire win- 
ter in the woods, chopping down 
trees for the spring drives and, be- 
fore the ice has" left the rivers, are 
at work in the chilling water driv- 
ing the logs down stream. I con- 
sider it a great privilege to have been 
in Shelburne last June and to have 
seen the noble work performed in 
river driving by the bold and pictur- 
esque rivermen. 

Colonial School Books 

By Clifton Johnson 

THE text-book equipment in 
our schools during the seven- 
teenth and eighteenth centuries 
was exceedingly meager. Until 
toward the end of the Colonial 
period the average schoolboy had 
only a catechism or primer, a 
Psalter, a Testament, and a Bible. 
For Latin students this list would 
have to be extended, but ordinarily 
it comprised all the boy ever used 
as long as he attended school. Still, 
scattered copies were possessed of 
the text-books put forth in England, 
and these were not without in- 
fluence on the schools and on the 
attainments of the pupils. The more 
popular ones began to be reprinted 
here about the middle of the eight- 
eenth century, but most of them 
were imported. 

Prior to the Revolution, text- 
books by American authors were 
very few. Indeed, I believe there 
were none at all save for a little 
Latin book by Ezekiel Cheever. 
Cheever was one of the most notable 
of the early schoolmasters. He 
taught in New Haven and some 
smaller places, but for the last thirty- 
eight years of his life was master 
of the Boston Latin School. He 
died at his post in 1708 at the age 
of ninety-four after having given 
seventy years of continuous service 
to the New England schools. Full 
to the brim with Puritan theology 
he wrote a book called The Scriptur- 
al Prophesies Explained, and he was 
unflagging in earnest endeavors to 

help his boys to become Christian 
men. The text-book of his author- 
ship to which I referred was A Short 
Introduction to the Latin Tongue, 
generally known as "Cheever's Acci- 
dence." It enjoyed for over a cen- 
tury immense popularity. The first 
edition appeared in 1645 an d the 
book was republished as late as 1838. 

In the grammar schools Cheever's 
was usually the first Latin book, 
and after the boys had worked 
their way through that they plunged 
into the dreary wilderness of "Lily's 
Grammar" with its twenty-five 
kinds of nouns, its seven genders 
and other things in proportion — 
all to be wearisomely committed to 
memory. The purgatory of this 
grammar was early recognized, and 
Cotton Mather said of it, "Persist- 
ing in the use of Lily's book will 
prolong the reign of the ferule." 
The only copies I have seen have 
been revisions of the original, yet 
the one I own, dated 1766, states 
that the unrevised is still printed 
and for sale. The author of the 
work died in 1523, and one would 
think that in the two centuries and 
a half since the book first appeared, 
it would have been supplanted 

A more attractive book to the 
Latin boys was John Amos Come- 
nius's Visible World, which was 
published in 1658. Aside from ABC 
primers this was the first illustrated 
school book ever printed. Come- 




nius, born in 1592, was a 
Moravian bishop and the 
most distinguished educa- 
tional reformer of his time. 
He wrote a number of 
books but the one that at- 
tained the widest circula- 
tion was this "Visible 
World : or a Nomenclature, 
and Pictures of the chief 
things that are in the 
World, and of Men's Em- 
ployments therein ; in about 
an 150 Copper Cuts." 
Every subject treated had 
its picture and below the 
engraving was a medley of 
explanatory little sentences 
in two columns, one col- 
umn in Latin, the other in 
English. By such means 
the pupil was supposed to 
not only learn Latin, but 
to absorb a large amount 
of general knowledge con- 
cerning the industries and 
other "chief things that are 
in the World." It was a 
crude effort to interest the 
child and was encyclopedic, 
dry and verbal, having 
more the character of an il- 
lustrated dictionary than a 
child's reading book; yet 
for one hundred years this 
was the most popular text- 
book in Europe, and it was trans- 
lated into fourteen languages. 
Of the elementary Latin books 
in vogue during the later Colonial 
days Bailey's English and Latin 
Exercises for School-Boys furnishes 
a fair sample. It was made up sand- 
wich fashion from cover to cover 
with alternating paragraphs of Eng- 
lish and Latin, one a translation of 
the other. Some of the material 
would hardly find place in a school 
book of today, as for instance : 

The Barbers Shop. LXXV. Tonftrina. 

The Barber, 1. 

h the Barbers- fhop, 2. 

cutteth off the Hair 

and the Beard 

with a pair of Sizzars, 3. 

or jbaveth with a Razor, 

which he ta\eth out of hti 

Cafe, 4. 

And he waflxth one 
over a Bafon, 5. 
with Suds running 
out of a Laver, 6. 
andalfo with Sppe, 7. 
andwipeth him 
with a Towel, 8. 
combe th him with a Comb, 9. 
and curleth him 
with a Crifping Iron, io. 

Sometimes he cutteth a. Vein 
with a Pen-knife, 11. 
where theBhodfpirteth ouS 3 i2. 

Ton/or, 1. 
in Tonflrina, 2* 
tondet Crines 
& Barbam 
Forcipc, 3. 
vel radic Novaculb, 
quam e Theca, 4* depromit. 

Ec Iavac 
fuper Ptlvim, $. 
Lixivio defluence 
e Gutturnio, 6, 
uc & Sapone, 7. 
& tergit 
Linteo 9 8. 

pe&ic Pe8'me % 9. 
CalamiflrOy 10. 

Interdum Venam fecae 
Scalpello, 11. 

ubi Sanguis propullulat, 12. 

A page from Comenius's Visible World 

Joan is a nasty Girl. 

Ugly Witches are said to have been 
black cats. 

The Report of the great Portion of an 
unmarried Virgin is oftentimes the Sound 
of a great Lye. 

Greedy Gluttons buy many dainty Bits 
for their ungodly Guts. 

Children drink Brimstone and Milk for 
the Itch. 

If we should compare the Number of 
good and virtuous Persons to the Multitude 
of the Wicked, it would be but very small. 

Other Latin books in common use 
were The Colloquies of Corderius, 






Teaching all his Scholars , of what 

age foever, the mod eafy, (hort, and perfeft or- 
der of diftin& Reading, and true Writing our 
Englifh-tongut 5 ihat hath ever yet been 
known or publifhed bvany. 

Portion of a title-page of a school book first published in 1596 

Aesop and Eutropius ; and as the 
boys grew older they took up 
Caesar, Ovid, Virgil and Cicero. In 
Greek they had the grammar, the 
Testament and Homer, Thus they 
fitted themselves for the University, 
which made very exacting require- 
ments in the dead languages, but 
paid little attention to the progress 
its prospective students had made 
in science, mathematics or anything 

The beginner's book in the Colo- 
nial schools was nearly always The 
New England Primer, 
that queer little volume 
wherein the imparting of 
the rudiments of knowl- 
edge went hand in hand 
with religious and theo- 
logical instruction. 
Millions of these primers 
were sold and no book, 
save the Bible, was read 
and studied so assiduous- 


The earliest spelling 
book was a thin quarto of 
seventy-two pages en- 
titled The English School- 
Master by Edward Coote. 
It was first published in 

1596 and it con- 
tinued to be ex- 
popular for over 
a century. Ac- 
cording to the 
title-page "he 
which hath this 
Book only, need- 
eth to buy no 
other to make 
him fit from his 
Letters to the 
School or for an 
Besides spelling 
it contained arithmetic, history, 
writing lessons, prayers, psalms, and 
a short catechism, and to add to the 
intricacy much of the text was 
printed in old English black letter. 
Another ancestral speller was 
England's Perfect School-Master : 
By Nathaniel Strong, London, 1676, 
of which the author says in his 


I have sorted all the words I could think 
of, and ranked them in particular Tables ; 
with Rules to spell them by. By this Book 
a Lad may be taught to read a Chapter 

From The History of Genesis, 170S 

noah's ark 



From The London Spelling-Bool-, \-jio 


perfectly in the Bible in a quarter of a 
years time. I have likewise added unto 
this Book certain other necessary Instruc- 
tions, and useful Varieties, as well for 
writers as Readers. The whole I crave 
God's Blessing upon. 

One curious department, covering 
fifteen pages, consists of "Some Ob- 
servations of Words that are alike 
in Sound, yet of different significa- 
tion and spelling." Their use and 
meaning are indicated thus : 

T Saw one sent unto the Hill's ascent, 
■*■ Who did assent to me before he went. 
Above thy reach a S^tV^-steeple stands, 
Aspire not high, thou Spyer out of 

The final paragraph in the book 
is an "Advertisement" in which the 
author says he has a school "where 

Youth may be fitted for the Uni- 
versity: Also taught to write all 
manner of Fair Hands, with Arith- 
metick : Likewise Boarded with a 
great conveniency. My encourage- 
ment when I am being as yet but 
small ; If any Person can advise to 
any Place or Parish wanting a 
School-master ; upon assurance of a 
competent livelihood, I shall soon 
quit my present Concerns, and 
readily accept it." 

A text-book with an individuality 
all its own was The History of 
Genesis published in 1708. It was 
made up of short narratives retold 
from the first book of the Bible and 

From The London Spelling -Book, 1710 





Child's Wee\$-voor\ : 

O R, 

A Little Book, 

So nicely Suited to the 

<&mtm ano Capacity 


Both for 

Matter and Method, 

That it will infallibly Allure and Lead 
him on into a Way of 


With all the fiafe and Expedi- 
tion that can bedefired. 



Printed for G.Conyers and J. Rtchzrdfin, 
in Lhtle Britain. 1712. 

title-page of an early school book 
(reduced one-third) 

its attraction was enhanced by nu- 
merous illustrations. Its purpose can 
best be shown by an ex- 
tract from the Preface. 

This book of Genesis is just- 
ly stiled the Epitome of all 
Divinity. It is indeed a great 
Blessing of God, That Child- 
ren in England have liberty to 
read the holy Scriptures, when 
others abroad are denied it. 
And yet alas ! how often do 
we see Parents prefer Tom 
Thumb, Guy of Warwick, or 
some such foolish Book, be- 
fore the Book of Life ! Let 
not your Children read these 
vain Books, profain Ballads, 
and filthy Songs. Throw away 
all fond and amorous Ro- 
mances, and fabulous His- 
tories of Giants, the bombast 
Atchievements of Knight Er- 
rantry, and the like; for these 

fill the Heads of Children with vain, silly 
and idle Imaginations. 

The Publisher therefore of this History 
of Genesis, being sensible how useful a 
Work of this Nature might be for Schools, 
hopes it will meet with a general Accept- 

Somewhat allied to the above in 
its distinctly religious character was 
"The Protestant Tutor, Instructing 
Youth and Others, in the compleat 
method of Spelling, Reading, and 
Writing, True English : Also discov- 
ering to them the Notorious Errors, 
Damnable Doctrines, and cruel Mas- 
sacres of the bloody Papists, which 
England may expect from a Popish 
SUCCESSOR. Printed by and for 
Tho. Norris, and sold at the Look- 
ing-glass on London-bridge." The 
title-page from which I have quoted 
is dated 1715 but I have seen earlier 
copies and the book apparently had 
a considerable circulation. The les- 
sons included the alphabet, a few 
pages of spelling-words and easy 
reading lessons, but mostly were 
made up of rabid anti-Catholic 
matter illustrated with dreadful pic- 
tures of persecutions and of heaven, 


A bird in the hand is worth two in the bufh. 
Fable XU. Of the Fijherman and the Fijh. 

From Dilworth's Speller 



hell, death and the judg- 

Perhaps the most enter- 
taining of the early elemen- 
tary books was The Child's 
Weeks-work, 1712, a com- 
pilation of lessons for each 
day of four weeks. Among 
other things there were 
proverbs, fables, a section 
devoted to "Behavior," and 
"A short Catechism fitted 
for the use of Children after 
they have said their 
Prayers." But the oddest 
feature was the insertion 
here and there of conun- 
drums and anecdotes, such 
as — 

Quest. What's that which is higher 
sitting than standing. 
Answ. It is a Dog. 

Quest. A long Tail, a Tongue and a 
Full fifty feet above the Ground, 
'Tis heard both East, West, North and 
A Mile or two all round. 
Answ. It is a Bell in a Steeple. 
Quest. I never spoke but once. 
Answ. It is Balaam s Ass. 

From Femiing's Speller 

From Fenning's Speller, 1755 



A Countryman being prest for a Soldier, 
**■ was engaged in a Fight, and at his 
return was ask'd, what Manly Acts he had 
done, he answer'd, he had cut off one of the 
Enemy's Legs. Oh ! said the other, you 
had done much more like a stout Man, if 
you had cut off his Head: Oh ! said he, that 
was off before. 

Of the books I have noted, only 
infrequent copies wandered to our 
shores and this continued to be the 
case until after the publication of 
Dilworth's A New Guide to the Eng- 
lish Tongue in 1740. This 
was the most popular speller 
of the eighteenth century. 
A portrait of Dilworth, with 
a scholastic cap on his head 
and a pen in his hand, served 
for a frontispiece ; and in 
truth, as the greatest school 
book author of his time, he 
was not unworthy of the 
honor. The spelling words 
were interspersed with much 
religious reading and dismal 
moralizing, but as an offset 
to the matter there was "a 
Select Number of Fables 
adorned with proper 
Sculptures." One of these 
rude "sculptures" is here re- 



produced. It was accompanied by 
the following story : 

A Fisherman having cast his line into 
the water presently drew up a Fish. 
The little captive intreated the fisherman 
that he would spare her (she being but 
small) till she was grown larger; and 
then she would suffer herself to be taken 
by him again. 

No, no, replied the fisherman, I am not 
to be so served. If I let you go, I must 

Frontispiece to a speller entitled The British 
Instructor, London, 1763 

never see you any more : I was always of 
that temper that whatever I could catch I 
had rather take it away than leave it be- 
hind me. 


Never let go a certainty for an un- 

The only speller to seriously rival 
Dilworth's in circulation during the 
remainder of the Colonial period, 
was Fenning's published in 1755. 
Besides "Tables of words" this con- 
tained "Lessons both moral and di- 
vine, Fables and 'pleasant Stories, 
and a very easy and approved Guide 
to English Grammar." There was 
also some minor material including 
a chronology of "the most remark- 
able Occurences in sacred and pro- 
fane History," that had in it items 
like — 

The Creation of the World B. C. 4047 

Noah's Flood 2350 

Walls of Jericho fell down 1454 

Eleven Days Successive Snow...A.D. 1674 

A very great Comet 1680 

A terrible high Wind, November 

26 1703 

The surprising Meteor and Signs 

in the Air 1719 

Here is one of the "pleasant 
Stories." It is related with a naive 
picturesqueness that makes it well 
worth reprinting in full. 

THERE were several boys that used to 
go into the Water, instead of being 
at school ; and they sometimes staid so long 
that they used to frighten their Parents 
very much ; and though they were told of 
it Time after Time, yet they would fre- 
quently go to wash themselves. One Day 
four of* them, Smith, Brown, Jones and 
Robinson, took it into their Heads to play 
Truant, and go into the Water. They had 
not been in long before Smith was 
drowned: Brown's Father followed him, 
and lashed him heartily while he was naked ; 
and Jones and Robinson ran Home half 
dressed, which plainly told where they had 
been. However, they were both sent to 
Bed without any supper, and told very 
plainly, that they should be well corrected 
at School next Day. 

By this time the news of Smith's being 
drowned, had reached their Master's Ear, 
and he came to know the Truth of it and 
found Smith's Father and Mother in Tears, 
for the Loss of him; to whom he gave 
very good Advice, took his friendly Leave, 
and went to see what was become of Brown, 
Jones and Robinson, who all hung down 



GEORGE III. by the Grace of 
GOD, of Great-Britain, 
France and Ireland, King, 
Defender of the Faith. 

their Heads upon seeing their 
Master ; but more so, when 
their Parents desired that he 
would correct them the next 
Day, which he promised he 
would ; though, says he, (by 
the bye) it is rather your 
Duty to do it than mine, for 
I cannot answer for Things 
done out of the School. 

Do you, therefore, take Care 
to keep your Children in Order 
at Home, and depend on it, 
says the Master, I will keep 
them in Awe of me at School : 
But, says he, as they have been 
naughty disobedient Boys, and 
might indeed have lost their 
Lives, I will certainly chas- 
tise them. 

Next Day, Brown, Jones 
and Robinson were sent to 
School, and in a short Time 
were called up to their Master ; 
and he first began with 
Brozvn — Pray, young Gentle- 
man, says he, what is the 
Reason you go into the Water 
without the Consent of your 
Parents ? — I won't do so any 
more, says Brozvn. — That is 
nothing at all, says the Master, 
I cannot trust you. Pray can 
you swim? — No, Sir-, says 
Brown. — Not swim, do you 
say ! why you might have been 
drowned as well as Smith.— 
Take him up says the Mas- 
ter. — So he was taken up and 
well whipped. 

Well, says he to Jones, can «_^ 

you swim?-A little, sir, said Does iome exalted Virtue inine ; 

he. — A little! why you were ., , ._ . r 

in more danger than Brown, AlKl AlblOfl S HaDDinelS We traCe, 

and might have been drowned A1 , 

had you ventured much I a every Feature of his Face* 

farther. — Take him up, says he. ' 

Now Robinson could swim Frontispiece to Watts' Speller, 1770 

very well, and thought as 
Brown and Jones were whipped because 
they could not swim, that he would es- 
cape.— W T ell, Robinson, says the Master, 
can you swim? — Yes, Sir, says he, (very 
boldly) any where over the River.— Pray, 
Sir, says his Master, what Business had 
you in the Water, when you should have 
been at School ? — Take him up, says he ; so 
they were all severely corrected for their 
Disobedience and Folly. 

In ev'ry Stroke, in ev'ry Line, 

In the miscellany of the latter part 
of the book are directions for mak- 
ing ink that are quite suggestive of 
the primitive conditions of the times. 
There is a recipe for red ink as well 
as black, which reads 

HTAKE half a Pint of Water, and put 
■*■ therein Half an Ounce of Gum 

Senega ; let this dissolve in a Gallipot, and 



J-Je t^x more of I'.xaUact would know, \ 
0»th:< thv J'GOtv !<-i him fcn r ) ! ci'ght.' bcttow. j 
Dre? Qi,«ikn<. in ^ « IT H M E 1 1C A' here are i 
Dtwosfixated by RCjLESfa FIam, v fo ^utJjk 
jfiWy it Self rrtuft reedr. eofcicfc \\w. much, :>. " 
ited ail the 2?m4< i'th' World, ycu'il imd N«8«|, 


HO 2) 2) £ it's 



Made Moft -Eafie ; 

Being explain'd in a way familiar, 
to tihe Capacity of any that cte-j 
fire to- learn it in a litsh Time\ 

By Vf 

•/«ab\ Writinx-Mafter. 

Wc^ebeti ant> Ctscntfet!} €Wt*88» ff*-l 

nwjW, Angm'.nttd, and Him* a Jh-fi'^', 
Faults Jmndid, 

By William Hume, Philomath* 


Printed for 2). MMiumter, J Bertehmrtk, s»K 

P. Knafiien, T. Ungman, C. BathurjU » 

Frontispiece and Titie-page of an early Arithmetic. (Reduced one-half.) 

tic, and when a 
master chanced to 
own a copy, most 
of it was likely to 
be quite incompre- 
hensible to the 
average pupil. 
One of the earliest 
to attain favor was 
Cocker's Arithme- 
tick: "Being a 
Plain and familiar 
Method, suitable to 
the meanest Ca- 
pacity, for the un- 
derstanding of that 
incomparable Art." 
It was first printed 
in 1677. Later 
came Hodder's, 
and in 1743 The 

then add one Pennyworth of the best Ver- 
milion, stirring it well for two Days. 

That stirring for two days makes 
it sound like a weary process. In 
some books the ink recipes were sup- 
plemented by a paragraph like this : 

TN hard frosty Weather, Ink will be apt 
•*■ to freeze ; which if it once doth, it will 
be good for nothing; it takes away all, its 
Blackness and Beauty. To prevent which 
put a few Drops of Brandy into it, and it 
will not freeze. And to hinder its mould- 
ing put a little salt therein. 

The teachers usually taught arith- 
metic without text-books. They 
gave out to their scholars rules and 
problems from manuscript sum- 
books which the schoolmasters had 
themselves made under their teach- 
ers. It was such a sum-book that the 
boy Abraham Lincoln copied while 
he was learning arithmetic ; for even 
at that date the old method of teach- 
ing without a text-book survived 
here and there. Many scholars in 
the seventeenth and eighteenth cen- 
turies never saw a printed arithme- 

Frontispiece to The Sch 
(Reduced one-third. j 

ter's Assistant. 



School-master's Assistant by Thom- 
as Dilworth. Dilworth's book was 
still in use to some extent at the be- 
ginning of the last century. One can 
judge from the fact that it makes no 
allusion to decimal currency it 
could not by then have been very 
well adapted to American require- 

The ordinary binding of all these 
Colonial school books was full 
leather, even when the books were 
small and thin. Illustrations were 
used sparingly, and the drawing and 
engraving were very crude. The 
volumes of English manufacture 
were mostly well printed on good 

paper; but the American editions 
were quite inferior and they con- 
tinued to make a poor appearance 
as compared with the trans-Atlantic 
books until after the middle of the 
nineteenth century. The most 
marked typographical contrasts to 
the present that one observes are 
the use of the long s that looks like 
an f, and the insertion beneath the 
final line of each page of the first 
word of the page following. The 
catch words and long s were em- 
ployed up to 1800, but within the 
first decade of the new century they 
were entirely abandoned. 

Neighborhood Sketches 

By Henry A. Shute 



One may well understand that a 
subject of this kind is one that cannot 
be lightly dealt with, and we are all 
well aware that a phenomenal amount 
of circumspection must be used by us 
in depicting any of the eccentricities 
of our fair neighbors, if we are to re- 
tain them as friends, or retain our 
position upon their calling lists. 

And yet we have so deep an admira- 
tion for them, for their cheerful good 
nature, their engaging qualities of 
mind and heart, the many neighborly 
acts of kindness which we with others 
have repeatedly experienced, that we 
cannot for a moment believe that thev 

will be less kind in their reception of 
this friendly criticism. 

Having thus made our apology in 
advance and invoked the aid of the 
gods, we proceed to our task with the 
belief that, while our reputation may 
suffer as the result of this paper, our 
life will indeed be safe. 

One would scarcely believe from 
seeing their cheerful faces, at church, 
on the street, at places of entertain- 
ment, always bright, animated, smil- 
ing, energetic, to see them so becom- 
ingly gowned and tastefully gloved, 
or to see them in their homes, courte- 
ous, hospitable and frank, that they 
were the most abused, most tried, 
most neglected and most care-bur- 
dened matrons in existence. 



We would not have believed it our- 
self, but that an accident put us in 
possession of facts that astonished 
and grieved us almost beyond the 
powers of expression. In fact, this 
is the first time we have expressed 
ourselves upon the subject, having 
since that time borne alone the bur- 
den of our individual unworthiness. 


It happens that the ladies of the 
neighborhood occasionally of an after- 
noon invite their friends to certain 
little functions at which tea flows like 
water and neighborly exchange of 
ideas takes place. These functions are 
somewhat informal, unlike the bona 
fide afternoon teas of the great, but 
limited affairs, where the callers are 
supposed to bring some sort of sew- 
ing or fancy work, and to spend the 
afternoon, either on the lawn or in 
the living room, according to the 
weather or the season, and there ex- 
change family receipts and individual 

Great and lasting good comes from 
these informal meetings. Our neigh- 
bors become better acquainted with 
one another, the most approved and 
newest methods of managing family 
affairs are exploited, as well as the 
various systems of training children 
to honor their fathers and mothers, 
and have what children have never 
since the origin of man been known to 
have, respect for all other persons. 

In this way the bonds of friendship 
have become knitted more firmly and 
family discipline has been brought to 
a high state of perfection. 

Our experience above mentioned 
was gained one pleasant afternoon in 
the fall. Our wife had bidden several 

of the ladies of the neighborhood to 
make her home their own for the 
afternoon, and the entire quota of 
married and unmarried women had 
assembled on the lawn in the shadow 
of the house, working and chatting as 
only women can work and chat. 

It happened that day that we had 
been confined to the house with a 
severe cold and a headache, caused, as 
we alleged, by our unwearying indus- 
try and application, which claim, how- 
ever, was not regarded as genuine by 
the hostess. 

Well, never mind that, suffice it to 
say, that we were comfortably sick, 
and uncomfortably restless and un- 
easy. It was due to this restlessness 
that we did what no self-respecting 
person would have done, that is, we 
took a comfortable seat by a shaded 
window overlooking the company, 
and screened from observation by the 
dense growth of a clematis vine, pre- 
pared to get as much entertainment 
out of the proceedings as possible. 


The subject for discussion was the 
cares and worries with which the ma- 
jority of the company were burdened, 
with particular reference to the do- 
mestic traits of the male members of 
the various households represented. 

"Oh, dear," said one matron, "Mr. 

does try me so. He is so bound 

up in his business affairs that I 
hardly see him from morning till 
night. And if I try to get him to go 
out with me to any evening enter- 
tainment, he always has some busi- 
ness excuse. And then he insists 
upon running his household affairs 
with the same business system with 
which he manages his own affairs, 



and I never could understand books 
and figures anyway, and Sundays he 
always says he is tired and I never 
can get him to go to church, and he 
is so careful about the children 
that I am worried to death all the 
time, and/' addressing the unmarried 
ladies present, and beaming with 
pride in her husband, "you ought to 
be thankful that you have never mar- 
ried a business man." 

The young ladies addressed as- 
sumed at once a look that said plainly 
that thev never would do such a 
thing, although they had each, and all 
of them had many highly advanta- 
geous offers. 

"Well," said another lady, "if you 
had married a man who was inter- 
ested in politics, I think you would 
give up. It is bad enough never to 
know whether or not your husband 
is ever going to be present at his 
meals, but to have him first in one 
place and then in another, to have him 
president of this, and vice-president 
of that, and secretary and treasurer 
of the other, and rushing around to 
attend delegations here, and conven- 
tions there, and committee meetings 
somewhere else, and to be awakened 
in the dead of night by having him 
shout 'Mr. Speaker !' and T move for 
a division !' and all sorts of dreadful 
things, and then the effect upon his 
moral character must necessarily be 
dreadful, and you all ought to be so 
thankful that you have never married 
a professional man who has a leaning 
for politics." 

The ladies all looked extremely edi- 
fied and truly sympathetic, particu- 
larly the unmarried ladies, who looked 
as if professional men with leanings 

toward politics might come, and pro- 
fessional men with leanings toward 
politics might go, but that they would 
assuredly go on forever without 

The wife of the professional man 
with a leaning toward politics had 
scarcely ended her pathetic recital 
when another lady took up the 
theme with great enthusiasm. "Well," 
she sighed, "I don't know but what a 
man might as well be a "politician or 
a business man, or follow any other 
calling that takes him away a great 
part of the time, as to be at home a 
good deal of the time, but so buried 
in books as never to act as if he knew 
what was going on in the world. It 
may be a brilliant and lively sort of 
existence to be always working out 
problems in conic sections, or digging 
up Greek roots or Latin synonyms, 
but after you have chased your hus- 
bands down the street to have them 
put on their hats or coats whenever 
they went to recitations as often as I 
have done, and after you have spent 
as marry years as I have in following 
your husbands round to see that they 
didn't do some dreadful thing from 
pure absent-mindedness, then I guess 
you would be sorry you ever married 
a teacher." 

And so they ran on, first one and 
then another, all detailing some par- 
ticular shortcoming of their respec- 
tive husbands, which caused them so 
much worry and annoyance, that their 
lives had become burdensome to quite 
a considerable extent. 

Now this was really one of the 
most delightful afternoons we had 
ever spent. There is always an ex- 
hilarating sense of pleasure in hearing 



the shortcomings of your friends dis- 
cussed, and in proportion as the in- 
iquities of our neighbors became so 
manifest, so did our own sense of 
moral superiority swell and expand 
and cause us the utmost compla- 
cency. True, we even felt a sort of 
warm-hearted compassion for our 
friends, and a desire to do something 
to bring them again to our level, to 
reform them, in fact, to do a little 
missionary work among so aban- 
doned a set as they had become. 


While we were ruminating thusly 
in a state of moral elevation, our wife 
"cut loose" and in about two minutes 
we learned more about ourself than 
we had ever known before. We 
learned that we had absolutely no 
business acumen, that the veriest tyro 
in business could cheat us, and did 
cheat us. That we were daily the 
prey of canvassers and book agents 
and subscription fiends and other sin- 
ister characters. That we never cared 
how we looked, and seldom cared 
what we said, or where we said it. 
That we had no reverence for any one 
or anything and that we kept her in 
constant terror by reason of our pro- 
pensity to say dreadful things. That 
we never by any possibility hung up 
our hat or wiped our feet or brushed 
our coat. That we never remembered 
anything we were told to get. That 
we dropped papers on the floor, — think 
of it, papers right on the floor, — and 
had the most dreadful people come to 
our house in the evening and at all 
times of night. That we laughed 
when the children said or did dread- 
ful things. That we encouraged our 
son to box and wrestle, and just 

grinned when he came home with no 
buttons on his jacket. That we — " 
but that is enough. Before the close 
of her little essay we were the worst 
used-up man in the entire neighbor- 

We betook ourself and our head- 
ache, which now came on with re- 
doubled force, to the west side of the 
house, where after profound thought 
we gave up all thoughts of attempt- 
ing the reformation of our sinful 

We are somewhat at a loss to un- 
derstand this propensity among wo- 
men. To watch them one could not 
help but believing that they were the 
happiest, most cheerful and contented 
women in the universe. To hear 
them one wonders at the load of care 
and worry they bear. 

We can only explain it by referring 
to the bit of philosophy in the small 
boy's composition, "Girls is queer fel- 




There are four kinds of boys, good, 
goody-good, ordinary and bad. From 
a comparatively intimate acquaintance 
with the boys of our neighborhood 
we are glad to be able to say there are 
no bad boys, and rejoice to be able to 
say there are no goody-goods. Of the 
two kinds we prefer the bad, because 
they are frequently amusing, which 
the goody-goods never are, and they 
can occasionally be reformed, which 
is not the case with the goody-goods. 

On the other hand we cannot with 
truth say that the boys of our neigh- 
borhood are at all likely to take any 
prizes offered for good behavior, un- 



less the prizes are offered for good 
behavior covering an extremely short 
period, say half to three quarters of 
an hour, and not in the snowball 

No, the boys are a set of as healthy, 
hearty, nappy youngsters as one may 
find anywhere, with lungs, appetites 
and mischievous tendencies abnor- 
mally developed, with a wonderful 
knowledge of all sorts of games, and 
a wonderful talent for getting into 
scrapes, and a remarkable fecundity 
of excuses in getting out of the same. 

They bear the usual assortments of 
nicknames, some fanciful, like Tilly 
Nif, Dinky and Juicy, some illustra- 
tive of facial, racial, bodily or mental 
qualities, as Tadpole, Bulldog, Nig- 
gerlip, Potato Face, Curly or Lord 

They are in all things faithful im- 
itations of the Academy students. In 
the baseball season the little diamond 
in our neighborhood sees daily games 
of the most interesting nature, and the 
air is vocal with "never touched him," 
and "slide, Bulldog, slide," and other 
notes of encouragement of the most 
high-pitched and strident nature. In 
the football season the most desperate 
games imaginable are played right 
under our windows, and the way in 
which small and grimy boys are trod- 
den upon, rolled in the mud, slugged, 
punched, tackled, downed and dread- 
fully abused excites the greatest com- 
miseration among the mothers of the 
same small boys. 

In the swimming season a fond 
father bringing his son and heir home 
by the ear for having "gone in" more 
than three times in one day, is a famil- 
iar and edifying spectacle, while the 

young ladies never venture within five 
hundred yards of the swimming hole, 
upon any consideration. 

In the skating season the dull thud 
of small heads knocking against the 
ice can be heard for a long distance, 
while there is not a boy in the neigh- 
borhood who is not dented all over 
with the impact of the hockey block. 

The fishing season claims fewer 
votaries than the season of other pur- 
suits, but among those few only the 
most approved tackle is "good form," 
and the truly scientific way in which 
countless minnows, shiners, kivers, 
perch, pickerel, eels, bullfrogs and 
snapping turtles are brought to book 
is at once startling and instructive. 

Several of the boys are expert hunt- 
ers and trappers. Of trappers the 
two most expert have or had formed 
a co-partnership under the firm name 
of "Staff & Arthur, Deelers in all 
Kinds of Firs." 

Now, the fur-bearing animal next 
to the house cat the most abundant in 
our neighborhood is the "Mephitis 
Am eric anus." Staff and Arthur have 
had astonishing success in trapping 
healthy specimens of this beast, and 
have thereby seriously impaired the 
residential valuation of the neighbor- 
hood real estate. 

One day last fall we were sitting on 
our piazza when we saw the two 
young men composing the firm ap- 
proaching, with a large black and 
white animal slung over a pole, and 
carried between them with much ap- 
parent satisfaction. If we had not 
seen them we should undoubtedly 
have been aware of their presence, 
but, as we did see them, and as they 
were making a bee-line for our front 



door, we thought the time for instant 
and vigorous action had arrived. 
Holding our nose with one hand, and 
seizing the garden hose with the 
other, we ordered the miscreants to 
halt and the following dialogue en- 
sued : — 

"What are you boys bringing that 
infernal thing here for?" indignantly. 

"Want to show it to Dick ; it's noth- 
ing but a skunk." 

"Where did you get it?" 

"Staff caught it in a trap by the 

"How did you kill it?" 

"Pasted it on the head with a 

"Who did?" 

"We both did." 

"Well, I should say so. Why didn't 
you choke it to death with your hands, 
or bring it home alive?" 

"We can sell its skin for twenty- 
five cents as soon as we skin it." 

"Well, don't you ever bring such 
a thing as that around here again." 

And the small boys departed toward 
their homes, which they had no 
sooner reached than we heard vigor- 
ous expletives in a masculine voice, 
and a few minutes later saw two small 
figures digging a hole in the field 
back of the house, and depositing 
therein their black and white trophy. 

The next day, with hair so closely 
clipped that each small head looked 
as bald as a quart bowl, they were 
around as fresh as ever, while two 
small suits of clothes hung on the line 
back of their house for the rest of the 

The same day our son consulted us 
in regard to a point of law that had 
been submitted to him as one of 

three referees, who were selected by 
the firm to straighten out a little dif- 
ficulty as to the division of the re- 
ceipts. The dispute in his own lan- 
guage was something like this : — 

"Well, you see, father, Staff and 
Arthur caught a skunk yesterday, 'n 
Staff was goin' to sell it to Old Man 
Tilton for twenty-five cents, 'n Cur- 
ly, I mean Arthur, 'n Bulldog, I mean 
Staff, was a-goin' to go snacks, 'n Old 
Man Fuller—" 

"What's that !" we asked sharply. 

"I mean Mr. Fuller told Arth that 
he'd give him a quarter if he'd bury 
it, 'n B— Staff 'n Arth buried it, 'n 
Arthur won't give Staff half, 'n Staff 
says he had oughter have half, 'cause 
it was his trap, 'n he found the hole, 
and got the most smell on him when 
he hit it, 'n so Staff 'n Arth left it 
to me 'n Tilly Nif, I mean Dick 'n 

"What do they say?" we queried. 

"Well, Dick 'n I, we said that 
Staff had oughter have half, 'n Ned 
said Staff oughter give Arth a poke 
in the jaw, 'n Old Man McK — I mean 
Ned's father — said we had oughter 
ask some lawyer, 'cause lawyers was 
great on skins, 'n so me 'n Dick said 
to ask you." 

"Well, I guess you are right, al- 
though it is a very strong case for 
both sides and for the neighborhood 
as well. But how about speaking of 
gentlemen as 'Old Man' this and 'Old 
Man' that; is that the way you boys 

"Yes, sir, sometimes," somewhat 

"What do the boys say when they 
speak of your father?" we questioned, 
somewhat anxiously. 



"Old Man Shute," was the reluc- 
tant reply. 

"Well, don't you let me hear any 
more of it, or there will be trouble," 
we answered with dignity, and closed 
the session wondering at our suddenly 
acquired years and infirmities. 

We learned later that the difficulty 
was satisfactorily adjusted, but owing 
to the nature of the commodities in 
which the firm dealt, a family council 
had been called and stern parental 
commands given for the dissolution 
of the partnership, and so the firm of 
"Staff & Arthur, Deelers in all Kinds 
of Firs," is but a fragrant memory. 

Like most boys, these youngsters 
are all ardent admirers and believers 
in the absolute prowess ' of their re- 
spective fathers, and each and all of 
them never lose an opportunity to 
vaunt the pugilistic ability of these 
peace-loving gentlemen, and we were 
greatly astonished at hearing ourself 
described by our son, at one of the 
daily meetings in the back yard, as a 
perfect terror in the way of sparring 
abilities, long reach and a ring expe- 
rience of years. 

And we were equally astonished at 
hearing from Staff how easily we 
would be done up, knocked silly, and 
fought to a standstill by Staff's father, 
if he only once got at us. We never 
knew before what a narrow escape 
that gentleman had of wearing the 
diamond belt. 

And we were likewise surprised 
when we learned from Dick and Ned 
that their father, for whom we had 
always entertained the utmost respect 
and friendship, was only waiting his 
chance to "do us both up dead 
easy, see !" and we were deeply 

grieved to find that it was only a mat- 
ter of time when Arthur's father, with 
whom we had enjoyed about twenty 
years of uninterrupted friendship and 
professional intimacy, was liable to 
break out any day and lick the en- 
tire neighborhood of "old men" with- 
out half trying. 

And as each youngster bragged and 
swelled himself, amid the scornful "aw 
nows" of his companions, it looked as 
if the whole neighborhood were likely 
to become embroiled, when suddenly 
the meeting was adjourned for a con- 
certed assault on "Lord John," who is 
an older brother of Ned and Dick, and 
who, on account of a difference of 
about two years in age, regards the 
other boys as "kids" and suffers great 
annoyance from them jointly, but 
mauls them soundly when singly or in 

An entire volume might well be 
devoted to the pranks of these boys, 
their work, their play, their various 
interests, but the recital would be that 
of the boys of every town, every city 
and every neighborhood in the 

It is well for us if as we grow older 
and more care laden, we can still re- 
member that we were once boys, and 
keep our hearts open to such thoughts, 
that we may once again, through our 
children, taste the pleasures of our 
boyhood, that come in full measure 
but once in life. 


From our earliest years we have 
had an intense admiration for girls. 
As far as we can recollect, from a 
dispassionate review of the events 
of the past forty years, we are forced 



to admit the converse is not true. 
For the rebuffs, slights and mortifi- 
cations that we have sustained from 
them as a boy, as an awkward, un- 
gainly and bashful youth, and as an 
equally awkward, ungainly and 
bashful man, are legion. 

Why we remember that, — but 
never mind, our allegiance has 
never in the least wavered, despite 
our manifest tribulations. 

And parents are generally more 
solicitous about the welfare of their 
daughters than that of their sons. 
One is apt to think that the boys 
will stumble through life much 
as they stumble through their les- 
sons , catching the shafts of mis- 
fortune everywhere but in a vital 
spot, and with that cheerful disre- 
gard of consequences, that is or 
should be the heritage of every liv£ 

In the case of girls one feels dif- 
ferently, and we well remember the 
day we first saw one of the oldest 
children in the neighborhood, then 
a tiny baby girl of the mature age 
of three weeks, and we call to mind 
the fond mother's anxious remarks : 

"Oh, dear, it will not be very long 
before I shall be worrying about 
her going to dances, and what she 
shall wear, and with whom she shall 
dance, and how late she should stay, 
and all such things, and oh, dear me, 
I don't know just what to think." 

We recollect that we ventured to 
remind her that there was no need 
for immediate worry, but as we 
think of it now, we feel that she 
"builded better than she knew," and 
we can but acknowledge that, al- 
though this took place fifteen year^ 
ago, the time has passed like a 

The child in question has not yet 
attended any dances, but the time 
is close at hand when she will, and 
we have no fears for her success, as 
her mother had years ago. 

The girls of our neighborhood are 
as pretty and well bred as anyone 
could wish, and their lively dispo- 
sitions and occasionally wild spirits 
do not detract in the least from their 
engaging qualities. They are ath- 
letic and fond of outdoor sports, and 
in some respects quite outdo the 
boys. For instance, Nell can easily 
outrun any boy in the neighborhood, 
not excepting her big brother, while 
Margaret and the two Dicks can 
never satisfactorily decide which of 
the three can beat, although they 
daily run themselves into an almost 
apoplectic condition. 

The girls are talented too, for, al- 
though Constance, on account of her 
robust proportions, is not a marked 
success as a runner or climber, she 
has shown the value of literary 
heredity by her phenomenal success 
in winning prizes for poems and 
literary essays; and Nell's drawings 
have already been accepted by juve- 
nile magazines, while Margaret's 
and Mary's musical abilities are the 
pride of the neighborhood, and the 
little tots are coining on, too. 

Besides this we heard yesterday 
from the most reliable source, that 
the facts detailed in our article of 
last week on the "Mephitis" episode 
had been previously written up by 
Elsie as a school composition, and 
as we were informed and readily be- 
lieve, in much more readable style 
than our own. 

These girls have business ability 
of a high order, and one of the great- 
est property losses the neighborhood 



ever sustained was the burning of 
the clubhouse, erected by the boys 
and a lease of which had been se- 
cured by the girls with great busi- 
ness acumen. 

This clubhouse had been erected 
by the joint efforts of the entire ju- 
venile male population of the neigh- 
borhood, and after an amount of 
exertion greatly disproportionate to 
their size. It was made of dis- 
mantled dry goods boxes, shingled 
and made fair to look upon. 

For several months subsequent to 
its erection it was used by the boys 
as a general stamping ground, in 
which they dressed fish, skinned eels 
and other vermin, and stretched and 
dried peltries. On account of these 
practices the clubhouse became a 
gruesome place, to be avoided by 
anyone who had a delicate stomach 
or a proper amount of sense of smell, 
and finally the boys became tired of 
it as boys frequently do. 

It then occurred to the girls that 
their opportunity for club life had 
arrived, and after several days of 
anxious conference a lease was 
drawn up by the combined legal and 
scholastic ability of our friend the 
lawyer, who evidently had warmed 
to his subjects and poured the entire 
wealth of his vast legal attainment, 
into the draft of this instrument, a 
copy of which lies before me. 


This indenture witnesseth that we, 
John McKey, Dick McKey, Ned 
McKey, Stafford Francis, Arthur 
Fuller, George Fuller, Kenneth "Ful- 
ler and Dick Shute, commoners and 
sturdy yeomen, in consideration of 
the payment of five cents in the law- 
ful current coin of the United States 
to us the said commoners and sturdy 
yeomen as aforesaid and above 
named, on the part of Nell McKey, 

Margaret Fuller, Constance Fuller, 
Elsie Fuller, Faith Fuller, Mary 
Frances and Nathalie Shute, all 
spinsters of the Borough Corporate 
of Exeter, the receipt whereof we do 
hereby in our collective and individ- 
ual capacities acknowledge, do con- 
vey, confirm, alien, enfeoff, shove 
up, spout, hock, put in soak and 
lease to and unto said spinsters 
hereinbefore mentioned, a certain 
piece or parcel of land with the ap- 
purtenances thereunto appertaining, 
together with all corporeal and in- 
corporeal hereditaments appendant 
or in gross, and all rights of firebote, 
ploughbote and steambote, with 
common of estovers, of piscary, tur- 
bary, strawbary, blackbary and 
goosebary, said premises bounded 
and described as follows : to wit, 
namely, viz. scilicet, videlicet, that 
is to say : commencing at a certain 
empty tomato can on the land of one 
E. H. Gilman, thence running north 
25 degrees east five feet, eight inch- 
es, to a large pigweed, thence west 
14 degrees 20 minutes south thirteen 
feet, five inches, to a dead cat, 
thence south parallel to said first 
mentioned line six feet, one inch to 
a last year's woodchuck hole, thence 
in a straight line to the tomato can 

And the said spinsters on their 
part covenant that they will well 
and truly pay unto the said com- 
moners and sturdy yeomen as afore- 
said, the afore mentioned sum of 
five cents of the lawful coin of the 
realm, for each and every week en- 
suing the date hereof that they, the 
said spinsters, their associates and 
assigns may occupy the same. 

And the said commoners and stur- 
dy yeomen aforementioned do re- 
serve unto themselves the right, 
should the said spinsters fail to keep 
all and singular their said covenants 



as aforesaid, to enter said premises 
vi et armis, and molliter manus im- 
ponere, and expel, banish, exile, 
eject, exclude and fire out all and 
singular said spinsters so aforemen- 

In witness whereof the said com- 
moners and sturdy yeomen, and said 
spinsters so described and set forth 
as aforesaid have set their hands 
and affixed their seal this steenth 
day of fty, 1899. 

John McKey. Nell McKey. 

Dick McKey. Margaret Fuller. 

Ned McKey. Constance Fuller. 

Stafford Francis. Elsie Fuller. 

Arthur Fuller. Mary Francis. 
Dick Shute. her 

hjg Faith x Fuller. 
George x Fuller. mark 

mark her 

hj s Nathalie x Shute. 
Kenneth x Fuller. 


Upon entering into possession of 
the leased premises the girls at once 
set to work to secure the removal of 
one of the monuments of boundary, 
to wit, the deceased cat, which they 
effected by an appeal to the lessors, 
who promptly acted in the following 

Staff picked it up by the tail and 
threw it at Dick, who received it on 
the back of his neck. Quickly re- 
covering, he threw it at Arthur, who 
in turn chased Staff to the woods 
and hit him twice over the head 
with it before it came to pieces. 

This preliminary having been sat- 
isfactorily adjusted, an entire after- 
noon was spent in thoroughly purg- 
ing the floor, and the rest of the 
week was occupied in the mural 
decorations and the introduction of 
tasteful and elegant furniture. The 
walls w T ere neatly paved with peb- 
bles and oyster shells, flowers plant- 
ed at the sides thereof, and a hand- 

some marole slab, discarded for the 
modern wooden mantle, did duty as 
a doorstep. 

Nor did they depend entirely up- 
on their own exertions for the re- 
habilitation of their property, for 
one of our neighbors, a kind hearted 
man, spent one of his infrequent 
afternoons of leisure, clad in a dis- 
reputable hat and baggy and illfit- 
ting overalls, and presenting a hide- 
ous appearance, in whitewashing 
the outside walls of the castle. 

And how these girls did enjoy 
themselves. What teas, what din- 
ners, what receptions they held 
there. What a wealth of china, 
crockery, tin spoons, lead forks and 
pewter knives were displayed. 
What marvels of housekeeping were 
there performed. 

But alas, this happiness was not 
to endure, a cloud on the horizon, 
now a mere speck, was rapidly in- 
creasing. One afternoon while the 
older girls were at home reading or 
practising, and the boys were at the 
swimming hole, two small figures 
were seen to make their way toward 
a pile of rubbish just behind the 
clubhouse. They were very tiny 
and very innocent, but they had in 
some way become possessed of a 
bunch of matches. 

Now the combination of a small 
boy and a bunch of matches is ordi- 
narily productive of but one result, 
and in this case that one result fol- 
lowed as a matter of course, and in 
a few minutes two small figures 
were flying toward home as fast as 
their short pudgy legs could carry 
them, screaming "muvver" at the 
top of their shrill voices, while dense 
volumes of smoke as big as a poke 
bonnet were seen pouring from the 

Instantly the entire neighborhood 
was alarmed, and the air was vi- 



brant with swishing skirts and agi- 
tated pigtails as the entire female 
portion of the neighborhood, old and 
young, armed with brooms, mops, 
pails, cups, garden hose and tin dip- 
pers, rushed to the rescue, amid a 
clatter of tongues that almost 
drowned the roar and crackle of the 

The children shrieked and skipped 
about like corn in a popper, the 
women heroically beat with brooms, 
poured water from cups and dippers, 
gave frantic orders in a high key, 
and vainly endeavored to stretch 
fifty feet of garden hose to four hun- 
dred feet. By this time the edifice 
was a mass of flames, the grass was 
on fire in half a dozen places, and 
the outlook was very unfavorable 
for the fire fighters, when with shrill 
yells and bulging eyeballs the boys, 
aroused from their paddling by the 
unusual noise, came charging up the 
path from the swimming hole like a 
regiment of small maniacs, clad 
some in one garment, some in two, 
and some in little more than the 
golden summer sunshine. 

Under the vigorous measures of 
these experienced fire fighters, the 
grass fires were speedily extin- 
guished, but the clubhouse was 
doomed. At precisely four minutes 
and thirty seconds after four o'clock 
the roof fell in with a crash, send- 
ing a shower of sparks to a height 
of at least seven feet and six inches. 
All danger to the neighboring es- 
tates being thus happily averted, 
the gentlemen present, suddenly 
realizing the somewhat informal 
condition of their toilets, discreetly 
retired behind trees, while the la- 
dies, gathering their pans, dippers, 
brooms and mops, betook them- 
selve to a vigorous beating up of the 
neighboring coverts in search of the 
diminutive incendiaries, that Just- 

ice, the blind goddess, the inexor- 
able, might be appeased. 

The club house has never been re- 
built, the neighbors wisely conclud- 
ing that the social advantages of the 
institution, although great, did not 
counterbalance the element of dan- 
ger to the neighboring real estate. 


In closing these papers we think 
it fair to state that we have been fre- 
quently asked, how far our imagina- 
tion is responsible for the facts 
therein detailed. These occurrences 
are authentic in every case. We ac- 
knowledge that we have drawn to 
some extent upon our imagination 
for the prismatic coloring, for we re- 
gard an imagination as we regard a 
bank account, useless unless drawn 

The sketch in which we have 
drawn the least upon our imagina- 
tion, and have endeavored to repre- 
sent with absolute fidelity to the 
facts and coloring, namely the 
"Boys," is the very one in which our 
imagination is popularly supposed 
to have been taxed to its uttermost, 
while on the other hand, until the 
publication of the "Beef Trust" and 
the subsequent voluntary confession 
of a host of victims, we had no idea 
that our description embraced so 
wide a territory. 

We have been asked to continue 
these sketches, but we feel that we 
have exhausted the subject. Like a 
good dinner, the flavor is lost by too 
great an indulgence. We only hope 
we have stopped in time. 

We have written about this neigh- 
borhood because we live here. We 
have no doubt that in any other 
neighborhood we would meet with 
the same kindness, the same cour- 
tesy, and with equally interesting 
experiences as in the "Greek Quarter." 

To Goodman Simpkins, of Boston Town 
From far and near came ^reat renown 

Of "Press Colonial Day." 
His heart so true, did warmly burn 
To do a philanthropic turn. 
In a good old-fashioned way 

So Goodman Simpkins wandered in 
Where dames in silk were said to spin, j 

On this Colonial Day. 
But the yarns they told - beat those they spui 
From early morn to set of sun. 
In the same old-fashioned way 

He next fell in with the Salem Witches, 
Who possessed themselves of half his riches. 

On this Colonial Day 
They gaily laughed as he hastened past 
Toward the modest girls with eyes downcast 
Who were dressed in old-fashioned grey 

But the Quaker girls were more than his match, 
As they set themselves his gold to catch, 

On this Colonial Day. 
On the meek little man.they unloaded their table 
Telling him many a head-turning fable, ' 
In the good old-fashioned way 

Then he toddled away, with a sickly 
Meekly scratching his weak little chin, 

On this Colonial Day. 
His collar and courage began to wilt. 
As he saw before him an Autograph Quilt 
Made in the old-fashioned way 

So Simpkins wandered from bower to bower, 
Twas sweetmeats in one, in tother a flower 

On this Colonial Day 
A moment he sat in the fisherman's hut, 
With mouth wide open-and eyes tight shut, 
In the good old-fashioned way 

He fell in the hands of a lady fair, 
Who coaxed him into trying a "share" 

On this Colonial Day 
She told him in accents as sweet as honey 
He must lay down his life-or give up his money, 
In the good old-fashioned way 


While the poor man slept, he dreamed of a place 
Where money was plenty-but never atrace 

Of this Colonial Day 
A? he woke- he was sure, at sight of the souaws, I 
They were after his scalp, to help on the cause,[ 
In the good old-fashioned way 


But the Goodman escaped with his scalp and his life. 
His pocket book flat- and so was his wife, 

After Colonial Day. 
For the cause she had worked, spending time, 

strength and pelf, 
Till nervous prostration asserted itself, 

In the good old-fashioned way. . 


A Girl of Maine 

By Gertrude Robinson 

ELISABETH made a vivid pic- 
ture as she ran down the path 
between two straight rows of 
young orchard trees to the spring- 
in the south meadow, swinging a 
large wooden pail in either hand. 
The noon sun made her brown hair 
bronze and brought out the deep 
flush of excitement in her face. She 
was singing broken bits of the only 
gay song her Puritan ears had ever 
heard. Yet it is safe to say that 
Elisabeth's heart was the only light 
one in the village of Newichawan- 
nock, this twelfth of September, in 
the year of our Lord sixteen hun- 
dred and seventy-five. There had 
been rumors of an uprising among 
the Canibas and Sokosis tribes and 
even of attacks upon places so near 
as Falmouth and Saco. 

In fact, that very morning Cap- 
tain Wincoln, with the fighting men 
of Newichawannock, had started 
forth to carry aid down the Pre- 
sumpscot. Captain Wincoln was the 
Miles Standish of Maine, trusty, 
brave, vainglorious, and wont to re- 
quire faith in his valor, and to exact 
confidence in his opinions. So it 
is small wonder that his parting 
Words satisfied Elisabeth that there 
was no great danger; for the girl 
had never known anything of which 
she was afraid. 

"An' forsooth," he cried, "what is 
it but a forest fire and the words of 
a lying redskin who thought by them 
to get a supper an' a drink from 


Purchas' Well?" And Elisabeth, 
who had been sorry to see her father 
and, truth to tell, much more sorry 
to see her second cousin, Hadrach 
Wakely, go hunting Indians, felt 
mightily relieved. 

"They will likely enough come to 
no harm," she reasoned, "an' if Had- 
rach pleases the Captain, perhaps 
he'll come back Lieutenant in place 
of poor Jacob, whom the log crushed 
last winter." 

So a very gay little maid set her 
pails where the clear water from the 
spring could filter into them and 
smiled happily at the familiar land- 
scape. To the south of the big 
meadow lay the cornfields. The 
stalks, swaying heavily beneath 
loads- of filled out ears, parted 
enough to show hundreds of fat yel- 
low pumpkins. Below the cornfields 
sloped a hill, and encircling the hill 
were the houses of Newichawan- 
nock. John Tosier, Elisabeth's fath- 
er, had built his house upon the very 
summit of the hill, and had fortified 
it strongly, that it might serve as a 
fort if the French or Indians ever 
came down upon them from Canada. 
Yet, up to this time, these settlers 
in the south-western part of Maine 
had felt little fear of the Indians, 
either of the near or of the more 
barbarous northern tribes. 

Elisabeth was aroused from her 
dream ings by the sound of water 
dripping over the sides of her pails 
upon the stones of the shallow basin. 



She stooped to lift the pails. As she 
straightened up, her attention was 
drawn toward the cattle in the ad- 
joining pasture. They were crowd- 
ing together, and staring at the 
fence which separated the meadow 
and the pasture from the cornfield. 
"Old Whiteface is telling them how 
good green corn is," she thought. 
Then she noticed more carefully the 
attitudes of the cows. They were 
standing stiffly, with tails stretched 
straight out and heads raised. 

A swift intuition came to Elisa- 
beth. She knew, as definitely as 
though she could see the skulking 
forms, that there were Indians hid- 
ing in the cornfield. Nevertheless 
she poured a little of the water from 
the pails, that she might not spill 
any on her dress, and went slowly 
up the path with her burden, with- 
out a change of color or a tremor 
of a muscle. Captain Wincoln used 
to say he would willingly give half 
of his army of sixteen men for one 
man with the nerve of Elisabeth 

Before two hours had passed 
Elisabeth had warned every family 
in the village. White-faced women, 
carrying curious, clumsy weapons 
in one arm and sleeping babies in 
the other, a few tottering old men, 
and frightened children came silent- 
ly through the woods on the north 
side of the hill, up to "Tosier's fort." 
Elisabeth let them in through a little 
secret entrance at the north side of 
the house. A simple cupboard in 
the wall had an opening into a tunnel 
which ended, after a winding jour- 
ney of some ten or twelve feet, in a 
tangle of wild blackberry vines. 
Nobody in Newichawannock had 
known of the existence of this en- 
trance before this day. 

The big south door was already 
barred and chained. Elisabeth set 

the women at work closing the 
heavy shutters of the windows and 
fastening them with the iron bars 
her grandfather had brought from 
England. She had not dared close 
the shutters before the women ar- 
rived lest the Indians observe the 
act and know they were discovered. 

In each side of the upper part of 
the house were two windows, mere 
loopholes. Elisabeth selected seven 
women who seemed less nervous 
than the others and stationed one 
of them, with a rifle, at each window, 
save the one which commanded a 
view of the cornfield. This she took 
herself. Aside from the continued 
strange behavior of the cattle, noth- 
ing was to be seen all the afternoon. 

The women accepted Elisabeth's 
command meekly. Those stationed 
upon the projecting portion, which, 
after the manner of the early fort- 
like houses, ran around the four 
sides of the house, kept watch like 
trained soldiers. The women be- 
low got some supper and ate it, as 
Elfeabeth ordered, though with such 
trembling and quaking that Mistress 
Tosier's sanded floor received an un- 
due proportion of the savory por- 
ridge. The old men, however, sat 
rebelliously in a corner and refused 
to eat. They had expected to as- 
sume command. 

Elisabeth's aunt, who kept the 
house, climbed up the steps to the 
girl, and carried her some porridge. 
She was a frail, nervous woman 
whose abhorrence of dirt was only 
equalled by her dread of savages. 
She had sat for the last hour in the 
chimney-corner, sighing over her 
ruined floor and wringing her long 
hands until they were sore and red. 
Now she watched Elisabeth drink 
the porridge, wonderingly. Elisa- 
beth made a wry face as she handed 
back the bowl. There was sugar 



in the porridge and Elisabeth did 
not like sweetened things. The 
trembling aunt went down the steps 
to the lower part comforted. She 
felt that there could be but little 
danger else Elisabeth would not 
mind so small a thing as sugar. 

At dusk, shadowy forms came 
creeping up over the south meadow. 
At the same time flames shot out 
from Phillips Mill, half a mile down 
the river. The savages came on 
boldly. They knew there was not 
a fighting man left in the village. 
They did not know that the pluckiest 
girl in the Maine woods was made 
ready to outfight them. 

Elisabeth waited until the dark 
swarm of savages were within a few 
rods of the south side of the house. 
Then she fired. Her first shot hit 
the foremost, her second the hind- 
most, Indian. The redskins drew 
back, spread out, and began to en- 
circle the house. Elisabeth had in- 
structed the others what to do in 
such a case. Each woman, watch- 
ing from her loophole, fired at the 
first groveling shadow she saw. 
The women below handed up loaded 
muskets and rifles as fast as they 
could : the women above fired con- 
tinually. The house was stifling 
with smoke and sulphur. All the 
women but Elisabeth prayed. She 
had more faith in her wits than in 
her piety. 

After some time, nobody could tell 
just how long, the Indians retreated 
to the shelter of the barn. The be- 
sieged women, who, at first, had 
been nervous and frightened, were 
now calm and hopeful. They were 
beginning to see the results of Elisa- 
beth's management. By comparing 
observations they judged that at the 
beginning of the fight there could 
not have been more than fifty sav- 
ages. There were many less now. 

An hour passed in quiet. After 
some time, however, a dark mass ap- 
peared to be moving up from the 
barn. It proved to be a cart, loaded 
with brush and timber. A short dis- 
tance away, the Indians, who were 
pushing it from behind, set it afire: 
then came shoving it on with horrid 
screeches. A turn in the path, how- 
ever, exposed those behind the cart 
to the firing from the two south win- 
dows. In the confusion, the cart 
was upset. The savages, maddened 
at this destruction of their plans, 
seized the blazing timbers and 
rushed at the door with them. Once 
under the shelter of the overhang- 
ing cornice, they were safe from the 
shots from above. The thundering 
blov/s from stout cudgels and sharp 
hatchets began to tell, even upon the 
staunch door. It strained at the 
hinges and one of the bars was al- 
ready bending. It was plainly about 
to give way. Elisabeth rushed to 
the door and threw herself against 
it with all her might. Yet she knew 
well how powerless would be the 
combined exertions of every human 
being in the house against the force 

"Run," she cried, "to the tunnel. 
Close the slide after you and stay 
in the tunnel till you hear an uproar 
in the house. Then run to Bender's 
cave and don't stop to breathe until 
you get there." 

The first bar fell from the door 
just as the last form went through 
the opening in the wall. Elisabeth 
stopped pressing against the re- 
maining bar when she saw the white 
panel again in its place, beside the 
similar ones with which the room 
was ceiled. A second later the door 
fell in. 

Elisabeth stood, defiantly, to meet 
the inrushing horde. The Indians 
bound her hand and foot, tossed her 



one side, and proceeded to search 
the house. Their amazement at find- 
ing the house empty was sweet to 
Elisabeth. She sat and laughed, 
wild hysterical peals which echoed 
above the clamor of the plundering 
Indians. Elisabeth used to say, in 
after life, that that fit of insane 
laughter was the only thing of 
which she was really ashamed. 
Nevertheless, that very laughter 
saved her life. The savages list- 
ened to it fearfully. They retired 
to the farthest corner of the room 
and talked together in low tones. 
Elisabeth understood enough to 
know that they thought her a witch. 
They thought that she alone had 
rained down upon them that volley 
of shot which had wellnigh driven 
them back in hopeless defeat. The 
idea was so amusing to her strained 
sensibilities that she burst into an- 
other fit of shrill, discordant laugh- 

ter. That settled the matter. The 
Indians departed down through the 
cornfields, as they had come, leaving, 
as a propitiatory offering, two child- 
ren whom they had taken captive at 

The next day, at noon, Captain 
Wincoln came back, boiling with 
rage because the Indians had not 
done as he had predicted they would 
do. He had left two men stretched 
upon the meadow before Saco and 
had saved but a miserable handful 
of women and children. 

"An' forsooth, Elisabeth," he 
cried, when "he heard the story of her 
generalship, — "you have done more 
with your band of white-handed 
women and babes than I with my 
army of sixteen men." 

And Elisabeth, since Hadrach 
Wakely agreed with the Captain, 
was well content. 

All Things are Thine 

By Mabel Cornelia Matson 

Thirsteth thy soul for beauty? Look upon 
God's marvelous world of light 

And shadow till thine eyes no more can bear 
The glory of that sight. 

Dost long for power? Lo, it is thine own,- 

The might to rule thy life 
Wisely and well, to keep it pure and sweet, 

Unmoved by petty strife. 

Art hungering for love ? This, too, is thine, 

For God himself holds thee 
In his unchanging heart of perfect love, 

Through all eternity. 


New England Magazine 

Volume XXX 

April, 1904 


Number 2 

The Massachusetts Model School 
m Georgia 

By Mary Applewhite Bacon 

THE free school system of the 
Southern States is barely 
thirty years old. Before the 
Civil War, the South had schools, 
some of them excellent, but no sys- 
tem of education designed to meet 
the needs of all her people. /This 
was in part owing to the presence 
of slavery; in part to the scattered 
condition of the population. To the 
lonely dweller in the mountains or 
the wiregrass, miles away from his 
nearest neighbor, and beyond the 
reach of railroads or newspapers, 
schools were impossible, and the 
knowledge of anything outside his 
isolated environment practically un- 

Thus the close of the great con- 
flict found the South with nearly 
five millions of Negroes entirely il- 
literate, and with twenty per cent 
of her white population also unable 
to read and write. To the more 
thoughtful minds it was evident 
that some system of free education 
which should meet the needs of all 
classes and of both races was im- 
perative. But the means for es- 


tablishing such a system were piti- 
fully inadequate. In no State could 
there be made provision for a school 
term of more than three months in 
the year, and the pay for each pupil 
was only five cents per day of his 
actual attendance. Nor was there 
at that time in the South a single 
Normal School, nor a common 
schoolhouse that was the property 
of the State. The whole system had 
to be built from flat nothingness. 
From such small beginnings the 
good work has advanced steadily if 
slowly. Progress of any sort must 
be based on economic independence, 
and that the South is still strug- 
gling to attain. 

For the Negroes, Northern philan- 
thropy began at once its work. 
They shared also, as of course was 
entirely right, in the State appro- 
priations. The Peabody Fund, that 
blessed benefaction to the white 
South in the hour of her extremity, 
founded the Peabody Normal Col- 
lege at Nashville and provided a 
limited number of scholarships for 
each Southern State. By degrees 



every State established one or more 
normal schools of its own, although 
the number is still inadequate to 
the need. The public schools of the 
larger towns and even of the villages 
have advanced constantly in ef- 
ficiency, and in the better class 
country communities, schools are 
usually open seven months of the 
year. It is in the thinly settled 
districts, districts in which the en- 

seven in Massachusetts, and ninety- 
nine in Rhode Island. No wonder 
to these scattered little ones, these 
babes in the woods, the good school- 
house and the good teacher have 
been long in coming. 

But public attention has been 
drawn to the needs of these rural 
schools in the last few years, and 
governors of States, university presi- 
dents, business men, and elect 


tire population of both races is 
sometimes less than fifteen persons 
to the square mile, that conditions 
remain bad. Eighty per cent of the 
Southern population is rural ; yet the 
number of white children of school 
age in Georgia is only seven to the 
square mile, in Alabama six, and in 
Mississippi five; as against ninety- 

women, not a few are engaging 
actively in their behalf. The lack 
of material resources is still a hind- 
rance to a degree hard for an out- 
sider to estimate. The last census 
gave to Massachusetts a taxable 
property of more than $1,419.00 to 
each man, woman and child in the 
commonwealth. Georgia's was but 



$205.00; Louisiana's $155.00; Mis- 
sissippi's $143.00. And yet there 
are in the eleven Southern States 
more than three and one-half million 
people unable to read ! It is need- 
ful that the wisdom and the con- 
science of the nation be roused in 
their behalf. 

One evidence of the growing in- 
terest in rural education in the South 
has been the establishment here and 
there, for both races, of what is 

The Massachusetts-Georgia 
Model School, in Bartow County, 
Ga., founded by Mrs. Granger of 
Cartersville, and maintained by the 
Federation of Women's Clubs in 
Massachusetts, has completed its 
first year's work, and in that time 
given full proof of its value. The 
neighborhood in which it is located 
was once peopled by families of re- 
finement and culture. Some of their 
descendants remain, but most of the 


known as Model Schools. The 
purpose of these is in some cases to 
give aid to a backward community, 
in others to set some standard of 
excellence for adjacent schools. 
These enterprises, few in number 
as yet, owe their origin as a rule to 
women's Clubs, or to the activity of 
some school superintendent. One 
of them is unique in that it was pro- 
jected by a woman and owes its fi- 
nancial support to the club women 
of a distant State. 

scattered families belong to the 
tenant class, those sad nomads of 
our modern rural civilization ; own- 
ing no land of their own, and mov- 
ing year after year to rented farms 
without much bettering their own 
condition or that of the soil they cul- 
tivate. The children of these fami- 
lies stand greatly in need of just the 
help that the Model Schools are 
designed to give. 

The schoolhouse, a neat frame 
building painted white with green 




blinds — certainly a great step be- 
yond the rude log house so often 
seen in the poorer rural communi- 
ties — was built by the neighbor- 
hood in proof of its interest in the 
enterprise. It stands on a low hill 
covered with a scattered growth of 
trees and shrubs. The steeple now 
bears a United States flag, the gift of 
the Youth's Companion. The large 
front room is plainly but suitably 
furnished; has maps, blackboards, 
an excellent globe, and a small case 
of books ; the two last the gift of 
individual members of the Federa- 

tion. The photographs 
of these far away friends 
hang on the walls, with 
a number of other pic- 
tures, and the benevo- 
lent face of Mr. Robert 
Ogden, much beloved in 
the Sonth, smiles down 
upon teacher and pupils. 
The room in the rear, 
16 by 20 feet, is used 
only for manual work, 
and is much too small 
for the purpose it must 
serve. There is a good 
cooking stove in it and 
the other necessary fur- 
nishings of a kitchen 
and pantry. A home- 
made table of pine 
serves for meals on days 
when cooking lessons 
are given, and at other 
times is a work table for 
the classes in handiwork. 
A set of shelves con- 
tains an outfit of tools 
for the simpler forms of 
woodwork, and another 
set is filled with the ma- 
terials for plain sewing, 
jbasketry, and hat mak- 
ing. The two windows 
are screened by lambre- 
quins ingeniously constructed of 
short joints of Indian corn, a deco- 
ration pleasingly in keeping with 
the rest of the interior. 

The pupils are what Southern 
country children are everywhere ; 
happy-hearted, unsophisticated, af- 
fectionate, — delightful material to 
work upon. Their physical and 
mental appetites are alike unjaded; 
and, while not disciplined to ac- 
curacy or continuance, they are 
usually quick to learn, very obedient 
and respectful, and responsive to 
every good thing which the school 



can offer them. Most of them do 
well in their books ; but all, with- 
out exception, are delighted with the 
manual work. To those who possess 
no intellectual inheritance, and to 
whom even the rudiments of learn- 
ing are a formidable affair, — -some 
of them, poor things, have come un- 
able at the age of seventeen to read 

in the neighborhood are used in the 
cooking lessons and in all the forms 
of handiwork; this being, in itself, 
one of the most important lessons 
the children could learn. Raffia is 
used for some of the baskets, but 
other very pretty ones are woven 
of the common grasses growing 
within a few rods of the scliool- 


and write— the different handicrafts 
appeal with telling effect. The 
training in these simple industries 
and in the ordinary domestic arts 
not only quickens their dulled facul- 
ties, but has a direct practical value 
in their poor and crowded homes. 
As far as possible, materials grown 

house; and the hats made of white 
corn shucks are really artistic and 

The worth of this industrial train- 
ing has become evident to even the 
most unlettered of the patrons of 
the school, and has enlisted their 
interest and cooperation to an extent 




beyond what the best of mere book 
teaching could have done. On 
Saturdays a cooking-class is held 
for the mothers of the neighbor- 
hood, a much needed help in homes 
where the cooking often sins 
against every law of hygiene and 
sometimes of economy as well. In- 
deed, in all the work of the school 
the homes are sharers in. the general 
benefit. Around the firesides at 
night, where there is such pitiful 
lack of fresh subjects of thought, 
the children repeat what has been 
studied or talked of at school ; an 
older brother or sister, at work all 
day in the field, copies the knitting 
or sewing or basket-making which 
a younger child has done under the 
teacher's eye ; and it is safe to say 
that the books brought home from 
the school library are read with 
even acuter interest by the parents 
than by the children themselves. 

The prime favorite in the little 
collection is Robinson Crusoe, and 
it is a touching proof of how little 
reading matter the children have 
had that the second-hand school 
readers and primers with colored 
pictures come next in popularity. 
A few of the books in the small 
library are for older readers, and 

there are some pupils far enough 
advanced to enjoy them. The li- 
brary is also found useful in the 
Sunday School, which, in the 
absence of any church building, is 
held in the schoolhouse on Sunday 
afternoons, men and boys being 
largely in the majority in atten- 
dance. The teacher, a Georgia 
woman and trained in the State 
Normal at Athens, finds enough 
work to engage their energies each of 
the seven days of the week. 

A few hundred yards from the 
schoolhouse stands a low frame 
dwelling in a grassy yard. Its four 
small rooms are entirely neat, but 
their furnishing is of the plainest. 
The rag carpet in the best room is 
the wife's own work ; the collecting 
and weaving of the materials for 
it seem to have been the one satisfy- 
ing achievement of her twenty years 
of married life. Her manners are 
gentle, her voice sweet; but her face 
has in it that indescribable pathos 
which comes only from a lifetime of 
intellectual and social starvation. 
"Oh, I hope the school is going to 
be a settled thing," she says, "it 
means so much to the neighborhood. 
And tlien," with a heightening color 




in her gentle face, "it means so 
much to me. The teacher boards 
with me, and it is so good to have 
her around." 

Not far from this house is an- 
other, the temporary abode of a 
tenant family. The house is of 
rough logs, set close to the roadside 
on a slope of red clay. There is but 
one room, unceiled overhead or on 
the sides; the floor of rough boards 
loosely laid; the wide fireplace at 
one end, but not a window ! The 
one room is bedroom, kitchen, and 
parlor for the parents and their 
eight children. The woman says, 
bitterly, that last year she lived in a 
larger house and could "run" four 
beds and so have one for company; 
now she "runs" only three. The 
three are all in the windowless 
room, together with a family of 
kittens, a few cooking utensils, the 
eating table, several home-made 
chairs, and sundry trunks and boxes, 
to say nothing of five mournful 
family portraits, crayons in wide 
gilt frames, which the ubiquitous 
Chicago agent has imposed on un- 

suspecting ignorance at the rate of 
six dollars apiece. The woman is 
barefooted and untidy, but she has 
really strong features, and had life 
been kinder to her, she would have 
made a woman of influence in any 
community. Six boys and girls are 
with her husband at work in the 
fields ; the two younger children she 
is going to send to the school as 
soon as she can get them "fixed 
up." When she does, a new in- 
fluence will begin its silent work in 
this home where as yet, through the 
long years, only poverty and igno- 
rance have held their sway. 

This Model School is blessing the 
individual lives that have come un- 
der its gracious ministry; but it is 
perhaps . accomplishing an even 
greater result in bringing together 
in a common cause the women of 
two widely distant States. Surely 
the men and women of the South 
merit warmest sympathy as they 
struggle in the face of so much dif- 
ficulty to build up the waste places 
and to give the children of both 
races their rightful heritage. 

The Human Heart 

By Mabel Cornelia Matson 

I know you love me, dear, I know, and yet- 
Oh, say it often lest my heart forget, — 
My foolish heart that needeth love so sore, 
My hungry heart that ever pleads for more. 

Viareggio - Lucca - Rome 

By Maud Howe 


Viareggio, October 15, 1898. 
HE long mole runs far out into 
the sea, the light-house stands 
at the extreme end ; here we 
watch the fishing boats come in 
every evening, the sailors polling 
them along the mole to their har- 
borage in the river. They build 
boats at Viareggio. The real interest 
of the town, quite apart from the 
watering place life, centres in the 
weatherbeaten sailors, the cumbrous 
craft, with their rich colored sails, 
the smell of tar, oakum and fish. 
This morning we watched a pair of 
old salts caulking the seams of a 
dory ; they had a fire and a pot full 
of black bubbling stuff, "pitch and 
pine, and turpentine". It is late in 
the season for sea-bathing; this 
morning we were the only people 
who braved the pleasant cool water. 
There is a fine beach with a gradual 
slope and, as far as I have discov- 
ered, no undertow. Last night we 
walked in the pi?ieta, the wonderful 
old pine forest that embraces Via- 
reggio, spreading out in a half circle, 
sheltering it from the north winds 
and leaving it open to the kindly in- 
fluences of the sea. 

Viareggio is full of memories of 
Shelley; we saw the place where his 
body was washed ashore, where 
Trelawney found and burned it in 
the old classic Greek fashion. We 
heard the question discussed wheth- 
er the yacht Don Juan was lost by 
accident (she was a crank boat), or 
if she had been run down by a feluc- 
ca, whose piratical sailors believed 

Lord Byron to be on board with a 
chest of treasure. I huppose we shall 
never know the truth, so I shall go 
on believing it was an accident. 

It is strange to find ourselves 
again on the high road of travel, af- 
ter the loneliness of the Abruzzi. 
Since the days of the Phoenicians, 
palmers, pilgrims, and their descen- 
dants, — tourists and tramps, have 
patrolled every step of the road we 
are now travelling. 

We drove from Viareggio to Luc- 
ca, two and a half hours, through 
the beautiful Tuscan country in its 
rich harvest colors. Every farm a 
glory, with heaped barrels of grapes 
waiting to be trodden into wine, 
strings of yellow, yellow Indian 
corn and scarlet peppers hanging 
over the fronts of the houses. We 
drove through an olive grove : all 
about us were twisty witch trees, a 
misty gray wood in which one 
looked right and left, for Merlin and 
Vivian. Then came a chestnut for- 
est, the great bursting burs filled 
with big shiny Italian chestnuts. 
We stopped at the house of a vine 
grower known to our driver, and 
asked leave to visit the vineyard. 
The proprietor, a tall lean man, with 
a touch of the faun about him (J. 
wants to paint him as the god Pan) 
welcomed us cordially. The large 
Tuscan speech strikes sweetly on 
our ears after the clipped Italian of 
the Abruzzi. Even the common peo- 
ple in Tuscany have a certain ele- 
gance in turning a phrase which 
Southern Italians of far greater cul- 




ture lack. Nothing could be more 
up to date than this Tuscan vine- 
yard, almost as tidy and progressive 
as the German vineyards. That, af- 
ter all, is the great thing about trav- 
elling; you visit not only different 
countries, but different ages. A 
thousand years lie between my 
friend "Pitzbourgo's" Etruscan 
method of ploughing at Pietro Anzi- 
eri, and the system on which this 
neat thrifty Tuscan vineyard is run. 

"Those look like American Isabel- 
la grapes !" we exclaimed. 

"They are what they appear to 
be," said the vignajuolo, "behold an 
experiment ! Many of my best vines 
were destroyed by the phylloxera, 
an obnoxious insect which girdles 
the roots so that the vines die ! Do 
you think I would allow myself to 
be vanquished by a mere insect? I 
send to North America for these 
hardy vines, which have so bitter a 
root that the vile insect touches 
them not. I graft the native Italian 
grape upon the American vine and 
wait. Meanwhile, until I am sure of 
my grafting, not to lose all profit, I 
allow the American vines to bear 
grapes from which I make wine of 
some sort. I tell you in confidence, 
it is only fit for the contadini, I 
would not offend you by offering it 
to you. Ma, pazienza! by and by, 
I shall cut back the vine to the graft- 
ing, and the native vine will flourish 
upon the American root ! Then I 
shall have a wine worthy to offer 
vostra signoria!" 

Here is progress for you : here is a 
man not satisfied to do as his fathers 
did; here is a country of today, a 
people with a future ! 

Having made the giro of the vine- 
yard, we came back to the large 
stucco farmhouse originally painted 
pink, now softened by sun, rain, 
and time to a rich indescribable tint. 

Our host threw open the door, with 
a gracious gesture, and stood smil- 
ing in the sun, the matchless human 
sunshine of Italy in his dark shy 
face. When he talked about his 
vines he was all animation ; the cere- 
mony of inviting a lady into his 
house was rather irksome to him. 
"The signori will do me the honor of 
entering my poor house?" He 
showed us into an apartment only a 
shade less forbidding than the wait- 
ing room of a convent. It was 
clean, cold, and of a frightful bare- 
ness. We fancied there must be an 
enchanting kitchen somewhere in 
the offing, where our handsome Pan 
takes his ease. 

"The signori will do me the honor 
to try a glass of my wine?" 

J. asked if he had any wine of Chi- 
ante. He laughed. 

"Eccelenza, shall I tell you the 
truth ? I have tuns of wine which I 
shall sell for Chiante. All you for- 
estieri know that name and demand 
that wine. The real wine of Chian- 
te would not supply the town of 
_Lucca. Chiante is a small paese; its 
wine is good, who shall deny it? but 
not so good as that which you will 
honor me by trying !" 

I held out for a glass of the "Ame- 
ricano" ; it tastes rather like the un- 
fermented grape juice we have at 

Lucca at last ! a dear, queer, de- 
lightful old town with ramparts and 
fortifications in fine preservation. It 
has a delicious slumberous quality: 
its glorious days are in the past; its 
mediaeval walls effectually shut out 
the rustle and bustle of today. My 
earliest childish impressions con- 
cerning Lucca centre about certain 
long thin glass bottles bearing the 
words "Sublime Oil of Lucca", al- 
ways in evidence when there was to 
be a dinner party. Cross German 


Mary, the swarthy culinery goddess 
of our youth, used to hold one of 
those deceitful bottles gingerly in a 
clawlike hand, letting the sublime 
liquid trickle drop by drop into the 
yellow mixing bowl wherein she 
compounded salad dressing such as 
I have not since tasted. Later in 
life I was once delayed by a crowd 
on State street, Chicago, outside a 
wholesale warehouse on which was 
written in large letters "Cotton Seed 

Oil". I had to wait for a moment 
while a crate full of spic and span 
new empty bottles, with fresh gold] 
labels bearing the familiar legend 
"Sublime Oil of Lucca" was carried 
into the warehouse ! 

During our first dinner in Lucca, 
1 inevitably demanded "un poco di 
guest' olio sublime" 

" ' Ecco lo qua Signora" (behold it 
here, lady,) said the fat waiter, offer- 
ing a familiar straw covered flask of 




oil, just like those we have in Rome. 
Sublime oil of Lucca in long thin de- 
ceitful bottles is not to be had in 
Lucca ! 

My second impression of the place 
is connected with another cook, the 
excellent Pompilia : she was born 
here and first went out to service 
with a great lady who lived in Flor- 
ence in the winter, and at Bagni di 
Lucca in the summer. I have often 
been made to feel my inferiority to 
that lady and enjoyed a certain re- 
venge in refusing to drive out to see 
Bagni di Lucca whose fine hotels 
and bath establishment do not tempt 
us. We prefer Lucca, and the "Uni- 
verse," a queer old caravansary, 
whose peculiarities we endure in 
that transcendental spirit with 
which Margaret Fuller accepted the 
universe. The hotel has been a pal- 
ace of some importance : our bed 
room is of the size and character of 
the stage of Covent Garden Theatre, 
when set for the last act of Othello. 
The gloomy majesty of the furni- 
ture is quite appalling; the two stu- 
pendous beds could easily accommo- 
date the whole family of children at 
Orton House. 

The first day we drove out into 
the country, where we found the 
same joyous harvest atmosphere we 
left in the Abruzzi. The town of 
Lucca is mellow with another har- 
vest, the great art harvest of the 
renaissance. Pictures and marbles 
that strike us fresh and strong from 
the dead hands that made them, not 
too familiar like the more famous 
works of Florence and Venice. We 
never before knew much of Matteo 
Civitalis, the statuary; he is now 
our loving friend for life. Fra 
Bartolomeo, the Lucca painter, we 
already knew, though not so inti- 
mately as now. We have put in 
some days of hard sight seeing. 

Did T say hard? no, splendid, soul 
inspiring. I feel as if I had put my 
lips to the fountain of life, and 
drawn deep draughts of inspiration. 
There are great churches, grim St. 
Romano and San Michele, the ca- 
thedral with its precious jewel, the 
the tomb of Illaria Carretto, one of 
the most lovely monuments of the 
renaissance. As we lingered near 
the tomb the old sacristan ap- 
proached : he eyed us anxiously be- 
fore speaking. 

"The signori are interested in 
sculpture?" We said that we were. 
"If their excellencies have time, I 
will gladly show them what the 
church contains of interest to the 

How often he must have been 
snubbed and hurried ! 

"A thousand thanks. We have 
come to Lucca partly to see the ca- 
thedral of St. Martino ; figure to 
yourself if we have time?" 

The withered old face broke up 
into the tenderest smile ; it went to 
one's heart that he should offer so 
timidly a service so precious. We 
^pent the morning mousing about 
the church seeing all its treasures in 
the mellow glow of the old man's 

"The illustrious ones have heard 
perhaps of a certain English writer, 
who calls himself Ruskino?" 

We said that we knew Ruskin's 
books. He flushed with pleasure. 
"He was my friend; more than thir- 
ty times he visited Lucca, and he 
never came without making a sketch 
of the tomb of Ilaria." 

We go into the cathedral every 
day to look at the tomb of Ilaria, 
where she sleeps in marble effigy, 
flower crowned, immortally young 
and lovely, just as Jacobo della 
Quercia, the sculptor, saw, or 
imagined her, nearly five centuries 




ago. The tombs of Lucca, remind 
one of the memorial tablets of the 
Street of Tombs in Athens. It is 
hard to say just where the resem- 
blance lies ; in form and manner 
there is little in common, the resem- 
blance is of the subtler, deeper sort; 
a spiritual, not a material likeness ! 

Palazzo Rusticcuci, Rome, 
October, 16, 1898. 

We found our dear old palace 
very much as we had left it, save 
that Ignazio, the gardner, had sud- 
denly, and without orders, added 
one hundred plots of flowers to the 
terrace. The difficulty and fatigue 
of watering this hanging garden of 
Babylon sometimes seems more 
than J. and I and Pompilia can man- 
age. Yet I cannot regret the addi- 
tion which promises many new de- 
lights ; chrysanthemums among 
them. Pompilia asked many ques- 
tions about what we had seen in our 
wanderings : she cannot forgive us 
for not having driven out to Bagni 
di Lucca ! She tells me that she too 
is a great traveller. 

"Sa, Signora mia, ho viaggiata per 
tutto il mondo. Da Lucca a Fii r enze, 
da Firenze a Lucca, da Lucca a Firenze, 
epoi a Roma!" "Know mistress, that 

I have travelled all over the world, 
from Lucca to Florence" (the dis- 
tance is about 50 miles), ''from 
Florence to Lucca, etc." 

Our first visitor, after our return, 
was Sora Giulia, the dark eyed 
Jewess who keeps an antiquarian's 
shop in the Borgo Nuovo, a few 
doors away. 

"Welcome home, Signora. I have 
brought you a few occasione (bar- 
gains) ; a piece of lace, well, wait till 
you see it, un ojetto unicoI" 

Nena took Sora Giulia's baby, 
while she untied her green damask 
bundle of old lace and linen. 

"Behold, Signora mia, this price- 
less flounce. How well it would be- 
come you on a vesture of ceremony." 

She spread out with a carressing 
touch a deep lace flounce of Milan 
point. It was indeed "an unique 
object." The sacred letters IHS, 
and all the emblems of the Passion, 
were wrought with wonderful free- 
dom of design ; the ladder, the cross, 
the mallet, and so on. It had evi- 
dently belonged to an ecclesiastic. 

"It is truly a splendid piece of 
lace, Sora Giulia, but is it not known 
to you that such a flounce may only 
be worn by a sacerdotef 

" I preti sono poverif" 

"Not all priests are poor. Show it 
to Don Marcello." 

"Ma che — , he buys no longer, he 
has to sell. But you, signora, you 
are not like these others; Eh dica, 
lei e veramente Christiana?" (Say, 
are you really a Christian?) 

"I cannot buy this flounce, I could 
not wear it if I did." 

" Per .carita, then look at this reti- 
cella" (Literally "small net," a 
coarse white netting with designs 
worked in by hand.) The for- 
estieri are mad about reticella, they 
are buying it all up to make table 
cloths and pillow covers. Soon it 



will be impossible to find. I never 
saw a better piece, you shall have it 
at your own price. In confidence, 
the padro?ie di casa says if he has 
not his rent to day, he will turn us 
out. What a bad season we have 
had ! No travellers since June. 
Those Florentine antiquarians put 
lies in the papers about there being 
plague or cholera, or some such por- 
cheria in Rome, to keep the voyagers 
away. We make nothing; but we 
must eat and pay our rent all the 
same! The padrone .... ' 

"With respect, he is an infamous 
beast; they all are, Madonna mia!" 
Nena broke in. Nena is the staunch, 
little old witch of a woman- we call 
the footman. When she took Sora 
Giulia's part, I knew that the anti- 
quarian was really in straits. We 
bought the reticella for the sum due 
the landlord, and Nena went down- 
stairs to the baker's shop to change 
the bill. 

"Sora Nena will tell you that I 
speak the truth. That brute of a 
padrone extorted her rent yester- 
day, took her last centissimo. What 
is the consequence? I tell you, this 
morning Nena's daughter had noth- 
ing to eat for her breakfast but one 
raw lemon. The child at the breast 
has colic, which is not strange." 

"What about the child's father?" 

"He is a muratore (mason), but 
he gets no work. Sora Nena gives 
him to eat as well as his *wife." 

Nena is a Venetian, and she takes 
snuff. She has other faults but I 
hear of these oftenest. Before we 
went to Roccaraso I asked her if 
she had ever owned a silk dress. She 
laughed at the question, "silks were 
not for the likes of her, etc." In 
parting I gave her a cast off black 
satin, with rather peculiar wide 
stripes. The first Sunday after 
our return, Pompilia went to mass 

in the satin dress, and poor pathetic 
little Nena, in her old snuff-stained 
cotton gown. When I asked an ex- 
planation, she said that she had sold 
the satin to the cook : "Pompilia can 
afford to wear silk ; I ask you, who 
has she in the world belonging to 
her? Some cousins, who send her a 
basket of flowers on her festa ! She 
puts every soldo she can scrape to- 
gether on her back. Well, let that 
console her for being a zitellaV (old 
maid). Nena has seven grand- 

"When the forestieri come, you 
will recommend me to them?" said 
Sora Giulia in parting. I can do so 
with a good conscience. If she 
guarantees a candle stick to be sil- 
ver, you may be sure it is not merely 
plated. If a bargain is struck she 
will keep her side of it; as much 
cannot be said of all her Christian 

It is strange how the antichita 
mania attacks people in Italy. 
Everyone we know collects some 
manner of junk. A friend who goes 
in for old coins, was lately driving 
near Girgente in Sicily through the 
wildest most primitive country. A 
peasant digging in a field offered 
him a handful of coins, moist with 
mud, just turned up with the spade. 

They were all Ancient Roman 
coins, copper or silver, familiar and 
not particularly valuable, with the 
exception of one rare Greek gold 
piece which he bought for a large 
price. Afraid of being robbed, he 
took the next boat for Naples, 
pushed on to Rome where he had 
been passing the winter, showed his 
treasure trove to an expert, learned 
that there were but three others 
known to be in existence ; one in 
Berlin, another in the British Mu- 
seum, a third in a private collection. 
When he reached London, he 



showed his coin to the gentle- 
man in charge of the collection at 
the British Museum. They corn- 
compared it with the specimen in 
the case. The Girgente coin 
seemed as good a specimen ; as a last 
test it was put under a powerful 
lens, which showed it to be a brand 
new imitation ! The Muse of Via 
Gregoriana, J. C, has a catholic 
taste and buys all manner of things, 
from empire furniture to silver 
lamps. Her last craze is for peasant 
jewelry. She "acquires" — one does 
not buy antiquita — every piece she 
can lay her hands on. Some of the 
designs are excellent; the jewels are 
mostly flat rose diamonds, garnets 
and misshapen pearls set in silver. 
Out of half a dozen odd earrings she 
will construct you a charming orna- 
ment, necklace, pin, what not, and 
sell it to you at a small profit; which 
she devotes to helping young Roman 
musicians, several of whom owe 
their education to her. I call that 
a pleasant combination, to make 
your hobby carry your charity. 

I believe Rome is the best place 
in Europe to buy jewels: because 
princes as well as peasants are con- 
tinually throwing them on the mar- 
ket. One day our jeweller, Signor 
Poce, (he lives in a little shop in 
the Corso near the Piazza del Po- 
polo) showed us a set of the finest 
emeralds I have seen in years. Pie 
said they belonged to some great 
lady who was obliged to part with 
them. That night we met those 
emeralds at a ball ! they were in the 
shop again the next morning! 
Don't be too sorry for the lady : she 
is a sensible English woman; and 
we happened to hear that she has 
lately redeemed a long neglected 
estate belonging to her Roman hus- 
band, and is putting in modern im- 
provements in the way of oil and 

wine presses. It is the same with the 
poorer people. What you read 
about the peasants parting with 
their precious possessions, furni- 
ture, laces, jewels, is true, but it is 
only part of the truth ; they are sell- 
ing them to buy health and educa 
tion! When you read about the 
heavy taxes, remember what they 
pay for ! What Italy has done since 
1870 is as wonderful as what France 
did in paying off the war debt to 
Germany out of the farmer's stock- 
ings. Reading and writing are 
better than pearl earrings. The 
Tiber embankment, alone, cost the 
Romans a pretty penny. It spoiled 
the picturesqueness of the river — 
the sloping banks covered with 




trees and flowers must have been 
wonderful — and did away with the 
Roman fever! The river used to 
overflow its banks every spring, and 
flood whole districts of the city. J. 
remembers boats rowed by sailors, 
going about the Piazza Rotonda 
and along the Via Ripette, carrying 
bread to the people in the sub- 
merged houses. When the river re- 
ceded, "came the famine, came the' 
fever." When I was in Rome that 
first time, as a girl, I had a bad case 
of old-fashioned Roman fever. 
Since my return, I have seen Suora 
Gabriella, the dear nun who nursed 
me so faithfully (she really saved 
my life) through that long dreadful 
illness. In speaking of the character 
of the work done by the nursing sis- 
terhood to which she belongs, she 
said, "Since there is no more fever, 
the character of our work has 
changed somewhat; we now take 
surgical cases !" Doctors and hotel 
keepers claim that Rome is the 
second healthiest city in Europe, 
having the lowest death rate after 
London. If this is true, we owe it 
to Garibaldi, for he it was who urged 
the Romans to build the Tiber em- 
bankment, their best monument to 
his memory. 

October 25TH, 1898. 

This morning, Maria, the porter's 
wife, was announced. She had come 
on an " " ambasciata' from the wife of 
the wine merchant opposite. "You 
remember the poor little Gobbetto, 
(hunchback) Signora? the one who 
has brought you so much luck, since 
that day when you rubbed his 
hump ?" 

"I remember him, yes, what of 

"He is very ill; he suffers much, 
cannot sleep, cannot eat: one sees 
all his bones! His mother, poor 
woman, prays that you will ask the 

American Marchesa, who lives at the 
Palazzo Giraud Torlonia, to lend her 
carriage for the transportation of the 
Santo Bambino (the holy child) 
from the church of Santa Maria in 
Aracoeii, to her house." 

"But why does she want the Santo 
Bambino at her house?" 

"After that blessed image visits 
his bedside, the poor Gobbetto will 
either recover, or find repose in 
death. It is too terrible to see him 
suffer !"' 

"Is this thing which you tell me, 

"It is most true as you will see." 
I knew the poor crippled child, had 
one day taken him up in my arms ; 
Maria, seeing me, had supposed I 
knew the superstition that it is 
lucky to touch the back of a Gobbo. 
"Will it be permitted to bring the 
Bambino to the house?" 

"If a carriage can be sent of the 
proper style — there must be one ser- 
vant on the box, and one to walk be- 
side, there must be two horses; an 
ordinary hired carriage from the 
piazza will not do." 

"If the Marchesa consents?" 

"The Bambino, attended by two 
priests, will be brought to the Gob- 
betto 's bedside. Then the thing will 
soon be over for the poor child — one 
way or the other!" 

I went on the errand to my neigh- 
bor, Mrs. Haywood (the Haywoods 
have a title from the Vatican, she 
is called Marchesa by the poor peo- 
ple of our quarter, but among her 
American friends she remains Mrs. 
Haywood.) She is a kind woman 
and an excellent neighbor. I found 
her at home in that splendid old 
Palazzo Giraud built in 1503 (some 
say by the great architect Bra- 
mante), occupied by Cardinal Wol- 
sey when he was papal legate. J's 
studio, by the way, is in one 



wing of this palace. Mrs. Hay- 
wood gave me tea in the library, one 
of the finest rooms in Rome. It has 
a balcony running around it, filled 
with rare books and MSS, for Mr. 
Haywood is a great bibliophile. 

I told her my ambasciata . ' 
Though sne was kindly sympathetic, 
she said "no" firmly, then explained. 
The Haywoods are the only people 
in the Borgo (outside the Vatican) 
who keep a carriage. When they 
first came to live here, they began 
by lending it whenever it was asked 
for, to bring the Santo Bambino to 
the sick. They soon found that, if 
they ever wished to use their car- 

riage themselves, they must make a 
hard and fast rule to refuse all such 
requests. Knowing this, Maria and 
the Gobbetto s mother induced me 
to make the petition, on the chance 
that the Marchesa might grant to a 
compatriot what she would deny 
them. When it was found that my 
mission had failed, Maria, of the 
kind heart, opened a subscription to 
pay for the hire of a suitable carri- 
age. Every member of our house- 
hold, including Nena, has con- 
tributed to the fund. " Bisogna vivere 
a Roma coi costumi di Roma" says 
the Italian proverb, "When you are 
in Rome do as Rome does !" 

■'ft': if Tj ,^*^ v 

y c- \ v ■ . \ rT in, m/ /■■>.>* 



A Complex Enchantment 

A Humoresque 

By Nathan Haskell Dole 

ON opposite corners of one of 
the busiest cities of this busy 
country are two great shops : 
one is devoted to gentlemen's fur- 
nishings of every sort and kind. A 
man with a well filled purse, or with 
proper credit, however unfashion- 
ably attired on arriving, would 
emerge thence accoutred with ha- 
biliments for every function of life. 
The other is devoted to the requi- 
sites of the feminine toilette-gowns, 
laces, hosiery, lingerie, corsets and 
bodices, shirt-waists and head-gear, 
cloaks and wraps. 

The passing throng not many 
months ago was privileged to be- 
hold in the principal window of the 
one, a waxen Gentleman of most ar- 
tistic form; in the other, a waxen 
Lady of- seraphic beauty. Words 
would fail to describe the grace of 
the waxen Gentleman's pose, his 
noble brow, his hyacinthine locks, 
his ruddy cheeks expressive of ab- 
solute health, his curled mustachios, 
his fine nostrils, his well-poised 
ears, his smiling mouth; all this 
beauty enhanced by immaculate 
clothes : — a frock coat without a 
wrinkle, trowsers religiously 
creased, or rather irreligiously 
creased, since there was no sign of 
bagging about the knees, cravat 
with glittering pin, tall silk hat 
shining like his shoes with an inner 
radiancy as it were, and in his gen- 
teel, shapely waxen hand a beautiful 
cane — he was in fact (to all seem- 


ing) a universally perfect gentle- 

Words would fail to describe the 
lady, the waxen Gentleman's vis- 
a-vis: bright blue eyes contrasted 
with her exquisitely enamelled 
cheeks, large liquid eyes veiled with 
long curling lashes, a low gracious 
forehead, piquant nose, "tip-tilted 
like the petal of a flower," soft rosy 
lips parted as it were with a sigh of 
aspiration, shell-like ears calcu- 
lated to hear only the sounds of har- 
mony and love, perfectly modelled 
shoulders and a swelling bosom, 
where Venus's doves might nest, 
artistically-rounded arms and tiny 
hands with taper fingers delicately 
gloved; and she was dressed in a 
shimmering gown which had cost 
hours upon hours of industrious la- 
bor beginning with the patient silk 
worm out of whose humble vitals 
the magic fabric had at last been 
evolved and combining laces and 
embroideries and wonderful touches 
of human art, — "A perfect Cre- 
ation" as the newspaper reporters 
delight in describing such indescrib- 
able masterpieces. 

There they stood through the 
long garish day, exposed to the en- 
vious stares of loiterers and the en- 
raptured remarks of those that won- 
dered at the perfection of a post- 
Phidian art combining the genius 
of Sculpture with the refinement of 
modern culture; there they stood 
gazing only at each other. What 




messages of love flashed from those 
"cerulean orbs," as the poets say, 
to the worshipping eyes of the waxen 
Gentleman ! What vows mutely 
and mutually reiterated, of never 
dying constancy. What pathetic 
hopes forever disappointed they 
each conceived of sometime unit- 
ing their perfections, of retiring 
from that cruel publicity which they 
had come to hate ! For they were 
made for each other : made of simi- 
lar flesh and bone — or more prop- 
erly wax and wood — with identical 
ideals in life, each eager to rise 
above the sordid purpose of their 
publicity. What prayers went up 
constantly from those two faithful 
hearts to the waxen God that regu- 
lates the affairs of statues and 
modiste's models ! 

Alas for the tragedy of those two 
destinies separated by two thick 
panes of the costliest French plate 
glass; glass so transparent as to 
seem air itself and yet more ruth- 
lessly dividing lovers than years or 
oceans ! Nevertheless, true to their 
duties, he in his model suit and she 
m her pattern gown stood there, 
showing the world what every gen- 
tleman and every lady should 
wear and silently exerting the im- 
ponderable influence of example on 
the city and on all strangers passing 
through the citv. 

Each day another and perhaps a 
deeper heart-tragedy was enacted 
tn that busy corner of the big city. 
Twice each day there passed by 
these palaces of trade two persons, 
humble and insignificant, poor and 
nnromantic in appearance; yet in 
the heart of each raged the same or 
a like unrequited affection. In the 
morning, when the shadows of the 
buildings leaned against the build- 
ings themselves like immaterial 

buttresses, each of them, on the way 
to their daily labors, he a piano 
tuner, she an assistant in a doll's 
hospital, paused on the side-walk in 
front of the great plate-glass win- 
dow and gazed with hopeless adora- 
tion at their respective flames. At 
night when the street was brilliant- 
ly lighted with electric lamps and 
the waxen Gentleman and waxen 
Lady stood in all the splendor of 
evening dress, the polished desert 
of white shirt front relieved by two 
pearl oases of studs, and white lawn 
tie, the decollete gown showing a 
pair of ravishing shoulders and a 
roseate bosom gleaming under a 
rope of gems — artificial, to be sure, 
but none the less exquisite in bril- 
liancy and size; this humble pair, 
each unconscious of the other and 
of the sentiments reigning in the 
other's breast, lingered for a brief 
while, in patient adoration. 

Verily it was the old story of 
Pygmalion and Galatea in inverse 

The piano-tuner was a German 
named Hans. Hans Julius Maxi- 
milian von Bulow was his full com- 
plement of names and though he 
may have been entitled to claim kin- 
ship with the German chancellor or 
with the irascible pianist Meiningen, 
he quietly acquiesced in his humble 
station in life by spelling it Below, 
while yet retaining the little particle 
"von" so significant to Germans. He 
was most German in appearance 
with round cheeks and reddish 
whiskers and a rather stout and 
apoplectic nose. But like a true 
Teuton, he had a heart as sentimen- 
tal as ever beat beneath a ragged or 
a velvet coat. Deprived of those 
chances for developing his soft and 
romantic nature which he sorely 
craved, engaged all day long in 
equalizing the chromatic irregula- 



rities of the key-board, rolling up 
as it were, the Sisyphean stone of 
harmony only to have it roll back 
again, like the torment of Hades, he 
found a genuine solace in the con- 
templation of the waxen Lady; his 
day's monotonous labor and nervous 
strain were alleviated by the recol- 
lection of her calm and seraphic 
loveliness. She had blue eyes; blue 
was his favorite color, as he proved 
by tieing a large blue cravat around 
his collar on Sunday mornings. She 
had gradually come to represent his 
ideal : if he could only find some 
such woman on earth to be his com- 
panion ! But he had never found 
one; he scanned the maidens of his 
acquaintance — they were not many 
— but it was in vain ; he had been 
on tumultuous Sunday picnics of 
his expatriated countrymen and 
wandered disconsolate among the 
groups made up of portly papas and 
their still portlier Hausfraus with 
buxom lassies giving promise of be- 
coming as portly as their parents, 
but nowhere among these flaxen- 
haired Madchen did he find one that 
corresponded even remotely to the 
svelte grace and exquisite com- 
plexion of his waxen Lady. 

The assistant in the Dolls' Hospi- 
tal was a French girl. She had ex- 
pressive turquoise eyes — her one 
pretty feature — and a large mouth 
which in no respect belied its pro- 
verbial index of generosity. She 
was far from slender and her heart 
beat with full throbs of motherli- 
ness. At her own humble home, no 
disabled cat or dog was ever al- 
lowed to go unattended ; animals 
instinctively came to her for com- 
fort and assistance. As a child she 
had been passionately fond of 
dolls: — this was only a symptom 
that if ever she should marry and 
have children, she would make 

them a most devoted and affection- 
ate mother. 

She spent her days in an upper 
room in a large building, engaged 
in performing the most delicate sur- 
gical operations. Behind her on the 
wall hung strips of pink legs and 
arms, looking from a little distance 
like uncooked sausages ; in boxes 
on the shelf near her were as many 
scalps as ever adorned the teepee of 
a Comanche chieftain. So when 
beautiful French dolls came to her, 
suffering from apparently mortal 
accidents, she would calmly and 
lovingly replace dislocated and frac- 
tured limbs, she would show all the 
skill of a trained surgeon in tre- 
phining broken skulls or removing 
the vermiform appendix and the 
poor little unfortunate creature roll- 
ing up its smiling eyes and uttering 
its attenuated squeak of helplessness 
would, after a few days of convales- 
cence, be returned to its owner — 
perhaps at the Holiday season — 
with a renewed complexion, with a 
fresh growth of straw-colomi curls 
as good as new or better, and with 
all the possibilities of social ad- 

Marie, for of course her name was 
Marie, was extraordinarily deft 
with her fingers and she earned 
good wages, but she had a sick 
father so that she had little money 
to spend on her own toilette, though 
what she wore was always neat and 
she was gifted with that peculiar 
chic natural to her nation and tribe 
which made her cheap and shabby 
clothes look well-fitting. 

There was something that had 
wonderfully captivated her in the 
waxen Gentleman. She liked well- 
fitting raiment whether worn by 
man or woman, and the waxen 
Gentleman was faultless in that re- 
spect and, moreover, the modeler 



who had created his form and face 
had by one supreme effort of the 
genius given the features a remark- 
able air of distinction; an aristo- 
cratic hauteur blended with the 
finer qualities of intellectuality: at 
least so she imagined. In her own 
romantic and sentimental manner 
she haloed him with noble lineage, 
pretended that he was a French 
count, called him M. le comte Hya- 
cinthe Beletage de Mont Lepelle- 
tier de Richepin and ardently 
wished that some pitying divinity 
would endue him with life, would 
enable those shapely limbs of his to 
move, that Cupid's bow of a mouth 
of his to open and utter in her ear 
the words which she burned to hear. 
She idealized her waxen count, 
thought of him as the only son of 
a rich old widow dwelling on their 
ancestral estate just near enough to 
dear Paris to run in and out as 
easily as she passed to and from her 
suburban home. She knew that if 
he would only stoop to her, she 
would atone for the mesalliance by 
such devotion as never woman had 
shown before ; she would endure 
all the snubs that the haughty belle- 
mere might put upon her, would 
heap coals of fire on her head by 
unremitting attentions while the old 
lady should be sick and finally quite 
win her heart, especially after she 
should present her lord and master 
with such a beautiful heir as the 
whole French republic or the old 
French empire had never seen. 

So there would she stand with 
hands tightly clasped and exclaim 
under her breath in her soft be- 
witching voice, in her daintiest 
French accent: "Oh mon adorable 
comte Hyacinthe!" And then she 
would go to her work, her heart 
filled with dreams of what might be 
and what might never be. And she 

gave to her sick and dislocated, 
maimed and battered dolls all the 
care that she would have given to 
her own children. Thus her 
motherly heart found expression. 


If there was any one fierce and 
rebellious feeling in Marie's gentle 
breast it was hatred of the Ger- 
mans. She could never forgive 
them for having robbed her dear 
France of Alsace and Lorraine. 
She had read Daudet's "Derniere 
Classe" and the pathetic story of 
the old Alsatian school-master had 
filled her eyes with tears and her 
heart with indignation. 

As for Hans, he never dreamed 
of a French woman; the whole sex, 
as far as that portion went that 
called itself Francaise, did not exist 
for him. He would stand in front 
of his waxen ideal, softly repeating 
his "Ach ! wie schen ! kolossal I" 
She was the ideal of a German 
spirit dwelling in a lovely form. 

So weeks rolled by: dozens of 
pianos came to Hans discordant, 
jangled, inharmonious, like insane 
patients and went forth from his 
patient touch sane, and musical. 
Hundreds of dilapidated dolls em- 
erged from the hospital clothed and 
in their right wigs, with new fresh 
legs and arms and all their saw- 
dust vitals in good working order. 

Meantime Marie's father died and 
she was left alone and after she had 
paid the expenses of his funeral and 
most of the back debts to the doctor 
and apothecary and the patient 
dealers in coal and groceries, she 
was enabled to make a little im- 
provement in her own wardrobe. 
She had a new dark suit that was 
very becoming and though saddened 
by her recent bereavement, as she 
was now relieved of the night care 



of the old man she was growing 
steadily better in color; a new light 
was beginning to grow in her lovely 
eyes, and her cheeks had a soft 
flush in them, rendered more per- 
ceptible by the very becoming hat 
she wore. 

Still Hans worshipped at the 
plate glass shrine; his waxen Lady 
had changed her gown; the Spring 
styles had come out and his beati- 
fic Madchen had put on a dainty 
robe of soft pearl gray and on her 
head she had a glorious bonnet — in 
every sense of the word the toque 
of the town — and over her shoulder 
she wore a violet sunshade : "Ach ! 
if only she could schtep down from 
her heights into the schtreet I 
vould follow her to the ends of the 
earth," murmured Hans's suscepti- 
ble heart. 

Across the way, the waxen Gen- 
tleman had also donned a spring 
suit with a light drab top coat; in 
one hand he carried his gloves, and 
Marie admired the aristocratic 
nails, the plump roundness of the 
taper fingers : " Mon Dieu ! que belles 
mains que celles de mon bon comie- 
Hy acini he\" she would murmur. 

But Count Hyacinthe had eyes 
only for his sweet marquise who 
as faithfully as ever waited for the 
magic word that would make her 
his and him hers forever! 

One beautiful Spring afternoon, 
the hapless adorers, Marie and 
Hans met face to face on the cross- 
ing. How many hundred times 
they had passed each other no one 
can tell. But this time the god or 
the goddess of Love, the influence 
of their approaching planets, Fate 
or whatever it was, resolved to take 
a hand in the quadruple comico- 
tragedy. Hans tried to turn out for 
Marie, Marie for Hans; and while 
they stood rather awkwardly en- 

deavoring to dodge each other, a 
pair of handsome horses came up 
with reckless speed and Hans with 
more gallantry than is common 
among the men of his nationality, 
seeing that the young lady was in 
imminent danger, suddenly seized 
her in his strong arms and lifting 
her from her feet set her down 
gently on the, side-walk. She ap- 
preciated his courtesy and flashed 
upon him a look of gratitude; her 
lovely cerulean eyes beamed upon 
him; a broad smile suddenly 
showed her firm white teeth and 
her "Thank you, sair" was spoken 
in tones that made his heart strings 

They parted and made their way 
to their daily labors but each had 
something unusual to think about. 
Trifles change the whole current of 
a person's life! Marie felt as if she 
had been delivered from sudden 
death or at least as if her new gown 
had been saved. And Hans remem- 
bered that exquisitely modulated 
voice and the heavenly blue of those 
two large eyes. 

After that they met every day and 
nodded to each other; gradually 
their greetings became more inti- 
mate and then at last they stopped 
and spoke. He had no resentment 
that she was French, she had the 
eyes of his waxen ideal; but to her 
it was a bitter disappointment that 
the hero of whom she had dreamed 
more than once, dreamed of his res- 
cuing her from greater perils, — 
about whom, in spite of his prosaic 
appearance, and his appalling con- 
trast in dress, in height, in face, in 
everything to her waxen count, she 
had woven a net work of romantic 
thoughts, — should be a German. 
Still he had been her rescuer; she 
was grateful to him and at last she 
let him walk home with her one 



afternoon and another afternoon and 
another time she allowed him to take 
her to the park and insensibly with- 
out knowing how or why she began 
to look forward to seeing him. 

Several times she accused him vi- 
vaciously of having helped rob her 
of the two provinces that she felt 
so keenly ought to be restored. But 
he, instead of arguing that they had 
been German before ever they were 
French and that their recovery by 
Germany was only an act of long 
delayed justice, looked guilty and 
humble and said so honestly "Ach ! 
Mein Gott, if I only could, I vould 
giff them back to you" ; and withal 
he was so honest and so good ; and 
he tuned her old piano and kept it 
in tune and he liked the music of 
Massenet and Chaminade and 
Augusta Holmes and he sang in his 
high tenor voice such beautiful 
songs that he almost made her for- 
get her first love — the oblivious 
waxen count. 

As for Hans the presence of living 
flesh and blood, the vague evane- 
scent perfume that floated around 
Marie, the touch of her sympathetic 
hand, her piquante ways, her vi- 
vacity, her gay laugh, her contrast 
to anything he had ever seen be- 
fore in his life, made him now look 
almost scornfully on the beauteous 
effigy about which he had erstwhile 
so vainly and passionately dreamed. 

One Sunday, Hans and Marie 
were strolling in the park. It was 
a perfect day in the early summer. 
A wood-thrush was uttering his 
clear bell tones from the top of a 
tall elm ; down in the meadow the 
bobolinks were pouring out their 
gurgling notes; the shadows of soft 
Avhite clouds chased one another 
across the long slopes. Hans and 
Marie sat down on the bank of a 
little brook that came joyously out 
into the open air and ran tumultu- 

ously down the hillside. Marie's 
hand lay temptingly near ; there 
was no one in sight. He timidly 
took it and raised it to his honest 
lips. Marie, with transparent 
coquetry seemed suddenly absorbed 
in watching a flock of crows that 
were circling around a pine tree. 
She did not draw her hand away. 
She knew what was coming and she 
had already made up her mind. 

But when poor Hans, embar- 
rassed and stammering and blush- 
ing, said : "Fraulein Marie, I luff 
you," she looked at him out of the 
corner of her eyes ; the sense of the 
ludicrous suddenly asserted itself. 
The thought that she should be 
listening to an awkward declara- 
tion of love from one of that de- 
tested German race was too much 
for her; she laughed a ringing 
laugh, exclaiming "Don't call me 
Fraulein — it is horrible" ! Then 
with a sudden impulse patted Hans 
on the cheek. He did not know 
what to make of her mood and he 
said in a sort of aggrieved tone: 
"Vy do you laugh at me, Fraulein 
Marie : I dell you I luff you." 

"I will not be called Fraulein 
Marie, I have told you so," she re- 
peated, affecting a great show of in- 
dignation and, in her soft musical 
clear voice, she went on : "Why, 
meester von Below r how can you 
have ze audace to tell me zet you 
luff me ?" 

"But I do" he asserted, gathering 

"What have I ever done" she 
asked "to make you sink zat I 
would leesten to such a declara- 
tion? Besides," she added with a 
happy inspiration of her native 
coquetry, "I have promised myself 
to marry ze Comte Hyacinthe 
de ." 

"Who is he?" demanded Hans 



with a great access of jealousy, fall- 
ing into the trap which Marie had 
so deftly prepared. 

"Oh! he is so handsome!" ex- 
claimed Marie ecstatically clasping 
her plump hands. 

"Denn I go home" said Hans, a 
tragic look causing a shadow to 
cloud his honest face. 

"Wait a leetle meenute" cried 
Marie laying her hand on his sleeve. 

"My ravissa?it Comte Hya- 
cinthe — did I tell you his whole 
name? — iss made all of wax" and 
Marie again laughed with that de- 
lectable laugh which was as musi- 
cal as the song of the scarlet tanager 
in the neighboring bush. 

Then she prettily confessed her 
hapless passion for the waxen 
Gentleman; and Hans might have 
himself made a like confession but 
something restrained him and he 
kept it to himself, for while her con- 
fession was a sort of idyl, his yearn- 
ing for the waxen Lady seemed to 
him a sacrilege, now that he had 
found its living, breathing, gracious 
substitute. So he held his peace. 

He still felt awkward and abashed 
but he had the wit to get hold of 
her hand again and, as she did not 
take it away, he said: — 

"You know I luff you and you 
have known it a long time and I 
want you to marry me." 

"What! I marry a German? 

"Denn, let me marry you!" he 
said, recognizing perhaps in her 
overdramatic accent that she was 
not quite serious. 

"Zis iss zey new siege of Paris" 
she exclaimed at last and with a 
deep sigh, "I suppose it iss ze Fate 
of poor France to give up to ze 
horrid Germans !" 

He boldly took Marie into his 
arms and gave her a resounding 

German smack. Such an unusual 
noise scared a frog into the water: 
it disappeared with a splash and 
doubtless told all its neighbors and 
friends of the queer ways of a man 
with a maid. 

Marie could not help herself. 
The soft loveliness of the day; the 
balmy air, full of the fragrance of 
Summer flowers, the songs of the 
mating birds, the passionate long- 
ings of her own heart, the eager 
wooing of her ardent lover, so genu- 
ine, so honest, so wholesome, so 
naif, so comical and at the same 
time so satisfying, made all oppo- 
sition melt as a snow flake melts 
in a sun beam. 

She suddenly tore herself away 
from the circling pressure of his 
strong arms, jumped to her feet and 
exclaimed : — 

"E/i, Bien ! I will marry you but 
come let us walk and remember zis : 
you are nevair to call me Fraulein 
Marie !" 

"Why should I — now?" asked 
Hans innocently. 

"And I shall nevair call you Hans. 
You shall always be to me Maxi- 
riiilien — my Max, my dear good 
Max!" and she gave his hand such 
a thrilling pressure that Hans went 
up to the seventh heaven! 


The hot Summer weather was pe- 
culiarly trying to the Waxen Gen- 
tleman and Waxen Lady. There 
were awnings over the big plate- 
glass windows but the heat pene- 
trated ; it was reflected from the 
wide side-walks starred with glit- 
tering bulls-eyes; it came in 
through the open doors. The light 
garb they wore failed to mitigate its 
torment. The jaunty straw hat 
which Comte Hyacinthe had donned 
was a burden to his clustering 



curls; the violet parasol which la 
Marquise carried over her rosy- 
shoulder could not keep the sun's 
glaring rays from reflecting into her 
eyes. It seemed to them both as 
if they must escape from the city. 
As he looked across at his beauti- 
ful vis-a-vis he could see how waxen 
tears were starting from her blue 
eyes and running down her cheeks, 
now growing pallid under the stifl- 
ing confinement. Tears, sympa- 
thetic tears began to roll down his 
cheeks, rolled and then set, as 
waxen tears will. Two teary 
models were no help to trade. 
They themselves felt that they were 
derelict to their duty but they 
could not help it. 

At last one day the proprietors 
of the two shops received a visit 
from a Hebrew dealer in second- 
hand clothing. 

"Mei?i Gott i?i Himmel, vot for 
gut is they to you? Deir golor is 
all gerunnen unt deir cheeks mit 
schpots gedaubt. I vill gif you zwei 
taler for him." 

For the Marquise he offered the 
same sum and he secured them both. 

They were indeed reduced from 
their former grandeur. What 
clothes they now wore were not so 
immaculate, were not by any 
means a la mode; but now they 
were together, now they were side 
by side. She sat all day in a rock- 
ing-chair, never more graceful. Her 
tears were carefully scraped away 

and her color was restored. He 
stood so near to her that he could 
touch her hand ; he could look down 
into her face; when no one was 
lookng he could whisper sweet 
words into her shell like ear. But 
oh the heat! One hot wave suc- 
ceeded another and they were meant 
for a different station, for a more 
equable climate. 

" Mein Gott in Himmel, I vos 
made von bad bargain !" exclaimed 
Isaac Scharfenstein, as he ruefully 
noted how his waxen figures had 
languished under the pitiless tem- 
perature. The waxen perspiration 
had absolutely ruined their com- 
plexions. They were no longer fit 
to display Herr Scharfenstein's ex- 
traordinary bargains in second-hand 
raiment. He sold them for old 

The most pathetic passage in 
Dante is where Paolo and Fran- 
cesca are carried on the wind of 
passion through the Second Circle 
of the Inferno, arm in arm, breast 
to breast, never resting. Those two 
hapless mortals suffered the penalty 
for their guilty happiness but it was 
mitigated by suffering forever to- 

One implacable day in August, 
when there was no comfort in the 
air, when life even to the optimistic 
was a burden, the two waxen figures 
were cast into the melting kettle. 

Like Paolo and Francesca they 
were united, never again to be 

Boston as an Art Centre 

By William Howe Downes 

WHEN, in the summer of 1903, 
thirty-six thousand school 
teachers from all parts of the 
United States held a convention in 
Boston, many complimentary re- 
marks were made as to the hospi- 
tality of the Bostonians, their cour- 
tesy to strangers, and the great num- 
ber of interesting, historic and ar- 
tistic things to be seen in and about 
the city. If the Bostonians were 
much interested in the delegates, 
and desirous to have them enjoy 
their visit, they on their part seemed 
to be both astonished and pleased 
to find that the Bostonians were so 
human. They had been told, it ap- 
pears, that Boston people were cold, 
distant, and snobbish; and their 
evident delight on finding that this 
reputation was unjust was almost 
pathetic. At the close of the con- 
vention, one of the newspapers 
printed almost three columns of in- 
terviews with the teachers, and 
among the amiable expressions of 
opinion about Boston we find this: 
"Dr. Frank M. McMurray of New 
York, one of the professors at Co- 
lumbia University, says he has al- 
ways considered Boston the real art 
centre of the country." Only four 
months before this episode, Mr. 
Herbert Croly had written, in the 
Architectural Record, the statement 
that "Boston had almost ceased to 
be, not only a literary but an art 
centre." It becomes an interesting 
question, then, which of these gen- 
tlemen is right? Is Boston an art 
centre? Before we can answer that 


question satisfactorily, we shall have 
to define the true meaning of the 

What constitutes an art centre? 
May it not be fairly defined as a city 
in which a large body of professional 
artists have their homes; a city 
which possesses important art mu- 
seums, art schools, art societies, art 
collections; a city which has within 
its confines notable monuments of 
art; a community that has the ad- 
vantage of artistic traditions, mani- 
fests a marked degree of interest in 
artistic matters, holds many art ex- 
hibitions, spends much money for 
works of art, has a definite public 
policy as to civic art embodied in 
legislation with respect to monu- 
ments, parks, architecture, advertis- 
ing abuses, and public improve- 
ments? These, with other particu- 
lars, are germane to the question. 
And if Boston's title to the distinc- 
tion of being an art centre rests upon 
the evidence on such points, let us 
examine the evidence candidly. We 
shall be convinced that neither Mr. 
McMurray nor Mr. Croly is wholly 
right. Boston is not the real art 
centre of the country; but it is an 
art centre of importance, and shows 
no signs of ceasing to be such. 

Although Boston people have the 
reputation of being somewhat com- 
placent with regard to their city, as 
a matter of fact a great majority of 
them are not so proud of the city as 
they ought to be. One is far more 
likely to hear the praise of Boston 
from the mouths of strangers than 



from Bostonians. The most en- 
thusiastic admirer of Boston that I 
have met is a literary and artistic 
personage whose home is in Wash- 
ington, — unquestionably the least 
ugly city in America, — and who is 
perfectly familiar with Paris. It is 
conceivable that those who have 
lived all their lives in Boston are 
scarcely able to realize all the parti- 
culars in which it excels other cities, 
since they have not had the opportu- 
nity for comparison ; but let them 
go away and dwell in other Ameri- 
can cities, and it is noticeable that 
they are not long in feeling the dif- 
ference; this, we may presume, 
is the reason why former residents 
of Boston are among her most ar- 
dent partisans ; the phenomenon 
is only a parallel to the passionate 
patriotism of the exile. Again, 
though not much is said nowadays 
on the subject, there has been, we 
are aware, enough of the spirit of 
local pride in the breasts of the older 
generation — the solid men of Bos- 
ton — to make them willing to take 
some pains and make some real 
sacrifices in order that their city 
should cut a presentable figure in 
the eyes of mankind ; and it is to be 
hoped that this old-time spirit has 
not entirely died out even in our day. 
Ridicule, like death, loves a shin- 
ing mark. Boston, which has ever 
been a target for satire, takes it in 
good part, and, if the jest be fresh 
enough — for I will venture to para- 
phrase Shakespeare and say that a 
jest's prosperity lies in its freshness 
— is ready to join in the laugh. This 
freedom from undue sensitiveness 
under the imputations of pedantry, 
priggishness, egotism, and other un- 
lovely traits lent to them in the ex- 
travagant anecdotes, goes far to 
make it clear that the Bostonians 
are not troubled in their consciences, 

and I am inclined to believe that 
their indifference to gibes of the sort 
alluded to is quite unassumed. It 
is true enough that Boston is the 
home and headquarters for all kinds 
of strange fads, but let it be remem- 
bered that her chief fad from the 
beginning has been philanthropy, 
and that wherever tyranny, wrong,, 
and cruelty exist in the world, there 
Boston is most heartily hated. But,. 
a nos moutons. 

Although Boston is the home of 
an army of professional artists, a 
fact that will not be questioned by 
any one who is familiar with the 
city, precise and trustworthy statis- 
tics are curiously difficult to obtain. 
The most numerous class of artists- 
are the musicians. In the business 
directory for 1903 I find the names 
of more than eight hundred teach- 
ers of music, which is perhaps the- 
best clue to the total number of per- 
sons whose livelihood is music in 
one form or another. Of painters 
I have made a little census of my 
own, and I find that there are over- 
five hundred, possibly as many as 
six hundred, in Greater Boston. The 
architects number about three hun- 
dred and fifty. Literary artists and 1 
actors do not exist as distinct 
classes in any directories, and I am 
at a loss to make even a good guess- 
as to their numbers. There are 
twelve theatres, but the player- 
folk are so constantly on the road 
under our system that it would be 
hard to name the domiciles of most 
actors. 1 may note that there are 
nearly one hundred picture dealers ;. 
over a hundred engravers ; and that 
the number of sculptors is insigni- 
ficant. It is therefore obvious that 
any attempt to make an exact local 
census of artists is, in the nature of 
the case, futile. But indirect evi- 
dence that bears on the question we- 



are considering is supplied in abun- 
dance by other data than statistics. 

There is significance in the facts 
that the Boston Society of Archi- 
tects is the oldest organization of 
members of this important profes- 
sion in the United States; that the 
Copley Society's loan exhibition of 
John Singer Sargent's pictures in 
1899 was the most notable art ex- 
hibition ever held in America; that 
mural painting in this country had 
its origin in Boston ; and that Bos- 
ton was the first American city to 
establish a municipal Art Commis- 
sion. I shall be able to adduce 
many other pertinent facts bearing 
on the question at issue, but at this 
point I wish to say a few words 
about monuments. 

No other American city is so rich 
as Boston in its monuments, using 
that term in its wider sense, as in- 
cluding historic buildings, rather 
than in the restricted sense of me- 
morials only. The Public Library, 
Trinity Church, and the Bulfinch 
State-House are monuments, as well 
as Bunker Hill's granite obelisk, Au- 
gustus St. Gaudens's incomparable 
Shaw high-relief bronze, and French 
and Potter's spirited equestrian 
statue of General Hooker. When 
we read in Shakespeare of "our 
bruised arms hung up for monu- 
ments," we are reminded that we 
have our Massachusetts battle- 
flags, tattered and worn, among our 
proudest monuments. The Old 
North and the Old South meeting- 
houses are historic monuments ; in 
truth, at every turn, in old Boston, 
the stranger meets with inspiring 
relics of the history of the country, 
which are held in reverence and 
piously preserved. At this hour the 
city is constructing a bridge across 
the Charles River which will be a 
most imposing and artistic monu- 

ment. The place is full of what we 
often hear called monuments to the 
public spirit of the community : I 
will mention only the Marine Park 
at City Point, and the scores of play- 
grounds for the poor which are pro- 
vided in every quarter of the city 
with a liberality and wisdom that 
are recognized everywhere as excep- 
tional. These are among the things 
of which Bostonians ought to be 

As to artistic institutions, Greater 
Boston has four art museums, name- 
ly: the Museum of Fine Arts, the 
Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in 
the Fenway, the William Hayes 
Fogg Art Museum (Harvard Uni- 
versity), and the Germanic Mu- 
seum of Harvard University. I 
doubt if any city of its size in the 
world can equal this quartette of 
art museums. Not even the citi- 
zens of Boston appreciate the im- 
portance, the riches, the unique feat- 
ures of these four institutions. I 
need not dwell long on the collec- 
tions, but it is pertinent to point out 
a few of the respects in which they 
lead. The Museum of Fine Arts, 
although only a little more than 
thirty years old, has reached a po- 
sition of primacy as to several of 
its departments, and I think it may 
be said to have only one rival in the 
United States. It is quite generally 
known that its Japanese department, 
with its more than three thousand 
paintings, its eighty-eight hundred 
prints, its fifty-three hundred pieces 
of pottery, its fourteen hundred 
specimens of metal work, its four 
hundred lacquers, and its rich array 
of netsuke, wood carvings, embroid- 
eries, etc., is the finest in the world. 
It is not so widely known that its 
department of classical antiquities, 
with its thirteen hundred Greek 
vases, its thousand specimens of 



terra-cottas, its two hundred objects 
in marble or stone, its three hun- 
dred and sixty-six bronzes, its one 
hundred and seventy-one gems, its 
six hundred coins, its three hundred 
pieces of glass, its one hundred and 
fifty-five examples of jewelry and 
ornaments, etc., is, far and away, 
the richest in America. Nor is it 
generally realized that the print de- 
partment, with its seventy-four 
thousand engravings, etchings, litho- 
graphs, etc., has no equal elsewhere 
pn this continent. 

The Museum of Fine Arts is in 
strong hands, and its future is in no 
way doubtful. It is about to build 
for its collections a new home, 
which will have plenty of room for 
progressive expansion, with abun- 
dance of light and air; and if this 
edifice shall be commensurate with 
the treasures it is to contain, as it 
probably will be, it must take an 
advanced place among the great 
public museums of the world. 

Near by stands the lately estab- 
lished wonder-house of Mrs. Gard- 
ner, Fenway Court, with its mag- 
nificent collections of old Italian 
sculptures and paintings, its artistic 
and historic furniture and furnish- 
ings, unequalled in America, and of 
particular interest as the accumula- 
tions of a singularly gifted and ener- 
getic collector whose personal taste 
is reflected in each item of the enor- 
mous collections, installed in a Goth- 
ic residence of royal character and 
proportions. The artistic intention 
and scheme of the whole establish- 
ment is organic, including the struc- 
ture of the shell as well as its con- 
tents. Mrs. Gardner's three paint- 
ings by Raphael, two paintings by 
Titian, four paintings by Rem- 
brandt, two paintings by Holbein, 
two paintings by Botticelli, with 
her examples of Veronese, Tinto- 

retto, Correggio, Tiepolo, Giorgione, 
Mantegna, Giotto, Fra Angelico, 
Fra Filippo Lippi, Fiorenzo di Lo- 
renzo, Carlo Crivelli, Bronzino, 
Agnolo Gaddi, Francesco Squar- 
cione, Pinturicchio, Velasquez, Ru- 
bens, Van Dyck, Diirer, Sir Anthony 
More, TerBorch, Van der Meer of 
Delft, Clouet, Romney, Pourbus, 
and other masters, form a priceless 
collection, in which the examples 
are, with practically no exceptions, 
of a high order of quality, but the 
pictures are only a part of her col- 
lections, and they are no more won- 
derful than her sculptures by Ben- 
venuto Cellini, Luca and Andrea 
della Robbia, Mino da Fiesole, An- 
tonio Rossellino, Benedetto da Ma- 
jano, and a host of anonymous 
artists of the Italian Renaissance. 
Indeed, a lengthy article would be 
required, — an article, do I say? Yes, 
a volume, — to do any sort of justice 
to the Gardner Museum. 

The two museums of art apper- 
taining to Harvard University are 
relatively small, being still in their 
early stages of development. The 
William Hayes Fogg Art Museum 
possesses the valuable Gray collec- 
tion of engravings, which was be- 
queathed to Harvard College, with 
provision for its increase and main- 
tenance, by the Hon. Francis C. 
Gray, LL. D., of the class of 1809. 
It also possesses the Randall col- 
lection of engravings, containing 
about twenty thousand prints and 
drawings, which was bequeathed 
to Harvard College by Dr. John 
Witt Randall, of the class of 1834. 
Among the antique sculptures are : a 
Greek marble statue of Aphrodite,, 
a Greek marble statue of Meleager, 
a Graeco-Roman sarcophagus relief 
in marble representing a Battle of 
Amazons, and a head of Aphrodite 
in marble ; and among the ancient 



paintings are: a Florentine taberna- 
colo of the fifteenth century in 
tempera, an "Adoration of the Magi" 
of the school of Ferrara, fifteenth 
century, a portrait of a Procurator 
of St. Mark, a Venetian oil painting 
of the sixteenth century having the 
characteristics of the work of Tin- 
toretto, and several other important 

The Germanic Museum has a most 
interesting collection, unique out- 
side of Germany, of copies after an- 
tique and mediaeval German sculp- 
tures, for the most part the generous 
donation of the German Emperor 
in 1903. Here are to be seen such 
marvels of old plastic art as the 
Golden Gate of the cathedral of 
Freiburg; the great bronze doors of 
the Hildesheim cathedral; the small 
portal of the Liebfrauenkirche at 
Trier ; the bishop's throne from Ulm 
cathedral, the work of George 
Syrlin; the bronze sepulchre of 
Hans Sebald by Peter Visscher in 
the Sebaldskirche at Nuremburg; 
Gottfried Schadow's equestrian stat- 
ue of Frederick the Great at Stettin ; 
the wonderful sculptures in the ca-~ 
thedral of Naumburg, comprising 
the series of reliefs illustrating the 
Passion, and the portrait statues of 
the Founders; the figures symboliz- 
ing the Church and the Synagogue 
at the south portal of the Stras- 
bourg cathedral; the series of heads 
of dying warriors by Andreas 
Schluter in the arsenal at Berlin; 
several statues from the Bamberg 
cathedral; the choir screen from the 
cathedral of St. Michael in Hilde- 
sheim ; the bronze baptismal font of 
the twelfth century from Hilde- 
sheim; and the Bernward column 
from Hildesheim, twelfth century, 
with its high reliefs illustrating the 
life of Jesus, running in a spiral 
from top to bottom, after the 

manner of the Column of Trajan. 
And nowhere else in America may 
these magnificent and touching 
monuments of Teutonic genius be 
seen. The German Emperor 
showed his good judgment as well 
as his good will in this princely gift 
to Harvard. It is a highly impres- 
sive and interesting collection, and 
should before long be housed in a 
building worthy of it. 

Mural painting in America, as I 
have said, had its origin in Boston. 
The elaborate system of interior 
decoration in Trinity Church, de- 
vised by John LaFarge, was the 
first important work of the kind in 
the United States. In the neighbor- 
ing building, on the other side of 
Copley square, the Public Library, 
are the more recent and more fa- 
mous mural paintings by Pu'vis de 
Chavannes, John S. Sargent and Ed- 
win A. Abbey. In the Massachu- 
setts State-House, on Beacon Hill, 
are mural works, five in number, by 
Henry Oliver Walker, Edward Sim- 
mons and Robert Reid, depicting 
pivotal events in the history of the 
Commonwealth. As the Trinity 
Church mural decorations were the 
earliest in America, so the Public 
Library mural decorations are the 
most famous ; for the endless stream 
of sight-seers which flows up and 
down the great stairway of the Pub- 
lic Library every day in the year 
carries the renown of the institution 
and its contents to the four corners 
of the earth. How much of the in- 
terest is due to the architecture, 
how much to the mural paintings, 
and how much to the collection of 
books, second only in size to that 
of the Library of Congress, so far 
as American libraries are concerned, 
it is impossible to determine; but 
we may be certain that in its noble 
architecture, rich decorations, and 



great collection of books, the Bos- 
ton Public Library is entirely 
worthy of all its international celeb- 

But in addition to its institutional 
assets, its living and producing 
artists, and its existing monuments, 
a city entitled to consideration as an 
art centre must have its history, tra- 
ditions, and atmosphere ; and if Bos- 
ton does not possess these, where 
will you look for them on this side 
of the Atlantic? The very nomen- 
clature of the place reminds us that 
great painters, architects, landscape 
architects, poets, philosophers, his- 
torians, divines, and scholars have 
lived in Boston and are nor forgot- 
ten. Not content with naming a 
whole quarter of the city (the east- 
ern portion of ward twenty-five) 
for Allston, we have besides an Alls- 
ton street, Allston square, Allston 
place, Allston heights, Allston ter- 
race, and a Washington Allston 
school. Copley is honored in the 
name of the most conspicuous square 
in the city and in the name of an 
important and influential artistic 
society. Gilbert Stuart's name has 
been given to a public school and to 
a street. The most eminent of the 
early architects is commemorated in 
the popular and significant cogno- 
men of the Bulfinch State-House. 
A beautiful park is named for 
Frederick Law Olmsted. We have 
also Longfellow Park, Longfellow 
street, Lowell Park, Lowell street, 
Philips Brooks House, Emerson 
Hall, Holmes Field, Holmes avenue, 
Channing Hall, Whittier street, 
Parker street, Hawthorne street, 
Palfrey street, Dana street, Trum- 
bull street. We are reminded by 
such names of the fact that Boston 
lias been the cradle of arts in 
America as well as of political lib- 
erty. Because the greatest of her 

poets are dead in no degree lessens 
either their glory or hers. Their 
works do live after them, and are 
neither forgot nor neglected. Poets 
and other artists do not cease to 
exert their civilizing influence after 
they have passed away ; on the con- 
trary their influence is often more 
potent, more vital, after they have 
left us, than before. Nor are the 
influence and fame of Copley, Stuart, 
Allston, Trumbull, Bulfinch and 
Olmsted, Longfellow, Lowell, Emer- 
son, Holmes, and the rest confined 
to Boston, to New England, or even 
to America. No complete account 
of the artistic, intellectual and moral 
movements of the nineteenth cen- 
tury in the New World can be 
written without giving a conspicu- 
ous place to the names of these 
leaders of thought and action who 
have made deep and lasting marks 
upon the history of their time. 
Were Boston ever to become indif- 
ferent to the lustre shed upon the 
whole nation by such sons of hers 
as these, it would indeed be her day 
of shame. 

Perhaps the greatest service ren- 
dered to mankind by any of them 
are those of him who has but lately 
passed away, full of years and 
honors, — the supreme artist in his 
glorious field of work, chief of all 
landscape architects. When we re- 
member what has been accom- 
plished, not only in Boston, but in 
almost every large American city 
as well, during the last half century, 
under the direct inspiration of this 
peerless artist; when we recall 
what a magic transformation has 
taken place, how beauty has been 
made to supplant ugliness, order to 
take the place of chaos, and the 
noblest of all scenes and prospects 
called into being where there was 
nothing but squalor and dreary 



wastes; when we contemplate this 
apparent miracle of constructive 
genius, we are amazed and awed by 
the mighty work of Frederick Law 
Olmsted, and our gratitude and ad- 
miration can hardly be too great. 
Like all great artists, his concep- 
tions and methods were simple in 
the extreme, and he obtained his 
most impressive results by conform- 
ing loyally to the laws of nature. 
His views concerning his own art 
were so sagacious, his motives were 
so pure and generous, his purposes 
so beneficent and humane, that I am 
inclined to believe he will go down 
in history as the most useful if not 
the greatest of nineteenth century 
American artists. 

In his "Notes on the Plan of 
Franklin Park and related matters," 
published by the Department of 
Parks, Boston, 1886, he wrote as fol- 
lows : "A man's eyes cannot be 
as much occupied as they are in large 
cities by artificial things, or by 
natural things seen under obvious- 
ly artificial conditions, without a 
harmful effect; first on his mental 
and nervous system, and ultimately- 
on his entire constitutional organi- 
zation. That relief from this evil is 
to be obtained through recreation is 
often said, 'without sufficient dis- 
crimination as to the nature of the 
recreation required. The several 
varieties of recreation to be obtained 
in churches, newspapers, theatres, 
picture galleries, billiard rooms, 
base ball- grounds, trotting courses, 
and flower gardens, may each serve 
to supply a mitigating influence. 
An influence is desirable, however, 
that, acting through the eye, shall 
be more than mitigative, that shall 
be antithetical, reversive, and anti- 
dotal. Such an influence is found 
in-'.-. . the enjoyment of pleasing 
rural scenery. . . . Given sufficient 

space, scenery of much simpler ele- 
ments than are found in the site of 
Franklin Park may possess the 
soothing ' charm which lies in the 
qualities' of breadth, distance, depth, 
intricacy, atmospheric perspective, 
and mystery. It may have pictur- 
esque passages, (that is to say, more 
than picturesque objects or pictur- 
esque 'bits'). It may have passages, 
indeed, of an aspect approaching 
grandeur and sublimity.. . . As a 
seat of learning and an 'Academy', 
Boston is yet the most metropolitan 
of American cities. . . The Park, if 
designed, formed and conducted dis- 
creetly to that end, will be an im- 
portant addition to the Advantages 
possessed by the city in the Athe- 
naeum, in the Museum of Art, in 
the examples of art presented in 
some recent structures and their em- 
bellishments, and in the societies 
and clubs through which students 
are brought into community with 
men of knowledge, broad views, and 
sound sentiment in art. To see 
something of its value in this re- 
spect, imagine a ground as near the 
centre of exchange of the city as the 
Agassiz Museum or the Cambridge 
Observatory, in which, for years, 
care has been taken to cherish 
broad passages of scenery, formed 
by hills, dales, rocks, woods, and 
humbler growths natural to the cir- 
cumstances, without effort to obtain 
effects in the least of a 'bric-a-brac', 
'Jappy,' or in any way exotic or 
highly seasoned quality. What 
would be the value of such a piece 
of property as an adjunct of a school 
of art ? The words of a great literary 
artist may suggest the answer : 'You 
will never love art till you love what 
she mirrors better'." 

Such were the thoughts of the 
author of the park system of Boston, 
that metropolitan park system which 



is the crowning glory of the city and 
the state, in which kindly nature has 
been intelligently seconded by art 
in the development of a vast and un- 
surpassed chain of pleasure grounds, 
from the Blue Hills of Milton to 
the Middlesex Fells, and from the 
shores of Revere and Nantasket to 
the remotest banks of the Charles, 
the Mystic and the Neponset, — a 
scheme as remarkable for its organic 
unity as for its endless variety, the 
extent of which stirs the imagina- 
tion by its boldness, and the de- 
tails of which are marked by every 
conceivable kind of landscape charm 
and picturesque beauty preserved 
for all time ; as extraordinary a 
monument to the farsighted public 
spirit of the Commonwealth as it is 
to the genius of Olmsted. 

Yet the central and unique fea- 
ture, still to come, which, after 
years of determined opposition, has 
at length been secured by the legis- 
lation of 1903, — the Charles River 
Basin improvement — means more 
for Boston, as a direct investment 
in civic order, cleanliness, dignity 
and beauty, than any other part of 
the development of the park sys- 
tem ; will go farther towards making 
Boston in certain of its aspects the 
noblest American city than any pre- 
vious step in the planning and build- 
ing of the city ; and, as a hopeful 
experiment in the direction of utiliz- 
ing intelligently the banks of a river 
flowing through a densely popu- 
lous quarter, has the most vital 
interest for all cities similarly situ- 
ated which have not already de- 
stroyed all their opportunities of 
profiting by their riparian privileges. 
The history of the inception, de- 
velopment, and final success of the 
Charles River Basin improvement 
project, with its essential adjunct of 
a dam and lock occupying substan- 

tially the site of the present Craigie 
bridge, for the purpose of holding 
back all tides and of maintaining, in 
the basin above the dam, a substan- 
tially permanent water level not less 
than eight feet above Boston base, 
thus doing away with the noisome 
mud flats which now render the ad- 
jacent territory almost uninhabitable 
in the summer, and infinitely better- 
ing the appearance as well as the 
sanitary condition of the river banks, 
is an interesting and instructive 
chapter in artistic and hygienic legis- 
lation for cities. How the three 
principal elements of opposition 
were overcome by a policy of tact, 
conciliation and opportunism, so 
that Chapter 465 of the Acts and 
Resolves of 1903 stands on the 
statute books of the Commonwealth 
today, we either know or can 
shrewdly guess. The hostility of 
the influential residents on the 
"water side" of Beacon street was 
eliminated or neutralized by a ma- 
terial concession to their interests; 
that is to say, by striking out the 
clause in the original plan which 
called for the filling-in of a strip of 
land wide enough to permit the 
building of an additional row of 
houses ow ..the Boston side of the 
Basin, and substituting a relatively 
inoffensive provision for a strip just 
wide enough for an esplanade, with 
drives, walks, trees and shrubbery, 
between the existing houses on the 
"water side" of Beacon street and 
the embankment. By reading be- 
tween the lines of the act as it 
stands, it is perceived that section 
11 must have had its teeth drawn, 
so far as the Beacon street people 
are concerned. Section 11 runs 
thus : "The board of park commis- 
sioners of the city of Boston may, 
with the approval of the mayor, 
build a wall or embankment on the 



Boston side of the Charles River 
beginning at a point in the south- 
west corner of the stone wall of the 
Charlesbank, thence running 
southerly by a straight or curved 
line to a point in Charles River not 
more than three hundred feet distant 
westerly from the Harbor Commis- 
sioners' line, measuring on a line 
perpendicular to the said commis- 
sioners' line at its intersection with 
the southerly line of Mount Vernon 
street, but in no place more than 
three hundred feet westerly from 
said commissioners' line ; thence 
continuing southerly and westerly 
by a curved line to a point one hun- 
dred feet or less from the wall in 
the rear of Beacon street ; thence by 
a line substantially parallel with 
said wall to the easterly line of the 
Back Bay Fens, extended to inter- 
sect said parallel line." 

1 Of course, the ideal water park 
at this point would be immeasurably 
improved in appearance by having 
the houses along its banks face the 
Basin instead of turning their backs 
upon it ; but when one can not get all 
that one wants, the part of wisdom 
is to take what one can get; there- 
fore I find it good policy on the part 
of the promoters of the project — 
the original bill was drawn by a 
joint board consisting of the State 
Board of Health and the Metropoli- 
tan Park Commissioners, and it was 
a favorite project of the lamented 
Charles Eliot, — to yield a minor 
point in order to attain success for 
the larger purpose in view. 

Then there was the stout oppo- 
sition of the Land and Harbor 
Commissioners of Boston to be met. 
This board held, and brought expert 
witnesses to testify, that the dam- 
ming of the Charles so near its 
mouth would result in serious injury 
to the channel of Boston harbor, by 

removing or modifying the scouring 
of the currents ; but this theory was 
so thoroughly and convincingly 
traversed by eminent expert wit- 
nesses on the other side that, after a 
long series of hearings, and much 
evidence pro and con, the weight of 
the testimony seemed to rest with 
the advocates of the project; at all 
events, the opposition from this par- 
ticular quarter was seriously weak- 

There remained, finally, the hos- 
tility of the United States War De- 
partment, whose consistent and 
habitual policy of resistance to all 
attempts to close or impede the 
navigation of rivers is well known. 
In order to overcome its opposition 
to the construction of the dam, a 
huge lock, not less than three hun- 
dred and fifty feet in length between 
the gates, forty feet in width, and 
thirteen feet in depth below Boston 
base, was provided for, and it was 
shown that the commerce of the 
Charles above the site of Craigie 
bridge was insignificant, consisting 
merely of fuel and building ma- 
terials in comparatively small quan- 
tities ; further, that this commerce 
was diminishing rather than increas- 
ing, owing to two factors, — first, the 
superior facilities offered by the rail- 
roads ; and, second, the progressive 
removal of manufactories and coal- 
yards from the shores of the river 
because of the successive seizures 
of those shores for park purposes 
by the Metropolitan Park Commis- 
sioners. Thus, by shrewd argument, 
timely concessions, and cogent dem- 
onstrations of the positive advan- 
tages to be gained, the cause was 
won, after a pretty fight, in which 
both sides were represented by 
weighty and sagacious advocates ; 
and, unless such men as the mem- 
bers of the Massachusetts Board of 



Health and the Metropolitan Park 
Commission, backed by President 
Eliot, former Mayor Matthews, and 
President Pritchett of the Institute 
of Technology, are gravely mis- 
taken, Greater Boston has now en- 
tered -upon a policy with regard to 
the Charles River and its Basin 
which is destined to have far-reach- 
ing effects on the future develop- 
ment of this important and beauti- 
ful portion of its domain ; effects 
which may be decisive in turning 
the central metropolitan region 
toward an architectural and monu- 
mental ideal more ambitious and 
more majestic than anything yet at- 
tempted in America on so great a 
scale, with the single exception of 
the New Washington planned by 
the recent report of the McKim- 
Burnham commission. 

In naming and grouping the 
several characteristics of an art 
centre, I alluded to a definite pub- 
lic policy as to civic art, and I had 
in mind especially four subjects up- 
on which Massachusetts, acting for 
Boston, has taken what may be con- 
sidered advanced ground. The 
metropolitan park system we have 
already glanced at in speaking of 
Olmsted and the Charles River 
Basin improvement, and that we 
need not revert to except to say that 
the taking of something over four- 
teen thousand acres of land for pur- 
poses of recreation in the metropoli- 
tan district, and the expenditure of 
something oyer twelve.- millions for 
the municipal park system, proves 
that the million people of Greater 
Boston fully realize the opportuni- 
ties and obligations in this matter 
of a great metropolitan community, 
are confident of the future growth 
and prosperity of the district, and 
of the ability of the population to 

take care of the financial burden in- 
volved in such a vast enterprise. 

The other three questions upon 
which the Commonwealth has taken 
enlightened action in behalf of the 
city are the establishment of the 
Boston Art Commission, the regula- 
tion of the height of buildings, and 
prohibition of advertising abuses on 
the borders of parks and parkways. 
While New York is still allowing 
the erection of scores of Babylonic 
sky-scrapers, edifices which, for the 
most part, are at once inartistic 
monstrosities and immoral impo- 
sitions, since they rob whole neigh- 
borhoods of sunlight and air, besides 
imperilling the entire city by their 
liability to start unmanageable con- 
flagations, Boston enjoys the bene- 
fit of a law which makes it impos- 
sible to build beyond the height of 
one hundred and twenty-five feet 
from the ground, — a restriction 
which is not as radical as it should 
be, doubtless, but which, on the 
other hand, is so much more radical 
than the restrictions of any other 
large city in the United States, that 
it marks the extreme point to which 
legislation on this subject has been 
pushed in a country where individu- 
al freedom to create public nuisances 
is so zealously guarded. One hun- 
dred and twenty-five feet is too 
much, but it is not so bad as two 
hundred and fifty feet, for instance. 
Eleven stories is the virtual limit 
of height under the Boston law, and 
that, in these days, relative to the 
New York standard, is not so very 
high. Better, far better, is the 
Parisian building law, which, by fix- 
ing the extreme limit of height at 
about sixty-six feet (twenty metres), 
makes it practically impossible to put 
up a building higher than six stories. 
Such a regulation as this takes into 
account three important things : — 



the safety of the city, its general 
appearance with reference to archi- 
tectural symmetry and proportion, 
and the right of the inhabitants to 
enjoy each his or her due share of 
air and daylight. Until an Ameri- 
can city shows, by official action, an 
equal consideration for the rights 
of its people, its architectural ap- 
pearance, and its safety, we must 
be contented to remain the conscious 
inferiors of the Parisians in some 
of the most fundamental essentials 
of civilization. 

Boston was the first American 
city to create a municipal art com- 
mission for the purpose of control- 
ling the erection and location of 
statues, fountains, ornamental 
arches and gateways, monuments 
and memorials of any kind, and to 
give its advice, at the request of the 
mayor, aldermen or common council, 
as to the suitability of the design 
for any public building, bridge, or 
other structure. Two valuable pre- 
cedents with respect to the disposal 
of undesirable public monuments 
have been afforded in recent years 
by the action of the municipal 
authorities. The Coggswell foun- 
tain, a paltry and lamentable com- 
position, which had been placed in 
a particularly conspicuous part of 
the Common, was summarily re- 
moved, and has neither been seen 
nor heard of since, — a municipal 
coup de main which almost justifies 
the existence of the Board of Alder- 
men. The portrait statue of Colonel 
Thomas N. Cass, of the Ninth Regi- 
ment, — a small granite figure, which, 
by general consent, was not calcu- 
lated to reflect honor either on the 
gallant soldier himself or on the 
community that sanctioned such a 
memorial, — was removed from its lo- 
cation in the Public Garden, and an 
excellent bronze statue by Richard 

Brooks was set up in its place. Two 
delicate problems were thus solved. 
The Coggswell fountain deserved 
no consideration, and no considera- 
tion was given to it ; the Cass statue 
was, with all its shortcomings, a 
well-meant memorial to a brave of- 
ficer and a useful regiment, there- 
fore it was removed only to be sup- 
planted by a worthier successor. 
Of the two measures cited, the 
latter is the wiser in most cases, and 
provides a precedent which may be 
commended to other cities which 
have accepted, not wisely, but too 
courteously, such impossible gifts 
as the Bolivar equestrian statue in 
New York, which has been taken 
from its pedestal, but not replaced,, 
as it should be, by a better statue. 
The establishment of the Boston Art 
Commission was not a day too early, 
and it was followed by the creation 
of a similar board in New York, ft 
may be taken for granted that no 
more Coggswell fountains nor Boli- 
vars will rise to vex the citizens of 
these two cities. We shall still see 
more or less mediocre monuments 
built, but it is not possible today 
for absurd and hopeless travesties 
upon art to be dumped in our public 
grounds as they once were without 
let or hindrance. 

It remains to mention the recently 
enacted law against advertising 
abuses. This act, passed in 1903, 
simply provides that the Metropoli- 
tan Park Commission and the officer 
or officers having charge of public 
parks and parkways in any city or 
town may make "such reasonable 
rules and regulations respecting the 
display of signs, posters or adver- 
tisements in, or near to, and visible 
from public parks and parkways en- 
trusted to their care, as they may 
deem necessary for preserving the 
objects for which such parks and 



parkways are established and main- 
tained." Under the authority of 
this act, the Board of Park Commis- 
sioners of the City of Boston issued 
a notice on July 7, 1903, to the effect 
that within five hundred feet of a 
parkway or boundary road of any 
park "no person shall display . . . any 
sign, poster or advertisement, except 
such as relates only to the business 
conducted on the premises, . . . and 
none shall be so displayed on the 
outside of a building, except signs 
on stone, metal, wood, or glass, not 
exceeding fifteen inches in width, 
and these shall be displayed only 
on windows, one on each side of 
any entrance, and one in one other 
place . . . provided, however, that 
signs, posters or advertisements not 
exceeding in size three feet by four 
feet and relating only to the selling 
or letting of premises may be dis- 
played as aforesaid on such prem- 
ises ; and providing further that no 
sign, poster or advertisement shall 
be displayed as aforesaid on or 
above a roof or by painting on a 
building, wall, or fence." 

At this writing, the above-named 
rules and regulations are not obeyed, 
and it is evidently the purpose of 
those whose interests are affected 
by them to test the constitutionality 
of the rules, and possibly also the 
act itself, in the courts. It will 
soon be made clear, therefore, 
whether the Commonwealth and the 
Boston Park Commissioners have 
gone beyond their legitimate powers 
in attempting to regulate in a mild 
degree this admitted and arrogant 
evil ; if it shall turn out that they 
have done so, we may presume that 
the fault lies in the form rather than 
in the intention of the regulations, 
which are assuredly for the public 

good, and are supported by public 
sentiment, so far as it has made 
itself heard. In fact, if one may 
judge from the emphatic and fre- 
quent remarks of travellers on 
trains, steam-boats, trolley-cars, and 
other public conveyances, it appears 
probable that more sweeping re- 
strictive measures, such as those 
recently inaugurated in some Ger- 
man cities, would meet with general 
approval if a legal way could be 
found to reach the advertising nui- 
sance without infringing on vested 

If I have not cited better reasons 
for conceding to Boston some right 
to "look down on the mob of cities" 
than those brought forward by the 
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, I 
will ask the gentle reader to agree 
with Mr. Herbert Croly, that Bos- 
ton has "almost" ceased to be an art 
centre. I do not understand what 
Dr. Holmes means when he says 
that the real offence of Boston is 
that it "drains a large water-shed 
of its intellect, and will not itself 
be drained." On the contrary, it 
seems to me that all art, and es- 
pecially all literary art, is, in the 
very nature of things, a perpetual 
out-giving, and can no more be lo- 
calized, pent up, monopolized, than 
the winds of heaven. I can under- 
stand, however, the mood in which 
Emerson addressed Boston as : 

"Thou darling town of ours !" 

For I have had the privilege of 
seeing the great city, on several oc- 
casions, when it was aroused and 
thrilled by a generous enthusiasm, 
when one could feel that it was a 
fine thing to be a Bostonian, when 
one might truly say, that it was well 
to be a citizen of no mean city. 

An Old Town by the Sea 

By Hayes Robbins 

Part-author of "Outlines of Political Science" and "Outlines of Social Economics. 


4 6t 1 7HOEVER shall shoot off 
a gun at any game what- 
soever, except at an Indian 
or a wolf, shall forfeit 5s. for such 
default." So decreed the Scituate 
forefathers away back in 1675, when 
ammunition happened to be more 
scarce than usual. 

It was the ill-fated Indian who 
had roamed these stony beaches, 
trailed through the dank woods, 
threaded the broad marshlands, 
greeted the sunrise from the cliffs, 
paddled along the "cold brook," and 
from it given the region its name, 
Satuit; watched in amazement the 
coming of the white intruder but 
fifty years before, had resented it, 
done savage deeds, and now found 
himself and his new friend, the 
wolf, the only two kinds of "game" 
upon which it was impossible to 
spend too much powder and ball. 
Puritan theology, after the first few 
failures to dislodge his Great Spirit 
and Happy Hunting Grounds from 
the red man's recesses of faith, de- 
cided that a soul within a red man 
was impossible anyway. Thence- 
forth let him be a wolf to ajl men. 
Very well, then ; if wolf he must 
be, wolf he would be, wolf he was : 
and he went the way of the wolf 
in the long, hard, cruel days and 
years that crushed the outer doings 
of his untutored mind, of his em- 
bittered heart,- of his wild, uncom- 
prehended instincts, under the heel 
of a civilization that deserved to 

come but, alas ! was only in its own 
rough forming through it all. 

Those were the days of eld. 
There is little to recall them in the 
quaint and varying charm of this 
rugged seacoast today. In his role 
of lawful game our Indian has no 
successor, — unless, world-wise sus- 
picion within the newcomer dares 
to whisper, unless it be the summer 
boarder, — but perish the thought ! 
Elsewhere, perhaps, but here, never ! 
His fitness for the part has not yet 
been grasped, and that is one reason 
why it is well to come here when 
other refuge fails. No : the marsh- 
birds are the only game that re- 
ceives much attention now ; and 
judging from the morn-till-night 
"crack" here and "crack" there of 
the sportsmen's rifles it would seem 
that no such heroic measures are 
needed as the Scituate forefathers 
provided, for the common defence, 
no doubt, in the enactment that 
"Every householder shall kill and 
bring in six blackbirds yearly, be- 
tween the 1 2th and the last day of 
May, on the penalty of forfeiting for 
the town's use 6d, for every bird 
short of that number." 

Modern pilgrims to Plymouth, 
embark in modern Mayflowers on 
no more hazardous a cruise than an 
excursion from Boston, readily 
make out four bold promontories 
about half way down the south 
shore. These are the sea bulwarks 
of Scituate ; sloping up gently from 



inshore and reaching a height of 
perhaps 75 to 100 feet where the 
edges break in sheer descent to the 
surf-harassed beach below. After 
the slow attrition of ages, these four 
cliffs are still the most conspicuous 
landmarks on the coast, but every 
season shown fresh inroads, and in 
the process of the years line after 
line of summer cottages, especially 
on Third Cliff, must needs retreat 
from the brink, if indeed Neptune, 
does not snatch them before they 

was "the fence at the north end of 
the Third Cliffe." 

Those were the days of stern be- 
liefs. Scituate, at one time, became 
the stronghold of the Quakers, but 
it had its share in the earliest per- 
secutions. Woe to the swain who 
took to himself a wife, Quaker 
fashion : his fine was more than he 
need have paid for an orderly ortho- 
dox ceremony. One too aggressive 
Quaker was fined and publicly 
whipped for enticing "young per- 


have time. It is of record that the 
Third Cliff has wasted fully one- 
half since the white man first 
climbed its broad back. 

That must have been soon after 
the Pilgrim fathers landed at Plym- 
outh, twenty miles below; but the 
earliest record of actual settlement 
in Scituate is for 1628. Evidently 
the cliffs were a favorite tract from 
the first; this early record being a 
conveyance from one Henry Merritt 
to Nathaniel Tilden of a parcel of 
land, whereof one of the boundaries 

sons to come and hear their false 
teachers." Another offender was 
fined and whipped for "railing on" 
a prominent exponent of orthodoxy 
and calling him a "false prophet." 
But with the accession of Charles 
II., whose ban on these proceed- 
ings coincided with a gradual change 
of sentiment in the colonies them- 
selves, the persecutions died out, 
and one of the leading local perse- 
cutors, Edward Wanton, became a 
convert to the Quaker faith and the 
first preacher of the Friends' society 



in Scituate. Whatever of soften- 
ing influence these kindly folk may 
have diffused throughout the com- 
munity is not of record, but certain 
it is that when the insanity of witch 
persecution swept through the 
eastern colonies, Scituate refrained. 
Two supposed "witches" from Scitu- 
ate were indeed tried in Plymouth 
county, but neither was convicted. 
In one case, the principal accuser 
was herself sentenced to be whipped 
for bearing false witness, — the chief 
item, in which, was her declaration 
that she had seen a "beare" in the 
path and believed it to be William 
Holmes' wife (the accused), prowl- 
ing about in the form of a beast. 

Stern patriotism was here also. 
Scituate sent its quota of loyal sons 
to the revolutionary army, and sup- 
plied one of the first — perhaps the 
first — application of the boycott 
that found its way into colonial his- 
tory. There were two shopkeepers 
who, in 1775, "publickly declined to 
recognize" the "Continental Asso- 
ciation," and it was decided that 
"The inhabitants of this Town do 
hereby resolve to break off all deal- 
ing whatsoever with said refractory 
shopkeepers, until they shall give 
publick and absolute satisfaction 
touching their open refractoriness 
relative to said salutary association." 
Later, in the second war with Eng- 
land, the daughters of the Scituate 
lighthouse keeper, Rebecca and Abi- 
gail Bates, on the night of an at- 
tempted invasion, marched up and 
down the rocky beach, performing 
so furiously on fife and drum that 
the enemy believed a powerful 
American force must be in waiting 
for them and gave up the effort to 
land. This is the story, at any rate, 
and the local inhabitant assures you 
it has "been put in the history 
books" and hence must be true. 

It was somewhere off this coast — 
no living being knows where — that 
the ill-fated "Portland" met her 
doom in the terrific storm of Novem- 
ber 27th, 1898. This tempest is the 
calendar-point from which many 
things date in recent Scituate an- 
nals. It was then that a mile of 
natural sea-wall between Third and 
Fourth Cliffs was shattered like a 
pasteboard dike, thousands of tons 
of stone being swept inshore and 
turned sidewise, like the opening of 
a ponderous gate. The waters 
flooded the marshes for miles, and 
left a broad, deep connecting chan- 
nel to the sea which has permanent- 
ly cut off all communication between 
Third and Fourth Cliffs, and made 
access to Fourth Cliff a matter of 
several miles of roundabout detour 
by way of Greenbush and Marsh- 

The same storm brought ashore a 
small sailing vessel, of about 100 
feet length and 21 feet beam, the 
pilot boat "Columbia," hurling it 
high and dry on the "Sand Hills" 
just north of First Cliff. There 
were five men in the crew, and all 
were lost. Without so much as by- 
your-leave, the boat plowed its way 
through a group of small cottages 
nearest the beach, turned partly 
over, and came to its last anchor 
with the upper story of one of the 
cottages perched on the deck. Ca- 
lamity has brought it more fame, 
however, than a humdrum old age 
in sea service could have promised. 
Behold now, on Scituate beach, an 
ectype of the Peggotty boat on 
Yarmouth Beach, immortalized in 
"David Copperfield !" A door has 
been cut through, and a series of 
little rooms fitted up inside; one of 
them, in the stern, a dainty repro- 
duction of David's tiny bedroom, 
"the completest and most desirable 



bedroom ever seen." Quotations in 
pyrography, descriptive of the origi- 
nal Peggotty boat, appear in all the 
rooms, but if you were not thus as- 
sured to the contrary you would 
be quite as likely to identify the place 
with another creation of the same 
fertile brain, — the Old Curiosity 
Shop. Odd paraphernalia abounds ; 
old sea relics, ancient volumes of 

But Scituate has other titles to 
literary respectability than the Peg- 
gotty boat (and a Peggotty beach, 
at the harbor) afford. Classic 
literature, indeed, finds no more con- 
spicuous association than the "Nulli 
Secundus" blazing forth on both 
sides of a huge station barge, — but, 
lest this be resented as a slander, I 
hasten to add that the literature of 


sea life, uncouth firearms and sal- 
vage from wrecks, — in the latter 
class, a heavy glass bottle containing 
a scrap of torn manila bearing the 
grewsome message, supposed to be 
genuine but not positively known 
to be : "Nov. 27, '98. On board 
SS. Portland. We two are alive yet 
but expect to die soon. J. C. Rad- 
•cliffe. Off Hid. Eight." 

the heart has heard one of its altars 
at which, in imagination, more 
millions have paid homage than ever 
turned a classic page. In quiet old 
Greenbush, just south of Scituate 
Center, are the veritable well-sweep 
and fondly remembered surround- 
ings of the old oaken bucket. The 
bucket itself is supposed to be in a 
Boston museum, but everything 



else remains. "The orchard, the 
meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
wood" are still here, not to forget 
the "wide-spreading pond and the 
mill that stood by it," as picturesque 
as ever, and as rich, no doubt, in 
the qualities that endeared them to 
the heart of the youthful Wood- 
worth. This much in general. In 
particular, it must be confessed that 

tion. This prosaic white box is too 
practical, too cheerful. Moreover, 
the substituted bucket, in decent re- 
spect for its illustrious predecessor, 
ought to be old, and moss-covered, 
and iron-bound, but it is not. The 
quality of the water, however, is the 
one thing that enables you to re- 
flect with proper sadness of spirit 
on the changes time has wrought 


the well-curb does not quite fulfill 
romantic expectations ; it is a plain, 
wooden affair, built fast against the 
side of the house, the whole look- 
ing painfully trim and modern in 
its smart coat of white paint. Some- 
how, the curb once graced by the old 
oaken bucket ought to be of rude, 
moss-covered stones, and in a gen- 
eral state of melancholy dilapida- 

since the thirsty lad of long ago 
"found it the source of an exquisite 
pleasure." The pond is not so very 
wide, and apparently does not 
spread any more than ordinary 
ponds, but it is a picturesque bit in 
this fine old landscape, nevertheless. 
The mill is just a plain old mill, 
and not an oil painting on a brass 
easel. It is quite barren of the over- 



running vines and lowering over- 
shot wheel one would naturally sup- 
pose must have commended it to 
the poet's affections. But then, — 
it isn't everybody who can have as 
suitable a mill to cherish in the 
vistas of auld lang syne. 

Art hath its votaries in Scituate. 
An old barn has been fitted up for 
a summer home and studio by a 
company of artists, who are never 
in want of fresh material in the 
ever-varying aspects of earth, sea 

erally drawn upon in the bestowal 
of local names ; whereof witness, 
Jericho Beach, the Jerusalem road, 
Lake Galilee, a section to the west 
known as Sodom and Gomorrah, 
and a village of Egypt to the north, 
large, flanked with flower beds and 
close-cropped greensward and in fair 
way in one or two more seasons to 
be overrun with vines. There is a 
carriage-horse stable, stallion stable, 
stable for farm horses, riding aca- 
Here in Egypt is situated the 


and sky: — the whitening lines of 
surf roaring along the cliffs ; the 
mile of inturned stone ridge below 
Third Cliff, often half-matted over 
with the tide-wash of curious sea- 
weed and Irish moss, and command- 
ing the double prospect of inrolling 
Atlantic to the east and broad 
marshes to the west, threaded by 
silvery channels, dotted with gun- 
ners' huts, and enlivened by the 
flight of sea fowl overhead ; or the 
thick hedges, wild vines of grape, 
bushes of elderberry, sumach, teem- 
ing orchards and stately elms of 
the inland roadways ; or, seen from 
a cliff road, the harvest moon, 
emerging in tranquil majesty from 
the black watery waste and trans- 
figuring it with a glory not of earth. 
The Hebrew Scriptures were lib- 


country home, model farm and stock 
ranges of Thomas W . Lawson, mil- 
lionaire, yacht builder, and fancy 
stock breeder. This estate — Dream- 
wold — centres around a group of ar- 
tistic buildings; some of them very 
demy, hospital, foaling and three 
broodmare stables, besides the main 
stable, 800 feet in length. For other 
stock, — cattle, dogs, poultry and 
pigeons, spacious quarters are pro- 
vided and equipped with elaborate 
care. A water tower with chimes, 



residences of manager and employees, 
a post-office, business office with 
circulating library, and Mr. Law- 
son's private residence ; all are in- 
cluded in this interesting commu- 
nity, and all repeat, with variety of 
design, a controlling architectural 
motive. Near the private residence 
is a wild garden, seven acres in ex- 
tent, of old-fashioned flowers, 
shrubbery and small fruits. A 
racing track, and within that a 
training track, surround a nine-acre 

from across the marshes and 
meadows to the northwest. 

In the attractive principal school 
building, on the main street be- 
tween the Center and the Harbor, 
there is little to suggest the educa- 
tional privations of earlier days. 
Meagre as the resources were, the 
Scituate forefathers gave what heed 
they could to health of mind, — and, 
for that matter, to health of body 
also ; although their concern for the 
letter does not appear on record in 
any startling fashion until 
less than a century ago. It 
was in 1816 that the town 
pledged its fortunes in be- 
half of universal vaccination, 
voting to have all the inhabi- 
tants vaccinated at the 
princely fee to the surgeon 
of six cents each. This bo- 
nus might not stimulate the 


polo field. Macadamized 
roads connect all parts of the 
estate; which includes 600 
acres, employs from 130 to 
225 men according to the 
season, and cares for 300 
horses, 50 cows, about 100 
dogs and 3000 hens. The 
water tower belongs to the 
village, but Mr. Lawson, by 
permission, has remodeled it 
on artistic lines and equipped it with 
a set of chimes which are played 
every evening, from 7 to 8. Few 
Scituate experiences are more de- 
lightful than a summer evening in a 
comfortable porch chair, just within 
sound of the rhythmic rise and fall 
of the surf to the east, and of the 
sweet-toned measures of such old 
airs as "Robin Adair," "Auld Lang 
Syne," or the "Old Oaken Bucket," 


cupidity of a latter-day practitioner, 
making his morning round in a 
motor vehicle of late design, but it 
was sufficient in those lean times to 
attract a three-fold competition. 
"There was a pretty general vacci- 
nation," saith the record, "effected 
by Doctors Otis, James and Foster." 
Interest in health of mind dates 
back much farther. Early in the 
17th Century it was arranged with 



"Dea. David Jacob" to keep a 
school, one third of the year at each 
end of the town and one third in 
the middle : and for this he was al- 
lowed the lavish compensation of 
£20 for his services and £20 for 
the school building ; which he was 
supposed to supply among the other 
pedagogical requisites of the po- 
sition. Whether the heroic Deacon 
was expected to build his hundred- 
dollar Hall of Wisdom on rollers, 
so that he could hitch a team to it, 
bestride the gable, and drive off mer- 
rily to the other end of the town 
every four months, does not appear. 
At all events, seven years later it was 
ordered that the school be kept in 
the middle of the town only ; but 
the respective ends, once accustomed 
to the nearer mien of migratory 
Learning, must have risen in rebel- 
lion against this bold monopoly, 
since in the following year, 1711, it 
was voted to maintain an additional 
school at each extremity of Scitu- 
ate, an expense of £16 per school, 
that in the middle to have £32. 

The coast fisheries in those days 
were a much more important source 
of revenue than now, relatively at 
any rate. It is still an important 
item, supplemented by truck farm- 
ing, fruit raising, and mossing,— the 
latter a somewhat unique industry 
of growing value. The Irish moss, 
found on the rocks along the south 
shore, is of good quality and exten- 
sively used as one of the raw ma- 
terials in certain manufacturing 
processes, chiefly in the making of 
blanc mange, into which it is readily 
converted and with small waste. 
The homes of most of the "mossers" 

are cliff cottages, which they rent 
during the summer, and occupy 
small huts built on the sands, while 
the season lasts. When first gath- 
ered, the moss is almost black; it is 
sun-cured on the hot sands until it 
bleaches, first purple, then almost 
white, ready for the market; and in 
this shore work the wives of the 
mossers are efficient helpers. As 
much as $1000 is sometimes made by 
a single family during the season. 

The summer resident and summer 
boarder interest is, of course, a 
source of income supplementary to 
all the others, directly or indirectly. 
Scituate is more hospitable to the 
would-be guest of to-day than in the 
early years when the town's prudent 
conservators in solemn conclave de- 
creed that "If any person shall en- 
tertayn any stranger, after being ad- 
monished by a committee chosen 
for such purpose, he shall forfeit 
and pay 10s. for each week." 
The accompanying apology for this 
law says that by reason of enter- 
taining too many strangers the town 
was "coming to be burdened." 

The wayfarer is not so regarded 
now, nor have his kind arrived in 
sufficient numbers, as yet, to be a 
burden to each other. In brief, the 
summer resort role has not been 
overdone to the point of destroying 
Scituate's rural charm and the true 
salt flavor of seacoast life ; somewhat 
modified, indeed, but unspoiled by 
gimcrack amusements and huge dis- 
figurements of nature. This is not 
the least of the reasons why a so- 
journ among these quiet hamlets in 
their picturesque setting is still so 
well worth while. 

The Armenian Monastery in Venice 

By Mary Mills Patrick, Ph. D. 

President of the American College, Constantinople 

THE fall of the Campanile in the 
Piazza at Venice in 1902 
attracted the eyes of all the 
world to that unique romantic old 
city. Yet few of the visitors to 
Venice find their way to the Monas- 
tery of St. Lazare. 

This monastery consists of an im- 
posing pile of buildings of a red 
brick color, situated on the isle of 
St. Lazare in the Lagoon of Venice. 
It was founded by Mekhitar, an Ar- 
menian priest, in 1740, and forms 
at the present time the most im- 
portant center of Armenian learn- 
ing outside of the Turkish Empire. 

To visit the monastery of St. 
Lazare, one embarks in a gondola 
near the site of the old Campanile, 
and sails off over the still water of 
the Lagoon, that is not like any other 
in the world, and after a trip of half 
or three-quarters of an hour, accord- 
ing to the speed of the gondolier, 
lands at the very door of the mon- 
astery, to which marble stairs lead 
from the water's edge. As the visi- 
tor steps out of the gondola, he is 
met by one of the monks clad in a 
long black robe such as eastern 
ecclesiastics always wear, bound by 
a leather belt, but not wearing the 
long hair that characterizes the 
monks of the Orthodox Greek 

The atrium, or small garden, is 
beautifully kept, and adorned with 
many varieties of tropical trees and 
shrubs, prominent among which are 


the scarlet pomegranate blossoms. 
In a retired corner of the garden is 
a small vineyard that furnishes a 
white wine used for sacramental 
purposes, and dignified by the name 
of "Wine of Ararat." The arcades 
of the cloisters shut the garden in 
from the sea, and broad stairs lead 
to the corridors, and over all tran- 
quility reigns, for in this secluded 
island there is no noise of traffic or 
social intercourse, and the silence 
is only broken by the sighing of the 
wind among the few Cypress trees, 
and the beating of the gentle waves 
against the stone embankment. 

The entrance hall at St. Lazare 
is very fine, and gives the visitor the 
impression of a far greater degree 
of elegance and taste than Ar- 
menians have been able to attain 
in their public buildings in the 
Turkish Empire. 

The monks are very proud of 
their church, which is of Gothic 
architecture, and was remodeled 
from the remains of an old edifice 
dating back to the twelfth century. 
The vaulted roof is sustained by 
columns of red marble and there are 
five altars. At the foot of the high 
altar lies the tomb of Mekhitar the 
founder, the marble slab which cov- 
ers it bearing an inscription in Ar- 
menian. One of the chief paintings 
in the church is the picture of St. 
Mesrob, the constructor of the Ar- 
menian alphabet, and on each side 
of the door are inscriptions in Latin 



and Armenian commemorating a 
visit of Pope Pius VII. to the mon- 
astery in 1800. 

All the services conducted here 
are in ancient Armenian, as is the 
case in all Armenian, or Gregorian 
churches, but the sermons are in 
the spoken language. The only dif- 
ference to be noticed between these 
services, and those in other Ar- 
menian churches is that the name of 
the Pope is mentioned instead of 

through the kindness of Armenian 
ladies in Constantinople. The 
music of the service consists of the 
intoning of the sacred anthems of 
the old Christian poets of Armenia, 
some of which were composed as 
early as the fifth century A. D. 
These chants are monotonous, and 
somewhat nasal, but have neverthe- 
less a peculiar beauty of their own. 
On all great occasions at the mon- 
astery, an Ottoman banner, pre- 


that of the Catholicos of Etchmiad- 
zin, which is a vast monastery built 
on the site of the ancient capital of 
Armenia, and is the residence of the 
supreme Patriarch, the head of all 
Gregorian churches. The ritual at 
St. Lazare is very imposing on great 
fete days when the church dignita- 
ries are clad in gorgeous costumes 
of various brilliant shades of color, 
and embroidered in pearls and silk, 

sented by Sultan Abd-ul-Medjid, 
floats from a high mast on the shore 
of the island. 

To the student the most interest- 
ing rooms in the monastery are the 
library and manuscript room, as here 
are collected all treasures of his- 
toric and literary interest. The li- 
brary, the ceiling of which is 
adorned by medallions of various 
saints of the Roman and Gregorian 



churches, contains thirty thousand 
volumes, principally books on re- 
ligious and scientific subjects, 
among which are some choice 
editions of literary treasures. Be- 
sides books the library contains a 
valuable numismatic collection, and 
some of the coins which belonged 
to the old kingdom of Armenia, as 
well as the medals of Armenia, are 
very attractive to the numismatist. 
On a stand in the library rests a 
bust of Mekhitar, executed by the 
Chevalier Fabris, a distinguished 
pupil of Canova. 

The greatest wealth of the mon- 
astery is found in the manuscript 
room. Here is the most valuable 
collection of Armenian manu- 
scripts in Europe, although there is 
a finer one in Etchmiadzin. 

The printing establishment of the 
monastery merits particular atten- 
tion, for from the time of Mekhitar 
until the present, the presses of St. 
Lazare have produced a consider- 
able number of books annually, 
which are circulated not only among 
Armenians in Turkey, but are also 
sent to many other parts of the. 
world. The monks of St. Lazare 
have received five prizes of the first 
class for excellence in printing, and 
to this monastery the world owes 
valuable editions of the Armenian 

Mekhitar was a patriotic and de- 
voted priest, whose name signifies 
"Consoler." He was born in Sivas 
in Asia Minor, and was educated in 
the church. His ideas did not, how- 
ever, entirely coincide with those 
taught in his national religion, and 
he left Sivas for Constantinople 
when quite a young man, and began 
preaching in Galata near the bridge 
across the Golden Horn. The re- 
sult of his preaching was that he 
was charged with holding free ideas, 

and suffered so much persecution 
from his own nation that he was 
obliged to leave the country. He 
turned to the Republic of Venice 
for encouragement, as he wished to 
find circumstances advantageous for 
the printing of books and the estab- 
lishment of a literary center. Morea 
then belonged to Venice and he 
founded a monastery at Modon in 
Morea. Twelve years later, how- 
ever, Morea was invaded by 
enemies of Venice, and the Ar- 
menian monastery was burned. It 
was then that Mekhitar turned to 
the city of Venice, and on the eighth 
of September, 1717, the senate of 
the then powerful Republic ceded 
to the Armenian community the isle 
of St. Lazare. 

To the Mekhitarists is due the re- 
vival of Armenian literature in the 
eighteenth century, and the result 
has been a development that is re- 
markable in the absence of national 
unity. Progress in Indo European 
philology has demanded the study 
of the Armenian language, and con- 
sequently the monastery of St. 
Lazare has been of benefit not only 
to the Armenian nation, but to the 
world at large. The language is of 
special importance because of the 
antiquity of the nation, the found- 
ing of which is attributed, by tra- 
dition, to Haig, the fifth descendant 
from Noah. It is an offshoot of the 
Iranian branch of the Indo Ger- 
manic family of languages, and its 
earliest stage was represented in 
cuneiform inscriptions, such as 
those now found in Van in Asia 
Minor. Armenian did not become 
a written language, however, until 
after the nation accepted Christian- 
ity, which was in the fourth century, 
under the preaching of Gregory, the 
Illuminator, from whom the church 
received the name Gregorian, or as 



it is called in Armenian, the "Illumi- 
nated." The Gregorian church has 
been an independent organization 
since the council of Chalcedon in the 
fifth century A. D., shortly after 
which it separated from the other 
branches of the eastern church, on 
account of a disagreement in regard 
to some minor doctrines in the 

Early in the fifth century the 
monk Mesrob, to whom reference 
has already been made, invented an 
alphabet of thirty-eight characters. 
This unwieldly and difficult expres- 
sion of a rather guttural language 
is still in use, and an illustration of 
it is given here consisting of a se- 
lection from the Gospel of Matthew, 
written by the Armenian queen, 
Mulchas, in the ninth century A. 

The queen says : "This is the Gospel 
which I, Mulchas, queen of Armenia, write 
with my own hands at my own expense 
for my benefit, and that of my husband, 
and for the benefit of his children. Who- 
ever reads it will remember us in prayer 
before the Mother of God, and God the 
merciful will have pity on us. Remember 
also in Christ, the priests Andreas and 
George, into whose hands I intrust this 

Most of the oldest Armenian 
literature is of a religious character. 
The Bible was translated early in 
the fifth century A. D. St. Isaac, 
who was then Patriarch of the Ar- 
menian church, translated the Old 
Testament from the Septuagint, and 
Mesrob himself translated the New 
Testament. This translation is still 
in use in the Gregorian church. The 
oldest Armenian historian was 
Moses of Khoren, who lived in the 
sixth century A. D. We find in his 
books the traditional and historical 
songs of the early ages of develop- 
ment of the nation, and important 
quotations from well known Greek 

authors, in addition to his original 
work as a historian. The only pas- 
sages now extant of the tragedy of 
the Peliades by Euripides, and of 
the book of Philo of Alexandria on 
Providence, are found in a rhetoric 
written by Moses of Khoren. In 
general very few of the works in 
ancient Armenian literature are 
original, and their value consists in 
their frequent reference to contem- 
poraneous literature and history. 

After the conquest of Italy by Na- 
poleon the Mekhitarists founded a 
national Academy in imitation of 
the French, and to this body Lord 


Byron and Sylvester de Lacy for- 
merly belonged. It contains also at 
the present time some learned 
foreigners who are devoted to the 
study of Armenian. This Academy 
edits certain works which are pub- 
lished annually, and issues a month- 
ly journal, called the Polyhistor. 

One of the curiosities of the mon- 
astery of St. Lazare is the visitors' 
book, where the humble name of 
the ordinary visitor stands side by 
side with the names of kings and 
distinguished scholars. Lord 
Byron's name is one of the first of 
this remarkable list, for it is not 
only in Greece that he is regarded al- 
most as a national hero, but his in- 
terest was awakened also by the 
people of Armenia. 



Lord Byron arrived in Venice in 
1816 in search of a new mental ex- 
perience, as was often his turn of 
mind. He wrote to a friend that he 
wished something craggy to break 
his mind upon, and the Armenian 
language was the most difficult thing 
that he could find in Venice for 
amusement. This coincides with 
the usual opinion of foreigners, for 
it is said that in 1812 the French in- 
stituted an Armenian professorship 
in St. Lazare, and Monday twenty 
pupils presented themselves. • They 
began full of vigor, and persevered 
with a courage worthy of the nation 
and of universal conquest, until 
Thursday, when fifteen of the num- 
ber succumbed to the twenty-sixth 
letter of the alphabet. Lord Byron 
himself called the Armenian alpha- 
bet a "Waterloo of an alphabet." 
At the time of Lord Byron's visit 
there were ninety monks, and they 
did their utmost to entertain him. 
Copies of exercises which he wrote 
are still preserved, and he assisted 
in preparing a large dictionary 

which is used until the present 
time in learning the language. 

The present Patriarch of the Ar- 
menian nation, Monseigneur Ma- 
lachia Ormanian, who resides in 
Constantinople, studied at one time 
in the monastery of the Mekhita- 
rists, and often speaks of his ex- 
periences there with pleasure. 

The monastery of St. Lazare now 
contains about sixty monks ; it is 
governed by an Abbot who bears 
the title of Archbishop of Sinik, and 
this position is filled at the present 
time by Monseigneur George Hur- 
muz. The Abbot is assisted by a 
council of six members, nominated 
by the Chapter of the Order. 

Thus Venice, through this monas- 
tery in the still waters of the La- 
goon, keeps in touch with the Orient, 
and although her ships of war are 
no longer seen, as of old, in eastern 
waters, yet her academic influence 
over the literature of an important 
eastern nation, reminds us of the 
closer union of the past centuries. 



By Emilia Elliott 

£*T DON'T understand," Lisbeth 
J_ said, a troubled look in her 

She and her companion were sit- 
ting on a pile of lumber in the kitch- 
en of the new, unfinished house. 
Lisbeth was forty-five, tall and bent, 
with lined, patient face and deep-set 
dark eyes, that were sad, almost 
tragic. The lines about the mouth 
told of suffering bravely borne. It 
was the face of a working, not a 
thinking, woman — for twenty years 
Lisbeth had had no need to think — 
Brother Pelton had preferred doing 
it all for her — "Likewise ye wives 
be in subjection to your own hus- 
bands" was his household motto. 

The younger woman — young 
enough to have been Lisbeth's 
daughter, was rather pretty, and 
much cleverer in a superficial way — 
not unkindly disposed towards this 
other wife. They had been inmates 
of the same house for three years — 
not inharmonious years, consider- 
ing all things. Lucy — she had been 
born in the Mormon church and 
named after Lucy Smith, the mother 
of the prophet Joseph — possessed 
the knack of getting her own way in 
a childish, rather winning fashion; 
she could wheedle and manage 
Brother Pelton in a manner that 
made Lisbeth open her eyes in won- 

"You mean — ?" Lucy asked now, 
twisting a shaving curl over her 
fingers. Her hands were far whiter 
and softer than Lisbeth's, there 
were rings on them. 

"All this fuss 'bout Brother 
Davis," Lisbeth exclaimed. 

"It's simple enough — they're try- 
ing to prove he's breaking the law — 
having more than one wife, you 

"But of course he's got more than 
one. So's Brother Morrow and 
Brother Parks. Why here's you an' 
me — both Brother Pelton's wives." 

"Well it's against the law now 
for a man to have more than one," 
Lucy said shortly. 

"Not 'gainst the teachin's of the 
Church though. It can't be wrong, 
it can't — I know it must seem so to 
folks who don't understand. It 
didn't seem right to me — at first." 
Lisbeth flushed, remembering those 
far off days of doubt and suffering. 
"You see I was the second wife — 
my cousin Nannie was the first — 
she and Brother Pelton was mar- 
ried back in England, just before 
leavin' home, I was in their company 
comin' out. Neither of them had 
any thought of his ever takin' more'n 
one wife then, but by'n'by the head 
man wouldn't let him be — so at 
last he had to give in — an' he come 
to me. 'You and Nannie are close 
friends, Lisbeth,' he said, 'an' you'll 
be good to her.' I fought hard for 
a while — it was so dreadful, even to 
think of — but I had to give in too, 
same's he had. I was good to Nan- 
nie — she wasn't ever strong, an' 
that awful journey 'cross the plains 
had nearly killed her. I wasn't 
ever anything to Brother Pelton 
like she was, but after she died he 
seemed to get fonder of me. Nannie 
was glad to go — it hadn't been easy 
for either of us — that five years. 
'If it'd been any one else, I 

1 80 



couldn't've borne it,' she said to me, 
the day she died. 'You'll be first 
now, Lisbeth, an' Blake'll be kind to 
you.' She was the only one of his 
wives that called him Blake — but 
she'd known him at home, before 
they was either of them Mormons." 

Lucy rose, yawning impatiently : 
she had heard it all so often — Nan- 
nie had been dead so many years. 
There was a little faded picture of 
her in the parlor, at home. Once she 
had found Brother Pelton standing 
looking up at it, a different look on 
his placid, well content face from 
any she had ever seen before — or 

"Brother Pelton ought to be home 
in a few days," she said — he was 
away on business. In Lucy's pock- 
et was a letter from him, he had not 
written to Lisbeth. Lucy's eyes 
sparkled, as she thought of those 
few crisp sentences. 

Those were the troublous days, 
following President Woodruff's 
manifesto of 1890. Days of struggle 
and rebellion; of hot jealousy and 
still harder heart-breaking among 
the women of the church — days, 
when from among two or more 
wives a man must make his choice — 
if, as in the case of Brother Pelton, 
the first, and, in the eyes of the law, 
legal wife were dead. 

"Lucy," Lisbeth looked anxious- 
ly up into the fresh face. "I can't 
get it out of my thoughts — what you 
said 'bout Brother Davis." 

"I reckon you ain't the only one 
interested in it," Lucy said careless- 


"It ain't just in'trest — it's — Lucy, 
you don't think they'll get after 
Brother Pelton?" 

Lucy traced a pattern with one 
foot, in the sawdust covering the 
floor. "I reckon — Brother Pelton'll 
manage things — so they won't 

bother him any." 

"You think so?" the relief in Lis- 
beth's voice sent a feeling of pity 
through Lucy — the older woman's 
next words changed pity into anger. 

"I don't like upsettings. We get 
on pretty well and it'd be dreadful 
for you, Lucy." 

"For me I" 

If he had to decide between us — 
I'm first you know — I've been faith- 
ful to him for twenty years — I've 
worked hard for him." There was 
no doubt in Lisbeth's voice. 

"What makes you so sure he'd 
choose you?" 

"There wouldn't be any question 
of choosing." There was real digni- 
ty in Lisbeth's straightening of her 
bent figure — she was standing too 
now, looking down, not up, at 
Lucy's face — flushed with angen 
"Of course I'm first — I've been his 
wife so long — through the hard 
years and in his time of trouble — 
besides, if there wasn't any other 
reason, there's the children." 

"All that don't always count with 
a man," Lucy said significantly. 

"Brother Pelton ain't like those 
others — he's good and just — if he is 
kind of hard speakin' at times." 

"I ain't found him very hard 
speaking," Lucy laughed self-con- 

"You're but a child — no one could 
be hard with you," Lisbeth said, 
laying a hand, work roughened but 
still gentle in its touch, on Lucy's 
arm. "That's why I hate the 
thought of any change — it'd come- 
so heavy on you. But the Lord'll 
provide — don't you worry, child." 

"I'm not worrying," Lucy turned 

"I can't see what started it all. 
What's been right so many years 
can't be wrong now." Lisbeth's^ 
voice rose into what was almost a. 



cry of entreaty. "It can't be wrong 
— I don't understand." 

"Let's go through the house, be- 
fore going home," Lucy suggested, 
to change the subject. 

Lisbeth assented promptly. The 
new house — she could understand 
that. It was the pride of all three; 
Lisbeth rejoicing in its many con- 
veniences; Lucy in its air of smart 
modernness; while Brother Pelton 
prided himself on the fact that it 
was going to be the finest house of 
its size in the neighborhood. 

"We'll go upstairs and work 
down," Lisbeth said. 

It was a two story and a half 
house built on rising ground; from 
the front window high up in the 
point, one looked out over the city 
and open valley beyond, to where 
rose the encircling mountains — 
their bare sides showing here and 
there through the snow — the highest 
peaks white and pure — and for 
background the bluest of cloudless 

It was a view Lisbeth was never 
tired of. "I think I'll take this room 
for mine," she said, glancing around 
the little room with its low sloping 
ceiling. "You'll like the front one 
below, Lucy. I'll put the children 
in the one next to this." 

At the back the windows looked 
out to the low irregular foothills, 
beyond which lay City Creek Can- 
yon — the bare hills seemed very 

"There ain't many houses goin' 
up in this part of town yet," Lisbeth 
said. "We'll get breathin' room 

"It'll be dreadfully lonesome," 
Lucy said fretfully — she had been 
anxious for a lot further in town, 
the daily increasing value of land 
in this part of the town in no wise 
appealing to her; but for once, at 

least, her coaxing had been of no 
avail — where business matters were 
concerned Brother Pelton was ada- 

"Oh you'll get used to it," Lisbeth 
said cheerfully. 

"Come on." Lucy led the way 
down to the next floor. 

"My, but these rooms are pretty," 
Lisbeth declared. "Brother Pelton 
has certainly behaved handsome in 
the matter of closets — I do love lots 
of closet room." 

On the main floor Lucy turned 
towards the parlors. "I mean to 
have rugs instead of carpets — they're 
ever so much more stylish. Brother 
Pelton must have these floors 
stained. I think he might have had 
hard wood floors, like I asked him." 

"I could stain them for you." 
Lisbeth sat down on a low saw- 
horse to consider the matter. "I like 
carpets myself, but maybe you 
know best." 

Wide sliding doors connected 
the back parlor with the dining 
room, which took in the width of 
the house. The East side of the 
room was nearly all given up to a 
deep bay window. Lisbeth planned 
to fill it with house plants when 
winter came. 

"Just think what a lot of com- 
forts there are," she said, as their 
tour of inspection brought them 
back to the kitchen. "Why the work 
won't be worth talkin' about. No 
water to bring in, neither — I'll get 
the good of that, come winter." 

"Lisbeth — " there was a curious 
searching look in Lucy's eyes — 
"Lisbeth, are you — do you — like 
Brother Pelton — very much?" 

Lisbeth closed the cupboard door 
in surprise. "Why Lucy — what 
ever do you mean?" 



"You know what I mean — do you, 
Lisbeth ?" 

It was a new, strange, thought to 
Lisbeth. She stood quite still in 
the center of the little quiet kitch- 
en — the workmen had gone early 
that Saturday afternoon; all in and 
about the place was the soft bright 
stillness of the springtime. A far- 
away look crept into Lisbeth's sunk- 
en brown eyes — those eyes so full of 
pain, and the burden of a life, hard 
and filled with many a bitter humilia- 
ting memory. Her thoughts went 
back to the day, long ago, when 
Brother Pelton had first made 
known to her the will of the Church. 
She was young and enthusiastic, 
full of zeal for her adopted religion. 
To do — to bear — had been the cry 
of her heart: the cross, when it 
came — how she had shrunk from it. 
Nor altogether for her own sake — 
large in her sympathies, part of that 
passionate drawing back had been 
on her cousin Nannie's account. 
Nannie was proud of her position as 
Blake Pelton's wife. In the end Lis- 
beth had been coerced into yield- 
ing, wrought up by clever appeals 
to her religious nature. Once the 
plural wife of Brother Pelton she 
had bent herself resolutely to the 
fulfilling of her duty — as she had 
been taught to see it. Brother Pel- 
ton, a self-opinionated, arbitrary in- 
dividual, had not been unkind to 
her, from his point of view — nor, 
in fact, from hers. She had always 
looked up to him in a blind sort of 
way, that he found most gratify- 
ing. She had obeyed him; jealously 
upheld his authority — but — love 
him? had he ever asked for — needed 

And slowly, on that fair spring 
afternoon, with only the twittering 
of the busy sparrows breaking the 
silence, with Lucy's blue eyes fixed 

intently upon her, there crept into 
Lisbeth's heart the conviction that 
she had missed something precious 
out of life — that the long weary 
years had been longer, more weari- 
some, because of its absence. 
Missed not alone the having, but — 
what was even more to a nature 
like hers — the giving. 

"Lisbeth, tell me — " Lucy broke 
the silence, insistently. 

"Lucy don't — what's the use of 
askin' such questions. Brother Pel- 
ton's made me as good a husband 
as most — we've got used to each 
other — leastways I've got used to 
him. I couldn't imagine livin' with- 
out him — and I guess he feels that 
way 'bout me — I understand his 
ways so well, you see." 

A half scornful, half amused 
light, showed for a moment in 
Lucy's eyes, then she said slowly, 
"Lisbeth, I don't think you and I 
have had a fair chance." There was 
a deeper note than usual in Lucy's 
voice — a deeper look on her childish 
face. She too had grown suddenly 
wiser, during those few moments — 
the knowledge gained made her rest- 
less, vaguely unhappy. 

"Lucy, you musn't talk so — we're 
leadin' the life of the Lord's 

"It seems to me more like Brother 
Pelton's — well if I can't have the 
best — I'll have the best I can get — 
I'm not good like you Lisbeth." 

She ran on ahead down the slop- 
ing plank to the ground. "Those 
men are outrageously slow — I'm 
sick of the old house — I want to get 
into my own home." 

The note of personal possession 
roused Lisbeth from her troubled 
reverie over Lucy's outburst of defi- 

" We ought to be in by the end of 



next month." Unconsciously Lis- 
beth accentuated that we. 

When they reached the low 'dobe 
house on First South, Brother Pel- 
ton was waiting on the porch. Lis- 
beth gave an exclamation of dismay 
and hurried indoors to see if Zina, 
the eldest girl, had started supper. 
Lucy lingered outside. "We didn't 
look for you before Monday, Broth- 
er Pelton," she said. 

When they all met at the supper 
table, Lucy glanced about her with 
a shrug of discontent. "It looks 
dingier than ever. Brother Pelton, 
you didn't build a day too soon — I 
should die, if I had to live here 
much longer." 

"No you wouldn't," Brother Pel- 
ton said, but he smiled at her across 
the table — in her crimson waist, 
with the vivid bow in her fluffy hair, 
she made the one bright spot in the 
room. Zina and Beulah, quiet, 
thoughtful like their mother, like 
her were soberly clad. Brother Pel- 
ton's principles, as to a woman's go- 
ing gaily dressed, having as yet re- 
laxed in only one direction. 

"I guess we're all anxious to get 
in the new house," Lisbeth said — 
wondering why Brother Pelton 
glanced sharply towards her, a 
strange expression in his eyes — it 
disturbed her a little, at the time. 

There was not much more talk. 
Brother Pelton was even more si- 
lent than usual, both that night and 
the next morning. Nor did he walk 
with his family to the weekly ser- 
vice in the ward meeting house — 
he would join them there, he said. 

He was one of the speakers that 
morning; it was always a proud 
moment for him, when he rose to 
address the congregation gathered 
in the old meeting house. Lisbeth 
thought there was no one quite 
equal to him at the speaking. To 

her untutored mind, weakened and 
dulled by long years of silent un- 
questioning submission, Brother Pel- 
ton's ponderous sentences — his 
wornout platitudes and dreamy long- 
windedness were wonderful, awe in- 
spiring. To see Lucy fidget, and 
cast furtively impatient glances at 
the stolid pompous speaker, never 
ceased to shock Lisbeth — Lucy's 
lack of reverence was a sincere grief 
to her. 

To-day, Brother Pelton spoke 
with great unction, exceeding all 
former efforts. He referred to the 
sad condition of the times — to the 
need of self-denying heroism on the 
part of both men and women. Now 
was the opportunity for them to 
show their faith — their courage and 
endurance — their child-like obedi- 
ence to those in authority. Again 
and again Brother Pelton dwelt up- 
on this particular point. 

"It's my belief he can't stop," 
Lucy whispered to Lisbeth, "he's 
just wound up, like a machine." 

Lisbeth shook her head rebuking- 
ly. "He's lookin' right at us." 

"At you — he knows better than 
to think I'm listening — it's too stu- 

Lisbeth's heart glowed — Brother 
Pelton was sure of one sympathetic 
listener then ; and when coming out 
of meeting, he walked beside her, 
letting Lucy go on ahead with some 
companions, her face shone with 

"You spoke beautiful this morn- 
in'," she ventured to say. 

"I confess I felt like one in- 
spired," Brother Pelton answered. 

"Folks ought to be better after 
such a discourse." 

"If I succeed in reaching one heart 
— if my words will influence one 
hearer — I shall be content." Again 
he looked at her in that strange fash- 

L I S B E T H 


ion, rousing again that half-defined 
fear in Lisbeth's mind. 

She was out in the garden that 
afternoon — the garden Nannie had 
planted, and she had tended, part- 
ly for Nannie's sake. 

In his first pride as a householder, 
Brother Pelton had laid out the 
deep wide back lot with considerable 
skill and taste. There was an arbor 
down the center walk; from the end 
near the house, long trailing ropes 
of creeper had been carried to the 
broad porch — the whole house was 
covered with vine by now, the win- 
dows set in frameworks of green. 
The flowers were the simple old 
English favorites, renewing them- 
selves year by year. Later, and on 
through the long dry summer, Lis- 
beth's garden would be a tangled 
mass of color and sweet spicy frag- 
rance — now only the earlier Spring 
blossoms were in bloom. The rob- 
ins were nesting in the old cherry 
tree near the stone wall, where Lis- 
beth stood. She was looking 
thoughtfully back at the low house : 
it had been a tiny two room cottage, 
when Brother Pelton brought his 
first wife home ; at Lisbeth's coming 
another room had been added — 
twice in the next five years other 
rooms had been built on, for similar 

Both these other wives were dead 
— they and their children ; for some 
years, until Lucy's coming, Lisbeth 
had — not reigned, rather labored, 

Lucy's coming had been a sharp 
blow; but, after all, Lucy had been 
easy to get along with, taking life 
as lightly as might be. 

Lisbeth stooped to gather a clus- 
ter of the violets, that grew so thick 
beside the wall. Every Spring, by 
some magical charm, they carried 
her back afresh to her girlhood, in 

the pretty village at home. Her 
hands were filled with the little 
purple flowers, when she heard a 
step on the path, leading through 
the arbor. 

Brother Pelton was coming slow- 
ly toward her, his hands clasped be- 
hind him, a frown wrinkling his 
broad white forehead. 

"The garden's coming on well this 
year," he said. Even Lisbeth was 
quick to detect the forced lightness 
of his tone. 

"It lies so to the South, you see," 
she answered. Some of the violets 
dropped unheeded from her fingers. 


"Yes, Brother Pelton." 

"You heard my talk this morn- 
ing — at the meeting?" 

She nodded. 

"And comprehended it?" 

"I — ain't sure — it sounded fine — 
I'm not certain I got the full mean- 

"These are troublous times, Lis- 

Again she nodded — perplexed, 
half afraid. 

"The head of the Church — Presi- 
dent Woodruff — you know his latest 

A frightened look came into Lis- 
beth's eyes. Her woman's intuition, 
more quick to act than her slow 
brain, sounded a faint warning. 
But no — that could not be true. 
She could not answer, save to lift 
her eyes, with their look of terror 
and supplication. Before it, Brother 
Pelton's own gaze fell. 

He cleared his throat. "Lisbeth — 
I — I regret it exceedingly — but obe- 
dience is one of the chief requisites 
of a good Mormon. You would not 
have me fail in my duty. The 
Church, as you know, has decided 
that a man must have only one 



"You think it wrong to have 
more'n one, Brother Pelton?" 

'The Church, Lisbeth— " 

"You think it wrong-?" she re- 
peated, with new doggedness. 

"I think it wrong not to obey the 
Church's orders," he parried. 

"You're givin' in without any 

"I am a man of peace, Lisbeth — 
and — well, I confess, I have come to 
see the wisdom of this decision." 

Still Lisbeth did not, would not, 
fully understand. "It'll come hard 
on Lucy," she said; "she ain't 
lookin' for any such turnin' out. 
You'll provide for her, Brother Pel- 
ton? Luckily she ain't got any little 
ones hangin' to her skirts, like a 
good many — " 

"Lucy!" Brother Pelton braced 
himself for a final effort. "I've de- 
cided to keep Lucy — she's young 
and inclined to be frivolous — it 
would be hard for her to be left to 
her own resources; besides she needs 
the guiding hand. It's very differ- 
ent with you, Lisbeth; you've had 
experience. I've no doubt that 
you'll manage finely." 

Lisbeth stared at him in mute re- 
proach — condemnation. For the 
first time in her life, she dared weigh 
his motives — dared find them want- 
ing; but after twenty years of si- 
lence, words were not easy. 

"I ought to be able to work," she 
said at last, simply, as if voicing a 
self-evident fact. "I'm sure I've had 
practice enough. Then you don't 
mean to provide for me'n our girls, 
Brother Pelton?" 

"I may be able to do a little, later. 
I've been under heavy expenses 
lately — the new house, and — " 

The new house — a sudden sob 
rose in Lisbeth's throat. She saw 
the bright little kitchen, snug, com- 
plete, in all the many contrivances 

for lessening the work of the house. 
It had meant so much to her that 
Brother Pelton should have planned 
them for her comfort. But not a 
single one had been arranged with a 
view to her — they were all for Lucy. 
She was to have no share in the new 
house — not even the humblest. 

"This has been in my mind for 
some time," she heard Brother Pel- 
ton saying. "I am not acting hasti- 
ly — I have taken counsel — prayed 
over it. I delayed telling you, think- 
ing it wiser to make the one break- 
ing -up." 

Lisbeth glanced up dully, in her 
eyes the inexpressible suffering of 
some dumb beast. 

Brother Pelton congratulated 
himself on the quiet sensible way 
in which she was taking it. It was 
a heavy shock, without doubt. She 
was a faithful honest creature — not 
a companion, of course, but a good 
worker — he could ill have done 
without her all these years. He pat- 
ted her kindly on the arm. "I shall 
always take an interest in you and 
the girls, remember. Zina's seven- 
teen now, old enough to look out for 
herself — I dare say she'll be setting 
up a home of her own before long. 
That'll leave only Beulah for you. 
Heber, (Heber was Nannie's boy) 
is out doing excellently — you 
trained him well, Lisbeth." 

"We are to stay on here?" Lis- 
beth asked wearily. 

Brother Pelton shook his head. 
"I have disposed of the land; the 
house will be torn down — it's in 
pretty bad condition. It will be bet- 
ter for you to find something small- 

Lisbeth looked silently up at the 
vine-covered house. It would have 
been bad enough — being left in the 
shabby familiar place — the wrench 
would have been fearful; but to be 



•denied all place in both new and 
old, to be driven forth, to start 
afresh ! She felt a sudden sense of 
pity for the poor old house, as if it 
were human. She and it, their work 
done, both tossed aside ! The 
thought choked her. 

Brother Pelton turned away. He 
was as truly sorry for her as it was 
in his nature to feel for any one. 
There was real regret in his heart, 
as he walked slowly up the path, 
under the arbor, where the sunlight 
fell in broken shafts, and the light 
breeze stirred softly in the young 
leaves overhead. 

Lucy stood waiting on the porch 
— she had just come back from the 
afternoon service at the Tabernacle. 
"Have you told her?" she cried in 
an eager whisper, as he reached her. 

"I have." 

"Did she make a fuss?" 


Lucy drew a quick breath, glanc- 

ing down at the bowed figure by 
the wall below. "Poor Lisbeth ! 
Come round front, Brother Pelton, 
I want to talk to you, and I don't 
want to be where I can see her — 
poor Lisbeth." 

A few minutes later there were 
sounds of quick steps on the garden 
path. "Mother," Zina called, 
"please, won't you take us to see 
the new house?" 

"Please, mother!" Beulah added. 

Lisbeth stirred slowly; from her 
hands fell the bunch of violets — 
crushed and stained. 

Zina and Beulah stared wonder- 
ingly. "Mother, what has hap- 
pened? Oh, mother dear — don't, 
please don't!" 

For Lisbeth had dropped down 
beside the violets, her face hidden 
in her scarred, work-worn hands — 
her whole being racked, convulsed, 
by deep heart-rending sobs. 


By Maurice Baldwin 

Why do I tremble when thine eyes 
Meet mine, or when thy tender voice 
Doth bid my longing heart rejoice, 

Or when thy soft hand in mine lies? 

It is because through the strange wall 
That keeps all human lives apart 

Thy love hath pierced, and knoweth all 
The hidden secrets of my heart. 

Whaling in Hudson Bay 

By P. T. McGrath 

A QUESTION of serious im- 
port to Great Britain and the 
United States has been raised 
of late by the action of Canada in 
despatching, last August, to Hudson 
Bay an armed expedition in the 
Newfoundland sealing steamer 
"Neptune" to expel New Bedford 
Whalers now fishing in that area, 
and regarded by Canada as poachers, 
unlawfully operating in waters 
where they possess no rights. This 
cruiser has been wintering there 
and will remain north until Novem- 
ber next, making annual visits 
thereafter efficiently to guard the 
region. Canada claims that Hud- 
son Bay is a closed sea and por- 
tion of her heritage, France having 
ceded the whole region to Britain 
by the Treaty of Utrecht, in 1713 ; 
the United States having acquiesced 
therein by the Treaty of Washing- 
ton, in 1818, and Britain having 
transferred all Arctic America to 
Canada in 1870. This would make 
out a conclusive case but that 
Canada has, until now, failed to as- 
sert her sovereignty in an efficient 
manner, the American whalemen 
having prosecuted their industry 
there without interruption for over 
seventy years, so that they consider 
themselves entitled to continue fish- 
ing there, in spite of Canada's con- 
tentions to the contrary. To dis- 
lodge them will probably require a 
resort to force, and this may bring 
about a clash between the two 
Anglo-Saxon peoples, which would 
be deplorable on every account. 
But that Canada is determined to 

assert her position is evidenced by 
the fact that she has commissioned 
as "Governor of Hudson Bay," 
Major Moodie of the North West 
Mounted Police, who has gone in 
command of the efficient force 
carried, and he has a detachment of 
that corps under his command so as 
to be able to deal with the whalers 
when the spring opens. 

Canada's action is influenced very 
largely by the fear that if she fails 
to assert her contention that she 
alone possesses jurisdiction over 
this great northern inlet, her ac- 
quiescence in the presence of 
United States whalers there will be 
construed into an abandonment by 
her of the right she claims, and will 
elicit a demand from them of con- 
current fishing and trading privi- 
leges there which may bring about 
another international entanglement 
like the Alaskan boundary dispute. 
It illustrates, moreover, Canada's 
unpreparedness for the task of en- 
forcing her position in these remote 
waters, that she had no ship of her 
own to undertake the duty, but had 
to go to St. John's, the capital of 
the independent Colony of New- 
foundland — which is not a part of 
Canada at all — in order to secure a 
steamer capable of contending with 
ice and therefore suitable for the 
navigation of sub-arctic seas, while 
her Captain and crew are also New- 
foundlanders, Canadians knowing 
nothing of the handling of such 
ships, or the difficulties of travers- 
ing such areas as she will cruise in, 
while the Newfoundlanders are the 




most experienced ice-navigators in 
the world. 

From New Bedford and neighbor- 
ing ports, United States whalers 
have long prosecuted their hazard- 
ous calling in every sea and clime, 
pursuing the cachalot, or sperm 
whale, in his tropical habitat, and 
the bowhead, or baleen whale, in 
the frozen northern zone. The 
Greenland waters, Baffin Bay, Davis 
Strait, Cumberland Gulf, and Hud- 
son Strait and Bay have all been the 
scene of their daring activities, 
while their prowess and adventures 
have formed the theme of many a 
volume, and the inspiration for 
countless daring deeds upon the 

Owing to the competition of 
British, Norse and Danish whalers 
the mighty cetaceans have been al- 
most exterminated in all of these 
areas now except Hudson Bay, and 
only a squadron of but seven ships 
survives of all the once enormous 
whaling fleet that sailed from the 
British Isles. The American fleet 
has been reduced very considerably 
also, but of late years is experienc- 
ing a revival owing to the enhanced 
value of whale products through 
their scarcity, so that a small fare 
is now a paying venture when it 
would have fallen short of a profita- 
ble speculation ten years ago. 
Canada's project therefore means, if 
it is carried into effect, the expulsion 
of these modern Yankee Vikings 
from their last industrial stronghold 
on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. 

Whale hunting in Hudson Bay is 
an enterprise that calls for resolute 
and daring men, the class that en- 
ters into Arctic exploration, for to 
this the whale fishery is somewhat 
akin. The ships sail from New Bed- 
ford in June or July so as to enter 
Hudson Strait as soon as it is free 

of ice, or comparatively so; as to 
venture among the ice which is often 
fifty feet thick, would be to invite 
disaster. This, indeed, has befallen 
the whalers at times. The "Isa- 
bella" was one of the unfortunates, 
and the "Pioneer" another. Both 
were crushed by the floe while 
making their way through the Strait. 
Forty years ago, in the summer of 
1863, the barque "George Henry" 
met such a fate, and her crew of 
thirty-four men, adrift in the floe, 
were rescued by the "Active" an- 
other of the fleet. On safely enter- 
ing the Bay the ships start 
whaling near Southampton Island, 
the land mass which blocks the inlet, 
and they fish in the neighboring 
waters until the end of September 
compels them to go into winter 
quarters. They must do this so 
early because such a vapor or steam 
rushes off the water that they can 
get no observations and can see 
nothing; they would get blown off 
by the equinoctials and owing to the 
"dip" of the compass could not tell 
where they were. They winter in 
Chesterfield Inlet, a fiord running 
north, and begin the chase of the 
whales in the spring, the bowheads 
being believed to enter the bay 
then, and after cruising there all 
summer, they return to the Atlantic 
in the autumn, before Hudson Strait 
becomes blocked with ice, as the 
whale, being a mammal, requires a 
clear area in order to come to the 
surface to breathe every ten minutes 
or so. 

It is impossible for a ship to make 
a successful cruise in one season- 
She rarely gets in before late in July 
or early in August, and would have 
to leave within a month to escape 
being frozen fast all winter. There- 
fore, each cruise is planned for one 
or two seasons, some vessels being 



out twenty-seven months at times. 
The crews of the whalers no longer 
live on the ships during the winter, 
but ashore with the Eskimos, using 
the same food — seal, walrus, and 
whale meat, with venison, bear 
meat, sea birds and fish to 
vary it. Salt food is absolutely 
barred. It produces scurvy very 
soon, the condition accelerated 
all too often by the indulgence in 
alcohol, common to sailors. Scores 
of graves in every harbor attest the 
fell work that was done in the 
past in foul-smelling, ill-ventilated 
cabins, with little or no exercise 
taken for months. But now the na- 
tive mode of life is adopted and the 
mortality is very slight. 

The whales enter the Bay by way 
of Hudson Strait; years ago con- 
siderable whaling was done off Reso- 
lution Island, the Atlantic entrance 
to the Strait, in May, as the creat- 
ures passed in on their annual mi- 
gration. They make for Roe's 
Welcome, on the north-west side of 
the Bay, which gives access to an- 
other fiord called Repulse Inlet. 
The ships begin their deadly forays 
at the mouth of the Welcome early 
in May and proceed north to Re- 
pulse Inlet as the ice is discharged 
and the way made free for them. 
This is the best whaling season and 
ground, and it is to avail themselves 
of it that they winter in the north. 
If they could get to it early enough 
they would not remain all the year, 
but as the Bay is open in the early 
spring, while the Strait is blocked 
until midsummer, they have to 
spend many idle months near the 
whaling ground. 

The whalers formerly wintered 
at Marble Island, off Chesterfield In- 
let, but they do so no longer. It 
was too remote from the whaling 
grounds, and it was also impossible 

to get fresh meat as there were no> 
natives about and no deer on the 
Island. This compelled the crews 
to use salt meat, which induced 
scurvy and caused appalling mor- 
tality. The anchorage, too, was 
none the best; on one occasion some 
years ago three vessels parted their 
chains there and drove ashore, and 
the crews were reduced to the verge 
of starvation. Now the winter har- 
bors are at Depot Island, or Fuller- 
ton Point, and the natives are en- 
gaged to supply the crews with 
fresh meat during the winter. 
There are plenty of deer in Repulse 
Bay, and occasionally a bear is got; 
musk oxen can always be obtained 
in the unexplored wilds back of the 
Wager River. Sometimes the Amer- 
ican skippers make long hunting 
trips into the country with natives 
as guides, and some tribes of the 
latter have at times exhibited gold- 
bearing quartz which leads to the 
belief that there is a second Klon- 
dike in the far off stretches of the 
Franklin District — as Canada lias- 
named this vast arctic archipelago. 
These hunting trips are taken with 
Kometiks (sledges) and dogs; and 
big bags of deer are frequently 

The actual pursuit of the whale 
is as dangerous a vocation as writers 
and artists have represented it. 
During recent years no fewer than 
four ships have been lost in the 
Welcome, the last being the "Fran- 
cis Allyn" which was burned by her 
try-works taking fire. Her crew 
made their way to Fullerton, after 
enduring great hardships, and were 
conveyed home by the "Era," an- 
other ship. "The Polar Star" drove- 
on a reef and went to pieces, in 1896. 
The big fish are hunted with boats 
and harpoons, in the fashion so often 
described, and among the most 



perilous aspects of it is that of the 
boats being dashed against the 
floes and the crew drowned, as the 
frightened brutes race madly 
through the ice-cumbered ocean 
when impaled with the murderous 
harpoon, which is the lethal weapon 
used. Whaling in other seas is at- 
tended by many dangers, but here 
it has its series of special perils to 
encounter — ice-floes, unknown 
rocks and reefs, variable currents, 
unreliable charts and the compass 
subject to such deviations that it 
cannot be depended upon. These 
drawbacks constitute a serious men- 
ace to ships and crews, and if the 
records of the industry could be set 
forth they would reveal some of the 
most extraordinary adventures in 
marine annals — of daring boat- 
voyages, of struggles with hunger 
and cold, of heroic endurance and 
gallant rescue. 

Among these instances of hard- 
ship and suffering a noteworthy one 
was that of the "Pavilon," which 
was wrecked on Crow Head, near 
Roe's Welcome in 1873. Her crew 
of thirty, in three boats, made their 
way along the coast and out of the 
Strait, a distance of 700 miles, to 
Resolution Island, and in crossing 
from there to Cape Chidley, on 
Labrador, one boat was lost with 
all hands. The other two worked 
their way south along Labrador, to 
Cape Mugford, a journey of 200 
miles further. Here they found a 
Hudson Bay Company's ship, a 
chartered vessel which had been 
forced ashore by the pressure of the 
ice-floe driving in on the land. 
They got her off and made their way 
in her to St. John's, Newfoundland. 
Their boat and vessel voyage repre- 
sented an undertaking that would 
appall the stoutest heart. It in- 
volved weeks of wearying toil, of 

nerve-racking danger, of imminent 
starvation. They subsisted as best 
they could on shell-fish, seals and 
kelp, when the scanty supply of 
stores saved from their wrecked 
ship was exhausted, and at times 
they were so devoid of hope that it 
seemed to them only wasted effort 
to continue. But they persevered, 
and after striking the Labrador 
Coast, obtained supplies from the 
Moravian Missionaries, laboring 

Scarcely less remarkable was the 
experience of the crew of the "Isa- 
bella" in 1885, which had been 
crushed in the floe about twenty- 
five miles off Spicer's Harbor. They 
had contrived to land over the ice 
on foot, having lost their boats, and 
they were thus unable to carry any 
but the scantiest supply of food to 
the harbor where they had to re- 
main on short commons until the 
"Era" called there at the end of Au- 
gust, and took them on board. Tn 
effecting the embarkation she was 
delayed by adverse winds for quite 
a period, and this caused her to be 
late in reaching Gummiute, a sta- 
tion in Davis Strait, where she had 
to call in the autumn. She did not 
get there until October, and while 
loading bone and oil, the arctic 
pack closed in on the shore and 
shut her up until August seventh of 
the next year, with two crews on 
board and supplies for but one, and 
with a most unfavorable season for 
hunting in the vicinity, the situation 
of the ship was anything but envia- 
ble. The men almost starved dur- 
ing the winter, and by the time the 
"Era" reached St. John's, New- 
foundland, in September, 1886, they 
were on almost their last allowance 
of bread and water. 

In individual adventure it would 
be difficult to outdo Walter Hoxie, 



second mate of the "Francis Allyn," 
whose destruction by fire has al- 
ready been mentioned. She sailed 
from New Bedford on July second, 
1901, to fish for whales in Hudson 
Bay, with a crew of thirteen, all told. 
Entering the Strait and Bay, she 
wintered at Depot Island, and dur- 
ing the voyage there was friction 
between the Captain and Hoxie, so 
that when on June first, 1902, the 
former suggested that Hoxie "had 
better go home," he started with two 
others, King and Carroll — in one of 
the whaleboats, carrying three 
weeks' provisions. They voyaged 
470 miles south clown Hudson Bay 
to York House, a Hudson Bay Com- 
pany Post, the trip occupying till 
July fifteenth. Half way their pro- 
visions ran out and for the rest of 
the journey they had to subsist on 
what little game they could kill. 
After reaching York House, King 
and Carroll took the Hudson Bay 
Company's steamer for England but 
Hoxie engaged himself to the factor 
and killed six white whales. In. re- 
turn he was given transportation to 
Winnipeg overland, with a train of 
ten Indians carrying furs. They had 
provisions for five days, but the trip 
to Oxford House — another post — 
occupied nineteen, and for two 
weeks they lived on the fish they 
caught and the berries they picked. 
From this they took five days more 
food to reach Norway House, but 
as the journey lasted nine days they 
were obliged to beg food from wan- 
dering Indians they met. A steamer 
took them to Winnipeg from there. 
The "Francis Allyn's" crew suffered 
worse than he did, however, as one 
man died from exposure and the 
others were badly frostbitten before 
they were picked up by the sister 

The arctic whale — variously de- 

scribed as the right, black, northern, 
or Greenland whale, is known to the 
crews who chase it, as the "bow- 
head," from the peculiar arched 
structure of its frontal formation. 
This is what produces the extreme 
length of its "whalebone," or baleen, 
the flexible substance which fills its 
mouth instead of teeth and is so im- 
portant in modern arts and manu- 
factures. Like the ivory of the ele- 
phant, the whalebone of the bow- 
head is becoming so scarce that deal- 
ers fear that its speedy exhaustion 
is imminent. It varies in length 
from nine to fifteen feet and former- 
ly sold for about $9,000 a ton, but 
latterly has reached the amazing 
figure of $15,000. This creature, de- 
spite its enormous size, sometimes 
reaching sixty to seventy feet in 
length and weighing as many tons, 
is amongst the most timid known, 
and has to be chased by boats whose 
oars are muffled. Only that one 
forms such a prize, it is doubtful 
if they would be hunted at all, but 
an adult bowhead yields nearly a 
ton of bone, and about fourteen tons 
of oil, worth about $2,000 more. It 
will thus be readily seen what a 
gamble the industry is and how one 
successful trip means a small for- 
tune for those who embark in it. In 
1893 the United States Whaling 
Fleet — Atlantic and Pacific — killed 
394 of these monsters, so the possi- 
bilities of the enterprise are really 

It is rather a remarkable circum- 
stance that while the American 
whalers have invaded Hudson Bay 
and exploited it for about seventy 
years, the British whalers should 
have refrained almost wholly from 
participation in that fishery and con- 
fined themselves to the Atlantic 
waters east of Hudson Strait. Quite 
recently, however, they have estab- 



lished a sedentary whaling station 
on Nottingham Island, one of the 
group at the outlet of the Bay, but 
formerly they operated exclusively 
from Cumberland Gulf. As long ago 
as 1820, Capt. Penney, who after- 
wards commanded one of the Frank- 
lin relief expeditions, established the 
first permanent whaling station 
there, and it may be mentioned in 
passing, that Capt. Buddington of 
the whaler "George Henry," wrecked 

to employ. The Scotch in 1902 made 
their first essay into Hudson Bay, 
the steamer "Active" landing a 
party there to remain and hunt 
whales for five years, putting ashore 
a wooden house, built in sections, 
for them, and all needed equipment. 
They hired five boats' crews of 
Eskimos for the actual whaling. 
This sedentary whaling is not pos- 
sible in Hudson Bay itself because 
of the vast area over which the 


in 1863, was afterwards master of 
the "Polaris" which conveyed Dr. 
Hall to the north in 1871. The 
Americans gradually imitated their 
British competitors in setting up 
these sedentary stations in Cumber- 
land Gulf, but of late have aban- 
doned them, selling out to the 
Scotch who are able to manage them 
more economically, by a process 
which only Scotchmen seem able 

cetaceans are found, but in narrow 
waters, as in Cumberland Gulf, the 
eastern end of Hudson Strait, at 
Resolution Island and its western 
extremity at Nottingham Island, 
where the quarry passes in sight of 
the shore, it forms a convenient 
adjunct to the major industry. 

The Scotch whaling enterprise in 
Cumberland Gulf is prosecuted from 
two shore stations, ships not being 



employed at all, except to visit the 
posts annually and unload stores 
there, taking away the products in 
exchange. These stations are at 
Harbors called Blackhead and 
Kekerton, and are owned by Messrs. 
Noble of Aberdeen, who have main- 
tained them for upwards of forty 

Each station has a Scotch man- 
ager, all the rest of the employees 
being Eskimos, a tribe of these, 
about one hundred and fifty souls, 
being settled around each station. 
Mr. Milne, the chief factor in charge 
at Blackhead, has been living there 
for more than thirty years, and has 
made only one trip to Scotland in 
the whole period. Mr. Mutch, a 
younger man, is factor at Kekerton. 

Each post has a substantial dwell- 
ing and stores for the chief, and is 
supplied with six first class whale- 
boats, with the finest modern out- 
fits, everything being kept in the 
best order. The Eskimos are very 
teachable, and have no vices, and 
are a complete contrast to the crews 
of the whaling vessels. At both 
Blackhead and Kekerton similar es- 
tablishments were maintained by 
the Americans until 1894, when they 
sold out to the Scotch, after having 
operated there continually for over 
thirty years. 

In Cumberland Gulf whales are 
got off the edge of the ice in spring, 
when they are on their way north, 
and feed for some time off the mouth 
of the inlet, on the animalculae 
which abound there. They are 
again found there in the autumn, 
as they come south from the higher 

The sedentary whaling stations 
now all employ the Eskimos for 
their crews. These natives make 
first class boatmen and expert har- 
pooners, and are honest and earnest. 

They transfer their whole tribe, 
with their paraphernalia, to the vi- 
cinity of a whaling post, and sign 
on to help the crew for a weekly ra- 
tion of four pounds of ship's biscuit, 
one-fourth pound of coffee, two 
pounds of molasses, and four plugs 
of tobacco. Other articles they pro- 
cure by trading therefor musk-ox, or 
caribou, or sealskins, or walrus or 
narwhal ivory. 

The Eskimos have lost their 
ancient arts of chasing these 
creatures with arrow, or, harpoon, 
and are no longer proficient in the 
fashion or use of the crude weapons 
of former years. They have come 
to rely upon the white man's weap- 
ons, the rifle especially, and they 
handle these proficiently, but with- 
out a grasp of the principles under- 
lying them, so that if the whalers 
were to be driven away, and the 
Eskimos deprived of the opportu- 
nity of replenishing their stores of 
weapons, ammunition, and minor 
necessities, they would soon be re- 
duced to the most desperate straits. 

At Gummiute, in 1898, Peter 
Jensen, who was then manager of a 
station there, had a most amazing 
experience, amputating his own 
toes, which had got frostbitten 
while he was away from home on 
a- Christmas- deer-hunt. He and his 
Eskimo aids were caught in a snow- 
storm and compelled to take shelter 
under the lee of a cliff until it abated. 
While thus inactive, with the ther- 
mometer away below zero, the in- 
tense cold seized upon his extremi- 
ties, which had become heated from 
the exertions, but now were trans- 
formed into ice-cold masses as the 
frost struck them. When he 
reached the station he found that it 
was impossible to restore the circu- 
lation to the affected parts. Gan- 
grene set in, and his life was threat- 



ened if he could not get rid of the 
seared flesh. He had no white man 
with him, the Eskimos knew noth- 
ing of the treatment of such a case, 
and he lacked any surgical instru- 
ments. He stripped the dead flesh 
from the bones with a sharp pen- 
knife, but the removal of the bones 
themselves was a more difficult mat- 
ter. Ultimately, after several ex- 
periments, he contrived to fabricate 
a saw out of the fine steel main- 

vived and is now walking on arti- 
ficial limbs provided by a kindly 
visitor to the coast. 

Neither the nomadic or sedentary 
whalers could maintain themselves 
in these regions but for the presence 
of the Eskimos who provide them 
with fresh meat and aid them in 
their actual fishing operations. In 
addition to the bowheads, the 
whalers also hunt the walrus, nar- 
whal and seal. The former is taken 


spring of his watch, and by means 
of this he performed the rough-and- 
ready surgical operation necessary 
to rid himself of these useless ap- 
pendages. He survived the experi- 
ment safely, dressing the wound 
himself daily. On Labrador, three 
winters ago, a fisherman's baby girl 
got out in midwinter and had both 
feet frozen. The father, to save its 
life, as both limbs were gangrened, 
chopped them off with an ax, and, 
marvellous to relate, the child sur- 

for the hide, which is made into belt- 
ing, and the tusk, which forms a 
good-class ivory. The long twisted 
horn of the narwhal is also a valu- 
able commodity, and his skin is in 
equal demand with that of the wal- 
rus. The seal is one of the indus- 
trial mainstays of the seaboard 
from Newfoundland northward. 
The Newfoundland seal fishery 
yields about 300,000 skins annually, 
worth about $800,000. The hunt for 
seals by the whalers, being only a 



secondary pursuit, brings compara- 
tively few, but still it usually serves 
to ensure the financial success of the 
whole voyage. To the Eskimos, of 
course, the seal is all-important. 
It is to the Eskimo what the 
buffalo once was to the Indians 
of the plains. Without the buf- 
falo, in by-gone days, there would 
have been no Indians ; and with- 
out the seal there would be no 
Eskimos, for no savages, less well 
fed on oleaginous foods, could pos- 
sibly resist and face, as necessity 
compels them to, the intense cold 
of an arctic winter. They inhabit 
sealskin tents in summer and turf 
huts or snow-houses in winter. The 
seal supplies everything — its flesh 
affords them food ; its fat gives them 
light and heat ; its skin provides 
them with clothing, tents, imple- 
ments of the chase, material for 
their canoes, and harness for their 

The remoter tribes of these Eski- 
mos are the only remaining aborigi- 
nal people on the continent, who, if 
the white man of today were to be 
swept away, would still be self-sup- 
porting and wholly independent of 
outside aid. With rude tools they 
fashion perfect carvings from bone 
and ivory ; they make their own 
spears, lances and harpoons ; their 
boats are composed of skins sewn 
watertight with needles of bone and 
threads of sinew, and they are uner- 
ring in the employment of the frail 
but effectual weapons they use, of 
their own making. While the white 
man's firearms have enabled them 
to kill their game from a greater 
distance, it often sinks before they 
can reach it and their native weap- 
ons are undoubtedly more valuable. 
But civilizing agencies are always 
making themselves felt even here, 
and the Eskimo is steadily becoming 

more and more dependent on the 
goods the white man brings him. 
He dresses himself and his family 
in fabrics instead of skins; he seeks 
firearms and firewater, and he has 
become inoculated with the worst 
vices of southern climes. 

The Eskimos in the southern and 
more frequented sections have be- 
come christianized; those in the 
northern and remote areas are still 
pagans. While their honesty is be- 
yond question they are opportunists 
in other respects, notably that of 
providing for the survival of the 
fittest. It was this that induced a 
band of them, in January, 1870, to 
commit the greatest crime known in 
these regions. The Hudson Bay 
Company's barque "Kitty" had left 
London in June, 1869, for the Bay, 
with supplies, but was caught in the 
ice and crushed on September fifth 
off Saddle Rock Island. The crew 
left her in two boats and made their 
way to the land, whence, after a 
rest, and strengthening the boats, 
they attempted to cross Hudson 
Strait and work their way down the 
Labrador Coast. Sixty days later 
one of them reached Raman, the 
northernmost of the Moravian Mis- 
sion stations on that Peninsula. The 
other boat, with the Cap tain" and ten 
men, landed on Akpatok Island. 
Here they were at first hospitably 
received by the Eskimos, but as 
food grew scarce and the whole ag- 
gregation was threatened with star- 
vation, they were all murdered one 
night while asleep in their tents. It 
is said that the Eskimos who perpe- 
trated this outrage all died on the 
Islands, and the other natives all 
deserted it, as they believed it to be 
haunted, and it was not till quite 
recently that they could be induced 
to re-establish themselves there. 

The financial importance of the 



Hudson Bay whale fishery was at- 
tested some years ago by a bulletin 
of the United States Fish Commis- 
sion, which showed that the value 
of this industry during eleven years 
was $1,371,000, for fifty voyages, or 
$7,430 a voyage. The Canadian feel- 
ing on the subject of holding Hud- 
son Bay as a mare clausum and de- 
veloping its resources for the bene- 
fit of Canada alone is illustrated by 
a recent letter in a Toronto paper 

numerous, and of great commercial value. 
They may be briefly stated as follows : 
the right whale, the white whale, the 
narwhal, the porpoise, the walrus, seals 
of several varieties, the polar bear, the 
reindeer, the musk-ox, the wolf, the wol- 
verine, and foxes, — white, red and black; 
also salmon, whitefish and trout, of the 
finest description. Besides these fish and 
animals, nearly all of the richest minerals 
have been found in the region. As to the 
occurrence and abundance of these re- 
sources, I can bear personal testimony — hav- 
ing crossed the bay no less than five times, 
and spent three seasons upon its shores. 


from Mr. Tyrrell, a Geological Sur- 
veyor of the Canadian Government, 
who has travelled extensively in 
that region, and who says : 

"Outside and entirely independent of the 
question of navigating Hudson Strait, there 
exist other urgent reasons for sending 
an expedition to Hudson Bay. Our fish- 
eries and our fur trade in that region are 
sadly in need of protection. Our coast- 
lines and our harbors require to be cor- 
rectly located and charted, and our min- 
eral resources demand attention. The re- 
sources of the Hudson Bay district are 

"I have seen the surface of the water 
as far as the eye could reach from the 
deck of a ship appear as an undulating 
plunging mass of white because of the 
presence of great schools of white whales. 
I have observed the islands and shores in 
many localities swarming with walruses, 
and I have witnessed such sights of rein- 
deer, as only photographs can describe. 
These, as well as the other products men- 
tioned, have a high commercial value, but 
I will not further dwell upon this subject, 
excepting to speak briefly of the whale 
fisheries, through which alone Canada has 
already lost many millions of dollars. I 
might quote figures to prove this state- 



ment, as I have them before me, but it 
will be sufficient to state that the assertion 
is not made without ample information 
upon which to base it. An average right 
whale, in bone and oil, is valued at from 
ten to twenty thousand dollars, and, as 
three or four whales are commonly cap- 
tured by one vessel in a season, it is readily 
seen what are the possibilities of a single 
whaling voyage. It is, of course, a well 
known fact that foreign whalers have for 
years been lishing in Hudson Bay and the 
adjacent waters to the north and east. 

"I have seen as many as four vessels in 
one season myself, so that, although, by 

the Treaty of Utrecht, the sovereignty of 
Hudson Bay was ceded to Great Britain, 
it is just possible, that, through long con- 
tinued acquiescence, these foreigners may 
be establishing rights whilst ours are be- 
ing allowed to lapse. It is certainly high 
time that the Government should take 
steps to assert Canadian jurisdiction in our 
North Sea, and this cannot be better done 

than through an expedition 

Such an expedition on board the whaling 
steamer Neptune in charge of Commander 
Lowe is now wintering in Hudson Bay, 
and it is greatly to be hoped that through 
his actions our rights may be respected." 

The Mexican Hacienda 

Its Place and Its People 

By George F. Paul 

IT is not necessary to go far south 
of the Rio Grande before the sig- 
nificance of the hacienda in Mexi- 
can life becomes apparent. The 
term is capable of two applications, 
meaning either a large estate made 
up of several important parts, such 
as plantations, ranches and mills, or 
the central group of buildings on 
the estate. Before describing at 
some length some of the represen- 
tative haciendas, it may be well to 
speak of the real place this institu- 
tion occupies in the national life. 

It must be remembered that 
Mexico has not always been a 
country where property or even 
lives could escape the raids of law- 
less bands. And so for purposes of 
defense a centralized and unified 
group of buildings rose castle-like 
with cannon for defense and but few 
entrances to be guarded. That such 
an institution should gain a foot- 
hold and flourish in Mexico is not 
at all surprising when the nature of 

the native population is considered. 
Generally speaking, the peon popu- 
lation is much better fitted to exe- 
cute than to plan ; they can follow 
when others lead the way; they 
have but little thought for the mor- 
row, being satisfied if they have suf- 
ficient for the day. After the Con- 
quest, numerous haciendas were es- 
tablished that to a considerable de- 
gree served the same ends as the 
feudal castles of the Middle Ages. 
They gathered to themselves family 
after family in the vast agricultural 
districts, promising to exercise a 
paternal and protecting authority 
over their servants. In the sparse- 
ly peopled regions, such a union 
of interests, as indicated before, 
was imperative. The hacienda 
formed an outpost of civilization, 
a nucleus around which the interests 
of the community quickly centered. 
The traveller regarded, and still re- 
gards, them as public houses where 
food and shelter, and if need be, pro- 



tection. could be obtained. For these 
reasons the main structure was built 
on an elaborate scale. Especially 
can this be said of the undertakings 
of the various religious Orders 
whose funds were ample and whose 
plans and purposes were many. 

As what is written about the 
labor system on these estates is 
sometimes confused, it may be well 
to quote the words of one who has 

becomes part and parcel of the establish- 
ment. If he happens to be indebted to 
another hacienda, and, for his own reasons, 
is changing employers, his debt being a 
recommendation, large amounts will be ad- 
vanced to buy the debt and allow the peon 
a cash balance. His contract obliges him 
to work for the hacienda until his debt is 
cancelled. On the other hand, his preroga- 
tives are such as no other laborer in the 
world enjoys. Each week, he receives ra- 
tions sufficient for his maintenance and 
that of his family. Each year, he and his 
family receive an ample supply of cloth- 

Photo by C.B. Watte, 


seen the system in all its various 
workings. Discussing this subject, 
Prince A. de Iturbide says : 

"The peon is of the Indian or mixed 
races. He :is bound by debt to the ha- 
cienda on which he works, and, regard- 
less of color, he may rise, along the scale 
of promotion, to the highest employments 
on the place. The indebtedness is one of 
the essential features of the peon system, 
and is contracted by the peons, either di- 
rectly or by voluntary inheritance. In the 
former case, a peon presents himself to 
the Administrator, or manager, and asks 
for an enganche, that is, a retainer, the 
amount of which varies between ten and 
thirty dollars. If the applicant be accep- 
table, the retainer is paid, and the peon 

ing. Medical services are furnished them 
free of charge, and the sums of money 
required for baptism, confirmations, mar- 
riages, or burials are advanced. Most ha- 
ciendas have schools to which the peon 
man— and often must — send his children. 
He is furnished space, of course, and ma- 
terial for the construction of his hut, and 
is entitled to the use of a fair measure 
of ground, which he cultivates for his 
own benefit, with the hacienda's stock, 
implements, and seed. Finally, there are 
two days in the year on each of which the 
peon receives extra wages amounting to 
several dollars. And when, through age 
or accident, the peon is no longer able to 
work, he becomes a charge of the ha- 

"There, then, is a numerous class of hu- 
man beings who are born, not in poverty, 
but hi debt, and heirs by natural law to 



all the misery of the proletariat — to which 
they would be a prey, if the peon system 
were not there to solve their problem of 
life. As it is, from his cradle to his grave 
the peon will never lack food, raiment or 
shelter. His wife and children will never 
know the pinch of hunger. If he has the 
capacity to rise above his class, he may 
do so. If he goes through life an insolvent 
debtor, still at the hacienda he will have 
an open credit. In a word, he will be 

that the fortress-like structure al- 
ways carries with it the air of mag- 
nificence. It is an institution with 
which the tattered peon likes to 
identify his interests. He can point 
with pride to the imposing pile 
where he has his home, and so he is 
wide-awake to its welfare and ap- 

Photo by C. B. Waite. 


above the lowest laboring class, and that 
through no charity of his employer." 

Such, according to Prince Itur- 
bide, are some of the distinctive 
features of the peon system which 
prevails throughout the greater part 
of Mexico. One other considera- 
tion that probably draws the peons 
to the great haciendas is the fact 

On entering through the wide 
portals, the visitor finds himself in 
an ample court and sees round 
about him a miniature town that the 
long walls have hitherto hid from 
view. The butcher, the baker, the 
candlestick maker, are all repre- 
sented. And they must be, for the 
number of inhabitants of a preten- 



tious hacienda very often aggregates 
more than a thousand. In some 
parts of the country, the cottages 
of the laborers are built in long 
rows some distance from the main 
buildings. A single room fifteen 
feet square is usually considered 
sufficient for each family. Chimneys 
and windows are regarded as super- 
fluities, the light coming in where 
the smoke goes out — by the door. 
Of course there are no spare bed- 
rooms or even private ones in such 
a house, mats spread on the floor 

he often receives credit for con- 
siderable extra work that the women 
of his family have done. 

The Administrator and other 
high functionaries are, of course, 
better housed than the common 
herd and farther removed from the 
braying of the donkeys and the 
grunting of the porkers. Ample 
living quarters are provided in the 
main structure where are also to be 
found the offices of the estate, pro- 
tected store-rooms for various pur- 
poses, a large number of spare rooms, 

Photo by C. B. Waite. 


serving as beds. As the family live 
for the most part in the open air, 
the furniture is also hard to find, 
but quick to dust. It should be re- 
membered that in most parts of 
Mexico the change of seasons af- 
fects but little the working of the 
fields. It is not uncommon to see 
in the same section corn in several 
stages; ready to husk, knee-high, or 
being planted. The women are very 
industrious, and never fail to help 
in any work they can do. At the 
end of each day, when the amount 
of each peon's work is determined, 

as well as stables for choice saddlers 
and drivers. It is interesting to 
make the rounds of the buildings 
and read the quaint entablatures 
over the entrances. The principal 
one at the Tepenacasco hacienda in 
the state of Hidalgo confidently de- 
clares ■:. "En aqueste destierro y sole- 
dad disfruto del tesoro del paz." 
(In this retirement and solitude I 
enjoy the treasure of peace.) The 
hopes of the builder never saw ful- 
fillment, for during the Wars of In- 
dependence the whole region was a 
stamping ground for marauders. 



Ph oto by C. B. Waite. 


Many wealthy planters with their 
hundreds of thousands of dollars in- 
vested in lands and refineries, go ex- 
tensively into the production of 
sugar where the region is well 
adapted to cane raising. The rich 
man produces the refined white 
sugar, as well as the various grades 
of brown sugar, known in Mexico 
as "Piloncillo," "Panocha," and 
"Panela," such as the poor renter 
turns out with his wooden rolls and 
copper kettle. The sugar industry 
may be taken up with a limited 
capital and additions made gradual- 
ly. A few more acres can be culti- 
vated each year, another "Trapiche'' 
put in, and a kettle or two added to 
the plant, until the production war- 
rants an investment in refining ma- 
chinery to produce the better grades. 
Within the walls of a sugar ha- 
cienda the scene always contains 
plenty of life. The area is strewn 
with crushed stalks. Long sway- 
ing lines of burros are constantly 
streaming in from the fields, bear- 
ing fresh cane to be crushed. Men 
stripped to the waist, the perspira- 

tion trickling down their dark 
backs, drag the cane from the bur- 
ros, bind it to swinging derricks that 
convey it to the crushers, or heap 
the carts high with refuse. No one 
lounges around. The black-eyed 
boys lash the mules and hiss at 
them, apparently deriving their un- 
wonted energy from the incessant 
whirring of the mill machinery. 
Down from the crusher pours a 
steady stream of sweet sap that 
creeps down the trough to the boil- 
ing vats ; clouds of steam rise from 
the boilers ; round and round whirl 
the big centrifugals, plastering the 
walls with molasses ; the melted 
sugar is hurried to the moulds that 
cast conical loaves of twenty-five 
pounds each ; these are then taken 
to the great drying rooms where 
they are stood in rows like beehives; 
and finally they reach the shipping 
room where the results are most 
evident and gratifying. 

To inspect such an establishment 
an old suit of clothes should be 
worn, for after groping about in 
dark passages, slipping on sticky 
floors, sprinkled by the centrifugals, 
one emerges dazed with the din and 
saturated with the sweetness. 
What with the overpowering air 
and the sweetness that come along 
unbidden, the craving for sugar is 
satisfied for at least a month to 

And the power behind the throne, 
or the mill in this instance, is one 
man ; his presence makes the mule 
carts go racing off hub to hub in one 
direction and the little burros in an- 
other; his presence makes the over- 
seers shout and the barefooted 
peons scoot around, the wheels 
grind, the presses stream, and the 
big loaves form. High in a filthy 
sort of coop that commands a view 
of the vard sits Salvador Fernandez, 



a burly frame of sixty, and around 
him, hat in hand, stand a group of 
muchachos ready to do his bidding 
at the slightest movement of his 
stout forefinger. The dogs of the 
estate like to congregate here, 
though trampled on by the hurry- 
ing feet of messengers. The office 
furniture does not include such 
luxuries as a roll-top desk and a re- 

during the day, and how much has 
been shipped. His searching eye 
takes in every thing with a glance; 
business is dispatched quickly, me- 
thodically, and with but few words. 
The most numerous attendants of 
Don Fernandez are the flies; they 
outnumber the hairs on his half- 
bald head, and they leave their 
slimy trail everywhere. Overgorged 

Photo by C. B. Waite. 


volving chair; a little deal table and 
a rough stool suffice. The bulky 
inkstand is the most important 
thing on the table. From this emi- 
nence he overlooks the whole mov- 
ing panorama. Hourly reports 
•come to him from all parts of the 
plant; thus he knows the amount 
•of cane brought in from the fields, 
what the yield of sugar is, how 
many pounds have been produced 

and sickened with sweets, many of 
them seek relief in the depths of 
the ink bottle. Others find com- 
fort in pouncing with sanguinary 
intent on the ears of the laziest dogs 
in the office, where glutted at 
length they drift away to Nirvana. 
They delight in peppering the Don's 
broad back with their insignificant 
selves, peeping down his hairy neck 
and scampering over his bald spot. 



Day afted day finds him at his post ; 
day after day finds his buzzing reti- 
nue faithfully hovering about him. 
The donkeys, the dogs, and the flies 
recognize in him a patient com- 
patriot, and know not that he is one 
of the richest men in the Republic, 
and has more dollars, even, than he 
has flies. 

The maguey haciendas in the im- 

within a short time after fermenta- 
tion, as forty-eight hours later it is 
slop. Humboldt mentions an old 
Indian woman of Cholula who died 
during his stay there, about a hun- 
dred years ago, and left her heirs 
a maguey plantation valued at $80,- 
000. In the little state of Hidalgo, 
the maguey haciendas are worth 
eight millions. The maguey, like 

Photo by C. B. Waite. 


mediate neighborhood of Mexico 
City remunerative investments. One 
hundred thousand pints of pulque, 
the fermented sap of the maguey, 
are consumed in that city daily. 
The railroads entering the metropo- 
lis now receive forty thousand dol- 
lars a week in freights on pulque 
alone. The drink must be used 

the bamboo, can be used in almost 
countless ways, so the by-products 
are of the greatest importance. The 
different species provide the peon 
with shingles for his hut, with a 
needle and thread with which to 
mend his rags, and with a rope that 
may be useful if he wants to get 
awav from his rags forever. 




No more picturesque hacienda 
can probably be found in all Mexico 
than that of Don Felix Quero at 
Mitla in the state of Oaxaca. This 
hacienda is about thirty miles from 
the terminus of the Mexican South- 
ern railroad, and near the famous 
ruins of Mitla that make archaeol- 
ogists scratch their heads long and 
thoughtfully. Because of the bleak 
and rough nature of the surround- 
ing country, it has retained many of 
the characteristics of the early ha- 
ciendas. Evening is sure to find 
Don Felix and his sleepy-eyed son 
behind the counter. Groups of 
Indians hang about the two broad 
doorways, coming from time to time 
to invest in two cents' worth of 
mescal. This is carefully poured 
out to them in a glass with a thick 
bottom — the purchaser invariably 
offers the powerful liquor to his el- 
bow friend first, and between them 
with great gasps of satisfaction 
they slowly down the fiery drink. 
Now and then a woman creeps in, 
mutely obtains a handful of dried 
shrimps or a few long-tapered can- 
dles, and creeps out again. How 
quiet they are for so many ! With 
what mute wonder do they watch 
their pennies disappear down the 
slot in the thick counter! Grand 
specimens of humanity these, with 
hair and eyebrows that almost meet, 

with no higher desires than to eat 
and sleep, and sleep and eat — with 
drink ad libitum. And after their 
pennies have all fallen into the 
Don's bottomless pit, with a grim- 
ace and a last look, they slink off 
like hounds to their resting place 
on the cobblestones without. 

Viewed from a distance, the scene 
is vivid and striking, — above, a strip 
of stars and a strip of black clouds; 
to the left, a strange, wierd blaze is 
kindled that sets a dog to howling 
as if his collar would break. Now 
of the crowd that huddles under the 
long portals, all are not besotted 
fathers and weak-eyed mothers; 
pairs of young lovers sit cooing and 
laughing. A match shows for an 
instant three dark faces held close 
together around it, all eager to get 
a whiff at their cigarettes. Then 
comes a great rustling and murmur- 
ing of innumerable leaves in the 
towering fig trees, and clouds of 
dust sweep swirling down the road. 
Mysterious figures with packs on 
their backs trudge wearily up to the 
hacienda's portal, drop on the cob- 
ble-stones, and fall fast asleep. 
Then the wind lulls, the watch-dog 
forgets his fears, the chirp of the 
cricket and the croak of the frog 
tick off the still hours, and the great 
hacienda is at rest, rest where a 
capitol has stood, rest where a na- 
tion lies buried. 

The Undoing of Charity Randall 

By Eleanor H. Porter 


HEN old Peter Randall died, 
Plainville saw little change in 
"the store." The crackers 
were as convenient to a covetous 
hand, and the cheese on the end of 
the counter was as generously ac- 
cessible as ever. Moreover, the bar- 
rels and boxes grouped around the 
stove still invited to a social chat. 

The tall, spare figure of Peter 
Randall was, indeed, no longer 
present ; but the form of a woman — ■ 
nearly as tall and quite as spare — 
stood in its place. She was Charity 
Randall, the daughter of the house — 
a Peter Randall in petticoats. The 
men of Plainville found that femi- 
nine hands could tie up parcels and 
cut tobacco with deft swiftness, and 
the women were glad to discuss 
cooking and calicoes with one of 
their own sex. 

Charity's daily life was simple 
and open to the knowledge of all. 
She arose, ate, worked, and went to 
bed. The entire village was wel- 
come to know what she ate and how 
she cooked it, and she made no se- 
cret of her occasional new gowns 
nor of what they cost. She asked 
but one thing in return — an equal 
open-heartedness on the part of her 

It was just here that Charity was 
disappointed. The people of Plain- 
ville did not propose to open their 
closets and bring forth the family 
skeleton that Charity might enjoy 
the rattling of its bones ; and though 
a dinner or a dress was not always 
a skeleton, yet the principle was the 


same in their eyes, and they stoutly 
r eb e 1 1 e d — sometimes ineffectually, 
however, so disarming in its kind- 
heartedness was her frankly dis- 
played interest, as Charity, for all 
her love of gossip, was never ma- 
licious. She was ready to laugh or 
cry as the case demanded — that she 
might have the opportunity to do 
one or the other was all she asked. 

The fact that Charity kept the 
village store and ran the post office 
was that much to her advantage ; the 
magic circle of barrels and boxes 
around the old stove — whether 
summer or winter — being a wonder- 
ful source of information, to say 
nothing of the tales told by the very 
fatness or the leanness of the letters 
that passed through her interested 

It was one of the plump sort of 
letters — plump even to double pos- 
tage — that Charity put into Grace 
Carlton's hands late one warm June 

"Bigger'n ever, Grade," she 
chuckled. "Been comin' pretty 
often, too!" 

The young girl bit her lips and 
flushed scarlet, but she did not 

"You needn't color up, so, child — 
though I must say it makes ye look 
prettier'n ever," observed Charity. 

Grace laughed in spite of herself. 
It was by just such skillful turns 
that Charity blunted her shafts of 
inquisitiveness and rendered them 
less liable to give offense. 

The woman noted the laugh and 



the pleased look that danced in the 
girl's eyes. She deemed it a fitting 
time to ask a certain question that 
had long trembled on her lips. 

"Oh, Grade," she coaxed, as the 
girl turned away, "everyone asks 
me when the wedding will be, and 
I never know what to say. What 
shall I tell 'em?" 

"Tell them you do not know !" 
retorted the girl, looking her tor- 
mentor straight in the eye, then 
swiftly leaving the store. 

"Well, I never — but she is a cute 
one!" chuckled Miss Randall turn- 
ing to a woman who had been stand- 
ing by, a silent witness to her dis- 
comfiture. "Now, Mirindy, I'll 
leave it to you — would ye think 
she'd be so secret about a little thing 
like that?" 

"Well, I don't know," began Mrs. 
Durgin cautiously, but the other in- 

"Why, Mirindy, if I was engaged 
and goin' to be married — don't ye 
think I'd tell of it?" 

Mrs. Durgin looked across the 
counter with a quizzical smile in 
her eyes that Charity did not in the 
least appreciate. 

"Yes, Charity, I am sure you 
would — very sure !" she repeated 
with a slow nod of her head. 

"Well, then, I ain't askin' anythin' 
tut what I'm willin' to give," as- 
serted Charity, triumphantly. 
"Now, really, where is the use of 
bein' so awful secret about things? 
Why, only to-day I asked Molly 
Sargent a simple little question 
about that girl who came there last 
week so mysterious like — she's been 
there ever since, ye know — but I 
couldn't find out a thing. Let's 
see — was it tea ye wanted — beside 
the sugar? — quarter of a pound?" 

Mrs. Durgin nodded; she had long 
ago learned to resort to wordless 

gestures when Charity was in this 

"Well, as I was sayin'," continued 
the store-keeper, squinting carefully 
at the quarter-of-a-pound notch on 
the scales and dropping the last nec- 
essary bit of tea, leaf by leaf, from 
her fingers, "as I was sayin', I don't 
ask more than I am perfectly will- 
in' to give, and that seems fair to 

"But, Charity, don't you see? — - 
some people have things in their 
families that they'd rather people 
didn't know about," remonstrated 
Mrs. Durgin, breaking for once her 
rule of silence. 

"Well, they hadn't oughter have !" 
remarked Charity, whisking the tea 
into a tiny bag and binding it with 
a string. 

"Perhaps not — but sometimes 
they can't help it." 

"But it don't do no good to keep 
secret about it," Charity insisted. 
"Why, if I was rich, or poor, or sick, 
or well, or had a dozen beaus — what 
difference would it make to me 
whether folks knew it or not? — 
Anythin' else to-day, Mirindy?" 

"No ; I guess that'll do for now," 
replied Mrs. Durgin, gathering her 
packages into her bag and turning 
away. She hesitated a moment, 
then looked back and said : "I hap- 
pen to know that that girl at Molly 
Sargent's is a poor relation that 
they've taken in ; they ain't very 
proud of her, so you'd better not 
ask any more questions in that 
quarter, Charity." 

"Land sakes ! — why didn't ye say 
so before? What — " the door closed 
sharply and Charity was left to her- 

"Well, I never!" she murmured, 
as she went about her preparations 
for the night. 

Charity's tiny cottage was next 

to the store. She lived there in in- 
dependent solitude — splitting her 
own kindling wood, building her 
own fires, and shoveling her own 
paths in winter; the one concession 
she made to her sex being a nightly 
search under her bed for burglars. 

For thirty-odd years she had per- 
formed this act — religiously, auto- 
matically; first with trepidation, 
then with the calm assurance born 
of long years of comforting vacancy 
in the searched quarters. 

To-night, after Mrs. Durgin's de- 
parture, Charity closed the store, 
locked it carefully, and crossed the 
garden to the cottage. Her bread- 
and-milk supper she ate on the back 
porch; and it was there, too, that 
she sat reading the weekly journal 
until the twilight of the long day 
made the type invisible. 

On the stroke of nine she started 
for bed. Lighting a small brass 
chamber lamp, she locked the doors, 
tried the windows, and climbed the 
stairs to her room. She set the 
lamp on a chair where it would best 
suit her purpose, and turned to her 
first duty — the bed. 

Carelessly, and as a matter of 
course, she bent her back and 
lowered her head, lifting the spot- 
lessly white valance around the bed- 
stead as she did so. A moment 
later, her body stiffened and her 
eyes almost started from their sock- 
ets. . 

That was not all shadow in the 
farther corner ! Moreover, the 
heavy sole of a boot lay flatly to- 
wards her — unmistakably the boot 
of a man. She could dimly see the 
outline of his body as he lay on his 
back towards her. Very softly 
Charity dropped the valance and 
stood upright. 

A danger hidden was a terror to 
her, but let that danger be once re- 

vealed, and she gloried in it. 
Swiftly crossing the room she 
opened her bureau drawer and took 
out a small revolver — the most 
modern thing the room contained ; 
then she established herself com- 
fortably in a chair facing the bed, 
and cocked the weapon in her hands. 

"You may come out from under 
that, now, sir," she said slowly and 

There was no reply. 

"Come out, I say — come out !" re- 
iterated the woman a little louder. 
"You can't play that game — I've 
seen ye and I know yer there. Now 
come !" 

There was a muffled stir under the 
bed and the sound of a large body 
dragging itself along a narrow way. 

"Well, By Jingo, you're a rum 
one, an' no mistake !" murmured the 
man, making a frantic clutch at the 
valance and peering out into the 

His eyes blinked at the light and 
at a shining" something in the wo- 
man's hand. Suddenly he realized 
what that something was and 
ducked back under the bed with a 
howl of terror. 

"Confound ye — put up that shoot- 
in'-iron !" he snarled. 

"Mebbe yer 'fraid," suggested the 
woman, calmly. "It won't go off 
unless I let it." 

"Afraid!" groaned the hiding 
man ; "who wouldn't be afraid with 
that thing in a woman's hands? If 
it was in a man's, now, I'd stand 
some show — he'd know what he was 
about ; but a woman — good lord ! 
Come — put it up, an' I'll come out!" 

He could scarcely have made a 
worse mistake. It was not upon 
"womanliness" that Charity prided 
herself. To taunt her with inca- 
pacity, and that because she was a 
woman, was to commit the un- 



pardonable sin in her eyes. An 
angry flush rose to her cheeks and 
her thin lips tightened. 

"Very well then, you can stay 
where you are. I am comfortable, 
at any rate," she returned with a 
suggestive emphasis on the "I". 

There was noise, which was a 
cross between a snarl and a growl, 
from under the bed, and then a half- 
smothered curse. 

"Now see here," warned Charity, 
"you stop that swearing right away 
or I'll let this thing ofl at a venture. 
What do ye mean by such actions? 
What are ye there for, anyhow?" 

"Because I don't dare to come out, 
I tell ye," retorted the man. 

A grim smile covered Miss Ran- 
dall's lips. 

"Well yer brave, I must say, 
whatever else ye are!" she ejacu- 
lated scornfully. 

"See here, Charity, put down yer 
gun — I want to come out!" The 
words and the voice were in sharp 
command, and the fact that he had 
called her by her name blanched 
Charity's cheek. 

"Why — who — who are you?" she 

"I'm Mark Randall — do ye want 
to shoot yer own brother?" 

"I — I don't believe it!" she pro- 
tested feebly, trying to steady her 

There was a half-stifled chuckle 
from under the bed. 

"Well, I hain't got a strawb'ry 
mark on my left arm, Charity, but 
I reckon I can tell ye some stories 
of Marshfield, and Bob, and Daisy, 
and Star-face that'll convince ye all 
right. Come! Quit yer nonsense 
and drop that gun. It's confounded 
hot and stuffy here !" 

Marshfield ! — her home until she 
was sixteen; Bob — the dog; Daisy — 
the cat; Star-face — the dear little 

colt she had loved so well ! Her 
fingers loosened and the revolver 
fell to the floor with a clatter. The 
man heard, and crawled painfully 
out where the light from the little 
brass lamp showed his big red face 
and bleary eyes in all their hideous- 
ness. He stretched his cramped 
limbs luxuriously, then turned to the 
woman who sat regarding him in 
dismayed horror. 

"Well, you ain't over cordial in 
yer welcome, it strikes me," he ob- 

Charity swallowed to moisten her 
dry throat, but the words refused to 

"Mebbe you ain't glad to see me," 
he hazarded. "Mebbe yer friends 
here don't know anythin' about yer 
good-fer-nothin' brother what ye 
hain't seen for most thirty years — 
eh ?" 

Charity shook her head weakly. 

"I — I thought you was dead," she 

"Well, I ain't — an' I'm hungry! 
Got anythin' ter eat?" 

Charity rose unsteadily to her feet, 
picked up the lamp, and started 
down the stairs motioning to her 
visitor to follow. She moved in a 
kind of daze, scarcely knowing what 
she did ; yet her first care when she 
entered the kitchen was to see that 
the shades of all the windows were 
pulled down to the sills — a position 
in which Charity Randall's kitchen 
curtains had never been before. 

She set the best the little house 
afforded on the table, then watched 
him in growing despair as he 
shoveled the food into his mouth 
with his knife. 

After he had eaten, he talked. 
The story of crime and misery that 
he told sickened and frightened her. 
He said that he had reached his last 
penny, now, and that he thought his 



sister had ought to give him a "lift." 

They talked until far into the 
night, in the end coming to a con- 
clusion that sent Charity to bed 
with a heavy heart, but also with the 
consciousness that she had done the 
best she could do under the circum- 

One thing was insisted upon from 
the first — he should not be known as 
her brother. His name should be 
Mark Smith and he should be her 
"hired man" at the store. He would 
sleep in the store, also, though his 
meals he would take with her. She 
sped with guilty swiftness through 
the dew-wet garden that very night 
and showed the man to the little 
room back of the store where was 
an old couch used by her father on 
occasional nights years before. 
With a promise to see that more 
was done in the morning for his 
comfort, Charity left the man in the 
tiny room and hastened back to the 
house, and to a sleepless night of 
weary tossing to-and-fro on her pil- 

The village w T as plainly astounded 
at the sudden appearance of the- 
"new hand" at Randall's. Indeed, 
for three days Charity had a mar- 
velous trade — nearly every man, 
woman, and child in the place either 
collectively or separately making 
some sort of a purchase. Charity 
suddenly found herself without a 
pin in the store, for — as a thrifty 
farmer's wife observed — "pins is al- 
ways handy," and all who could 
think of nothing else to buy had in- 
vested in a paper of pins. 

Mrs. Durgin had been among the 
first to appear. Mark was leisurely 
dusting the shelves in the back of 
the store when she came in. She 
glanced at his great red face and 
awkward movements disapproving- 

ly, then she turned to Charity who 
had promptly advanced. 

"I want some coffee, please, — a 
pound," said Mrs. Durgin. 

Charity raised her eyebrows. 

"I mean — er — tea," blundered 
Mrs. Durgin, growing strangely em- 

"Tea? Certainly — of course — the 
same kind ye bought yesterday?" 

"Huh? Why, sure enough — I did 
get some yesterday, didn't I! What 
am I thinking of!" muttered Mrs, 
Durgin, her face a mottled red. "It 
was pins I wanted — a paper of 'em, 
and — er— a pound of yer fancy 
cookies, please," she finished with 
resolute conviction. 

Charity busied herself behind the 
counter in unusual silence, and Mrs. 
Durgin glanced furtively over her 
shoulder at the strange clerk. 

"Got a new man — eh?" she ven- 

"Yes ; needed him to help — beea 
so busy," Charity returned shortly^ 

"Um — nm ; kinder sudden, waVi 

A slow red crept into Miss Ran- 
dall's cheeks and she snapped the 
string of the cracker bag viciously 
in her fingers. 

"Oh, mebbe — kinder. Any thin' 
else, Mis' Durgin?" 

"No, I don't know as there is. 
Er — he don't look over handy, 
Charity. You didn't take him with- 
out good recommendations, now, did 
ye?" persisted the customer in a 
subdued voice. 

A loud cough from the man made 
the two women jump nervously. He 
choked and gasped for some time 
before he seemed to catch his breath 
and when he did regain it, his face 
was a deeper red than ever. 

"He ain't healthy, neither," con- 
tinued Mrs. Durgin. "He's con- 
sumptive or apoplectic or something 

I should think," she added with a 
keen glance at Charity. 

Miss Randall did not seem to hear. 
She was hastily turning over a pile 
of ginghams on the counter. 

"Say, Mirindy," she began in 
plainly forced eagerness, "I want ye 
to see this dress pattern. There ! 
Now ain't that pretty as a picture?" 
she demanded, holding up to the 
light a green and black check. 

"Urn — um — er — yes, rather," con- 
ceded the other. "You've got lots 
of 'em, too. Trade been kinder 
dull?" she asked, setting a trap for 
Charity's unwary feet. 

"Yes, terrible dull," acquiesced 
Charity, falling headlong and be- 
coming hopelessly entangled at 
once. "Spring trade's been pretty 
slim," — there was another choking 
cough from the new clerk, but the 
women did not notice. "But these 
are all new goods, Mirindy — -I 
wouldn't show ye nothin' else. Now 
I think this green and black would 
fust*suit you, Mirindy, you can wear 
them tryin' shades. There ain't 
many what can You really oughter 
have it," she urged. 

ivirs. Dm gin shook her head and 
turned toward the door. As she 
passed down the street, she mut- 
tered under her breath : 

"There's somethin' wrong there; 
she needed him to 'help,' yet trade's 
been 'slim' and 'dull' — there surely 
is something wrong!" 

The Avhole town echoed this ver- 
dict before the week was out. The 
coughing clerk must have instructed 
Charity on one point, for she was 
not again guilty of complaining of 
dull trade in the next breath after 
explaining his presence as being 
necessary to "help" ; but she made 
many remarks equally illogical. In- 
deed as time passed, Plainville peo- 
ple became very much exercised 

over the affair, and it assumed an 
importance in their eyes all out of 
proportion to its real worth. 

At first the town was inclined to 
think that Charity was being im- 
posed upon, and they sympathized 
accordingly. The man Smith was 
known to have shirked his duties, 
and he was frowned upon as being 
lazy. Some even went so far as to 
remonstrate with Charity and sug- 
gest his dismissal. To these Charity 
always doggedly replied*: "I am per- 
fectly satisfied ; I shall make no 
change." This retort did not please 
Plainville and it speedily stanched 
the flow of sympathy. 

One day Mrs. Durgin entered the 
store with a very determined face. 
She had witnessed Smith's depart- 
ure some time before with a basket 
of goods, and she found Charity 
alone as she had hoped she would. 

"Charity, who is this man?" she 
began aggressively. 

Miss Randall steeled he-**-' for 
the battle she knew was com ag. 

"What man ?" she temporized. 

"You know very well who I mean 
— this Smith." 

"Well, his name is Mark, and he 
is my clerk," Charity replied, with 
a smooth sweetness quite foreign to 
her usual manner. 

"Humph ! But who is he? — where 
did he come from? — who are his 

Miss Randall's face became a sick- 
ly gray. 

"His folks? Why, Mirindy — how 
should I know? Do ye s'pose I in- 
quired into his family tree?" she re- 
turned flippantly. 

Mrs. Durgin looked sharply into 
Charity's face, then changed the 
subject with peculiar abruptness. 

"That girl at Sargent's has gone 

"Is that so !" exclaimed Charity 



with some show of interest, and a 
greater relief in her voice than the 
subject would seem to demand. 

"Yes;" affirmed Mrs. Durgin. 
"They've been awful secret about 
her. For my part, I don't see why." 

"Mebbe there's somethin' they 
don't want folks to know," — Chari- 
ty's voice was very faint. 

Mrs. Durgin's eyelids quivered, 
and she looked at Charity through 
half-shut eyes. 

"But there hadn't oughter be !" 
she persisted. 

"Mebbe they couldn't help it," be- 
gan Charity weakly, but the other 

"Why, Charity Randall! You 
said yourself not a month ago that 
it didn't do no good to keep things 
so secret — seems to me you've 
changed your tune !" 

At that moment Mark Smith en- 
tered the door, and for the first time 
since he came to her, Charity re- 
joiced in his presence. Mrs. Durgin 
bought a spool of thread and silent- 
ly left the store. 

Matters went from bad to worse ; 
wild rumors, like birds of ill-omen, 
hovered over the town. Something 
was certainly wrong at Randall's. 
Added to tales of Charity's unac- 
countable partisanship of Smith 
came the report that he had been 
overheard to call her by her given 
name. Moreover, he had been seen 
skulking in the dead of night 
through the garden path that led 
from the house to the store. The 
curtains at Charity's cottage win- 
dows became unfailing signs of 
wrongdoing, so frequently were they 
pulled close down to the sill. 

Then sidelong glances began to be 
cast at Charity on the street. The 
women came less and less frequently 

trading in a silent dignity that was 
almost an accusation. 

Charity was so miserable with her 
own thoughts that she scarcely 
noticed these changes. Her con- 
science pricked painfully at the de- 
ception she was practicing, and she 
attended church twice every Sunday 
now in a vain attempt to find peace. 

Smith was a sore trouble to her. 
Besides being lazy and insolent, he 
drank ! and so ruled her absolutely 
with his threat of drink whenever 
his will crossed hers. Many a mid- 
night luncheon he enjoyed in Char- 
ity's kitchen, simply because she 
dared not refuse to get him the food 
lest he steep himself in whiskey and 
make her life yet more of a burden 
to her. 

It was at the sewing society that 
the storm broke. Charity had been 
absent the last few times, and the 
neighbors did not expect her that 
afternoon. Charity herself had not 
at first intended to be there, but she 
was heart-sick and weary, and short- 
ly after the hour of assembling, she 
suddenly determined to go, think- 
ing the change might take her out 
of herself for the time. 

No one saw her enter the hall and 
go up stairs to remove her bonnet; 
the other ladies had all arrived and 
were in the parlor — needles gleam- 
ing, and tongues wagging. 

Charity's footsteps made no sound 
as she slowly descended the stairs, 
but at the foot of the flight she was 
brought to a sudden stop by the de- 
risive speaking of her name from the 
parlor just beyond. 

Drop by drop the blood faded 
from her cheek and seemed to clog 
and stiffen in her heart as her limbs 
became cold and rigid at what she 
heard. Then the full meaning of the 
cruel words and sneering innuendoes 



blood back to her face in surging 
waves of crimson. 

With a long stride she covered the 
distance between her and the open 
door. Her spare form towered to its 
greatest height as she appeared in 
all the majesty of a righteous wrath 
before the cowering women. 

"When you have quite finished," 
she began in a slow, distinct voice, 
"I should like to say a word myself. 
The man you are discussing so free- 
ly is my brother, Mark Randall, who 
ran away from home when I was 
sixteen — before I moved here. He 
came to me poor, without a friend in 
the world, and I have done what I 
could for him. I" — her voice trem- 
bled and almost broke — "I wa'n't 
proud of him and — I changed his 
name. It wa'n't right, and I know 
it. But" — with renewed wrath — - 
"before you tear a woman's reputa- 
tion to rags and tatters next time — 
be sure that the man ain't — ain't her 
brother!" she finished weakly. 

Another moment and the doorway 
was empty, while Charity's gaunt 
figure — all bonnetless as it was — - 
hurried down the walk and past the 

For a minute the assembled wo- 
men were speechless with terror and 
loss of breath, and even when their 
tongues were loosened, the words 
came with a halting inarticulateness 
that plainly testified to the shock of 
Charity's revelation. For long days 
afterward they spoke of that day 

and of that speech with bated breath. 

Plainville supposed that its meas- 
ure of sensation was full, but some- 
thing yet more disquieting occurred 
before the week was out. Certain 
blue-coated, brass-buttoned guardi- 
ans of the peace descended from a 
neighboring city and arrested Chari- 
ty's clerk. It then transpired that 
the man was not Mark Randall, nor 
yet was he Mark Smith. His real 
name was buried under so long a list 
of aliases that it was almost impos- 
sible to resurrect it from the obli- 
vion of disuse. 

He had known the real Mark Ran- 
dall — long since dead — and had 
learned from him the stories of the 
family life at Marshfield, with which 
stories he had won so easy a living 
from the too credulous Charity. He 
was arrested for a long list of crimes 
in which theft and forgery played a 
prominent part; and his comet-like 
career in the sky of Plainville was 
the talk of the town for months. 

Very gradually things settled 
back into the old ruts, and "Ran- 
dall's" became once more the center 
of social chat. Charity only was 
changed. Her blue eyes lost their 
questioning look, and her lips sel- 
dom asked for news. One might 
produce one's family skeleton and 
cause it to dance a fandango before 
Charity, now, and scarcely an eyelid 
would quiver. If she saw — she 
made no sign. 

Thomas B . Reed 

An Appreciation 

By Enoch Knight 

BEGINNING with the campaign 
of 1856 the State of Maine be- 
came a great factor in national 
politics. It was in the early sum- 
mer of that year that the Republican 
State Convention, in the quiet old 
city of Portland, ratified the nomi- 
nation of Fremont and Dayton and- 
inaugurated the first national cam- 
paign of that party. It was a re- 
markable gathering. All the old po- 
litical leaders who were to range 
themselves upon the new party 
alignment were there, the Fessen- 
dens, the Morrills, the Washburns 
and many more, — the most notable 
of all being Hannibal Hamlin, just 
resigned as a Democratic Senator, 
and who appeared at the head of 
three hundred red-shirted Penob- 
scot river drivers, bearing a banner 
with the legend : "The Jam's Broke." 
The city went wild that night ; bon- 
fires blazed, orators harangued and 
the young men sang Whittier's 
lines : 

"Rise up, Fremont, and go before, 
The hour must have its man, 
Put on the hunting shirt once more, 
And lead in Freedom's van." 

To the political fruitage of that 
time was added the rich flowering 
of the new birth of oratory and 
poetry in New England, which set 
a high standard of thinking and al- 
most made a new political atmos- 
phere. Besides, Maine spoke first 
of all the northern states, and every 
fall, under the old regime, saw a 

battle royal participated in by the 
leading orators of the land. It was 
in this high company and stirred by 
its mighty voices and the terrible 
earnestness of the times, that Thom- 
as B. Reed grew from boyhood to 
become the giant of this race of 
strong men, in the fullness of his 
time. Reed was born to be great, 
and like most men of his class, had 
a consciousness of what he was able 
to do and become. Always strik- 
ing in size, gait, and speech, he was 
a man everybody looked at. He did 
not "blaze in a crowd," as the 
Englishman said of Blaine, but in 
a way all his own he towered above 
the crowd and nobody ever cared 
for the details. He was so big, so 
slow of speech and motion, that he 
seemed to mature late ; but he did 
not lose by it, for he had read and 
remembered as few boys and young 
men do, and when he finally came 
into the arena of work it was with 
full equipment and with a brain that 
had neither been overworked nor 
underfed. It was felt by his col- 
lege and other friends that he pos- 
sessed unusual promise and yet it 
was not easy to define it. He was 
essentially a student, and curiously 
conservative, albeit the very atmos- 
phere of the time was full of re- 
forms. Fie held to a few lines of 
study and never scattered. At bot- 
tom was the intensity of belief in 
human rights and individualism 
that never weakened or brooked 




challenge. This was a passion with 
him, from the time when he laughed 
to scorn the dogmatism of Jonathan 
Edwards, in the face of pastor, 
people and family, down to his latest 
utterance on our new colonial policy. 
Reed was a believer in woman 
suffrage but he could never be per- 
suaded by its advocates to take any 
part in advocating it. And so with 
many questions that engaged the 
attention of others of his personal 
and party friends. His political 
creed was very simple — the business 
of honestly and safely carrying on 
the government. He believed that 
his party stood for the only worthy 
and safe policy and so he was an 
intense partisan. He never wavered 
or wearied in its support nor al- 
lowed others to, without rebuke. 
What he did not approve he kept 
to himself, at least he did not give 
aid and comfort to the other side, 
for whose claims to rule he had only 
open scorn, and did not mind say- 
ing that "individual Democrats 
have principles, but the party has 
none." It was the almost terrible 
seriousness of his idea of political 
duty, joined with his great personal 
force, that made him, from the first, 
a leader in any time of stress. He 
had made up his mind on certain 
main lines of policy, and nothing 
less and nothing else could be al- 
lowed to get in the way. He did 
not seem to care for controversy 
for controversy'? sake, but was so 
confident and so tenacious of 
opinion, that surroundings never 
seemed to change or affect his 
views. He did not claim that his 
party fellows were saints, but, as 
he humorously expressed it, he felt 
himself "doing the Lord's business" 
when he could help his side con- 
fuse the Democrats, and in every 

who, as Blaine once said of himself, 
"shot to hit and hit to kill," when 
his blood was up. 

In a certain sense Reed was not 
popular, and yet from the very first 
he was a notable and familiar figure 
at Washington, and easily won the 
Speakership of the 51st Congress 
over seniors in service and su- 
periors in political skill, — for tact 
he had none. The first contest 
proved him to be a man who dared 
to do what he declared ought to be 
done. He knew how precious is 
time and how wasteful is loose de- 
bating when vital legislation waits. 
He had even deplored the custom 
of week-day memorial addresses, and 
early adjournments, when such ser- 
vices were more appropriately held 
on the Sabbath ; a practice, by the 
way, that appears to have been just 
now adopted. 

The Speaker wanted things done, 
and little by little it had come to 
depend upon him whether or riot 
they were to be done. At last he 
brought the House leaders and the 
Committee on Rules to the support 
of his purpose, to count in the roll 
call members present. He declared 
that he could not bear to see his 
party the victims and the sport of 
a noisy, defiant and mocking mi- 
nority. It seems that he had thought 
it all out, even to the end, what he 
should do if his plan was not 
adopted, and he declared to a 
friend, not long before his death, 
that it is easy to do a thing when 
every contingency has been pro- 
vided for, and that it is only when 
one is taken by surprise that one is 
really worried. At any rate, Reed 
Avas in complacent mood when he 
summoned McMillan, of the mi- 
nority of the Committee on Rules, 



Speaker, Mr. Cannon and Mr. Mc- 
Kinley of the majority, in the 
Speaker's room, to hear the an- 
nouncement of the new rule — as to 
counting the members at roll call. 
The story goes that Reed, who had 
the habit of familiarly calling fellow 
members by their first names, 
called out to McMillan when he ap- 
peared : "Mac, I sent for you that 
you might know the outrage that 
Joe and I and Bill have put up on 
you and Jim," (Blount of Georgia), 
and read to him the proposed special 

"When do you propose to under- 
take to enforce this?" 

"Now," answered Reed; and at 
that instant his messenger an- 
nounced, "It is 12 o'clock, Mr. 
Speaker." Reed lumbered along to 
his desk and after the journal had 
been read, took a survey of the 
House. His party was behind him, 
as he expected them to be. He had 
said that very morning to Hicks, of 
Pennsylvania, with his significant, 
inimitable drawl : "Hicks, you were 
not at school yesterday. Did you 
bring an excuse from your mother?" 

The story of the curious and me- 
morable scene that followed the 
order to the clerk to enter and count 
the names of the members of the 
minority present, need not be told 

"I deny the right of the Speaker 
to count me present," shouted Mc- 
Creary of Kentucky, above the din. 

With a twinkle in his eye and a 
little note of triumph in his voice, 
Reed replied: "The Chair simply 
stated the fact that the gentleman 
from Kentucky appears to be pres- 
ent; does he deny it?" 

That settled the logic of the 
situation and twenty minutes more 
settled the whole question ; and the 

ever enacted at the Capitol was 
closed. There were criticism and 
opposition to this proceeding, and 
Mr. Blaine, the best parliamentarian 
of his time, thought it worth his 
while to write a magazine article in 
disapproval. But the people at large 
approved. They thought that, if 
members could be brought in by the 
Sergeant-at-arms and compelled to 
be present, it meant, if it meant any- 
thing, that they should be compelled 
to act, — to do their duty; and that 
silence was denial of that obligation 
and a defeat of legislation. 

It does not appear that in this 
whole business Reed was moved by 
any considerations but those of duty. 
He determined to do this, had 
schooled himself to take the conse- 
quences and he held his party to 
it with a grip that never for an 
instant relaxed. He simply could 
not bear the humility of the old 
situation, and had often scouted the 
loose methods of the Senate, of 
which body he once said : "The 
Senate is a nice, quiet sort of place 
where good Representatives go 
when they die." No other party 
leader would have dared to propose 
so bold a change in parliamentary 
methods, and no other man could 
have held his party in line. But 
this man did it, did it without 
bluster and without one unneces- 
sary maneuver, or useless word. 

One is reminded of the similarity 
of conduct and temper between 
Reed and Jackson, the only man 
with whom he can be compared in 
these characteristics. While Reed 
was a learned man, as Jackson was 
furtherest from it, like the latter 
he had that high pride and courage 
that did not shrink from what 
seemed to be duty. Finesse and 
indirection were impossible to him. 



against nullification at a party coun- 
cil in the privacy of his own house, 
scorning to feel the public pulse first, 
so Reed scorned to filter his plan 
and purpose through the minds of 
calculating friends or the newspaper 
gossip of the day. He bore himself, 
too, apparently unruffled in the 
sorest straits, too proud to let an 
enemy know the pain he felt. Even 
as Jackson walked from the field of 
the deadly duel with Dickinson, as 
if unscathed, though sharply smit- 
ten by a bullet wound in his own 
breast, lest his antagonist should 
have the satisfaction of knowing 
that he was hurt, so Reed, at the 
closing moments of the 51st Con- 
gress, when he laid down the gavel 
and turned away from the Speaker's 
desk without the customary compli- 
mentary vote, upon motion of the 
opposition — the Democrats sitting 
in sullen silence — bore himself as if 
wholly unmoved through the trying 
scene. Though his party cheered 
and personal friends pressed and 
thronged around him, he took 
no man's hand, looked into no 
man's eyes, but strode, in the same 
old deliberate way to his room, 
closed the door with its spring lock 
behind him, threw himself into a 
chair by the long table, bowed his 
head upon it, and one newspaper 
correspondent who was perhaps 
nearer to him than any other man 
in Washington, declared — how tru- 
ly no one else now knows — that 
great tears ran down his cheeks ; 
for, curiously enough, there are 
times when tears alone can keep the 
nerves of the strongest men from 

Perhaps if Reed could have seen 
ahead of the dark days of 1892 that 
put his party out of power, and sup- 
planted him as Speaker, could have 
seen ahead to the six years of future 

rule and his complete vindication, he 
would have borne the heat and bur- 
den of those days with a somewhat 
lighter heart, for the opposition paid 
off some old scores albeit they also 
paid him the sincere flattery of imi- 
tating his methods, though in a mod- 
ified form. More than ever before, 
his party relied upon him as House 
leader in almost blind obedience, for 
he had taken and held the fore- 
most place in the very front rank, 
as only a man of uncommon force 
can do. This prominence placed up- 
on him some burdens as well as easy 
honors and made him an occasional 
victim of the opposition's wrath ; as 
when, for a rather mild infraction of 
the rules, Speaker Crisp ordered 
"The Gentleman from Maine" to his 
seat, in charge of the Sergeant-at- 
arms. Reed had lingered at the 
Clerk's desk to keep tab on an excit- 
ing roll-call and did not at first com- 
ply with the order, but rather 
seemed inclined to argue the point. 
He soon yielded, however, and went 
slowly to his seat with his head 
half turned backward all the while, 
much as a huge, sullen animal 
might do when taken back to his 
cage. But the affair was not with- 
out its helpful side. If it was not 
quite justifiable, it helped to square 
some old accounts, and it was often 
observed thereafter that the Demo- 
crats had conceived a liking for 
Reed, who was so open and so brave 
a fighter ; something that was amply 
shown when he finally left the 
Speaker's chair, and Bailey, now of 
the Senate, in moving a vote of 
thanks, made an address replete 
with grace and tact, to which Reed 
responded with the deepest feeling. 
Another incident in Mr. Reed's 
life about this time, better than any- 
thing else that ever happened, 
showed some peculiar qualities of 
the man. He had a really exalted 



sense of what a man must do who 
would at once stand for his party 
and also be faithful to his friends 
and the public. His definition of a 
statesman as "a politician who is 
dead," meant also that a live poli- 
tician could and should be a states- 
man. Not only did he ever strive 
to hold himself and his party to a 
high standard of political honesty 
and open dealing, but he was wholly 
and absolutely without the arts sup- 
posed to be necessary to advance 
one's personal and political interests. 
It may be new to some readers that 
Mr. Reed might have made himself 
an important factor in the Presi- 
dential contest of 1892, if only he 
had possessed the strategic skill and 
the desire to play a part at the Min- 
neapolis convention. It was gen- 
erally feared by the party leaders 
that Harrison could not be re- 
elected. Times were getting bad, 
the McKinley tariff of '90 was not 
everywhere popular, the treasury 
was swamped with unusable silver 
which had been paid for from the 
dwindling hoard of gold, and, 
worse than all, labor troubles were 
breaking out, notably at Homestead 
where bloody scenes were daily en- 
acted. Blaine, who had broken with 
the Administration and left the 
Cabinet, had finally allowed his 
name to be used after the most 
urgent demands of his old friends, 
who not only believed that he de- 
served the Presidency, but was the 
only man who could possibly win 
it. The writer of this was present 
at a conference of some gentlemen 
sojourning in Southern California, 
who sent out a telegram to Blaine, 
framed by Mr. Medill of the Chi- 
cago Tribune, and which read : 
"Stand for the nomination unless 
you feel that it will kill you." 

At length the embittered forces 

of Harrison and Blaine met at Min- 
neapolis. On one side a powerful 
administration force, with perfect 
organization, and on the other, the 
doubters and the open enemies who 
demanded that justice be done the 
man who was the best beloved of 
his party, and who, they declared, 
but for the unexampled show of 
patronage and promise, would be the 
choice of any Republican conven- 
tion. It was a pathetic, pitiful 
struggle on the part of the followers 
of Blaine, who knew his bodily in- 
firmity but loved him all the more, 
and who, bent on winning with him, 
or breaking the slate, were many 
of them secretly hoping for some 
diversion to another candidate, fear- 
ful lest their first show of strength 
might disclose a fatal lack of votes. 
It was at the moment when both 
sides were holding off and the strain 
was at its worst, that Tom Reed was 
discovered on the rear of the plat- 
form. He was not a delegate, he 
was not a worker for either side, 
nor was he in any wise in the reck- 
oning, much less in the running. 
In an instant the entire convention 
was on its feet, and in the next it 
was upon the seats and tables. It 
was the first time Reed had been 
seen at any great gathering since 
the country had begun to resound 
with the accounts of his great par- 
liamentary triumph, which the party 
everywhere regarded as one of their 
newest claims upon public confi- 
dence. One correspondent declared 
that the great ovation to the ex- 
Speaker was the "sole spontaneous 
act of the convention, the single 
tribute that bore no scent of pur- 
chase or pledge." Minutes passed 
but the din did not cease. The band 
tried to drown the uproar, but it 
broke out stronger than ever the 
instant the music ceased. Shouts 



for "Reed," — "Tom Reed," drowned 
everything else. Perhaps the Blaine 
followers had a purpose in encourag- 
ing it all, and it may be true, as was 
said at the time, that the Harrison 
forces were partly surprised into 
their insistent shouts and calls; but 
there was only one thing for the 
Chairman to do, and that was to 
drag Reed to the front, which he 
at last did. Never was a bashful 
schoolboy more at a loss what to 
do or say. A lady friend had tried 
to speak to him as he stood at her 
side, but he could not trust himself 
to answer her. His hands hung 
helpless at his side, his face had 
no color and his eyes were full of 
tears. But at last he managed to 
say a few words, the duty and mis- 
sion of the Republican party, and 
then he — escaped. 

What might not a man who was 
the hero and the idol of the hour, 
whose congressional triumph had 
been made a party boast and battle- 
cry, have done at such a moment, 
if only he had possessed the ambi- 
tion and the cunning to turn to 
some selfish account that "crowded 
hour of glorious life?" — something 
that never comes but once, if ever, 
to a mortal ! But Reed was incapa- 
ble of taking any part, or of turning 
to the account of himself or any 
friend, the advantage born of such 
an incident, even if the whole pos- 
sibilities of the situation had oc- 
curred to him. Not for one instant 
was he capable of making himself 
a possible factor in a convention 
where he was not accredited and 
required to take an open part. I 
doubt if there was a man of his 
time, or of any time, who more 
genuinely discredited and despised 
political conniving, or even indirec- 
tion, or who had less love for popu- 

Four years later Reed became an 
avowed candidate, but his nomina- 
tion was impossible. First of all, 
his state was neither pivotal nor 
important, for as there was no un- 
certainty as to its vote, there was 
no interest to be catered to. Be- 
sides, Mr. Reed's views on the deli- 
cate interests to be consulted were 
so well known that he could not 
have been available, in the conven- 
tional sense. If there was any dis- 
appointment there was no sulking 
or shirking on Reed's part in the 
absorbing campaign of 1896. He 
was the sturdiest of all the cham- 
pions of sound money and spoke in 
nearly all the great centres, ending 
with a brilliant series of meetings 
in the principal cities of the Pacific 
Coast. Probably there never before 
was aroused a higher pitch of po- 
litical enthusiasm in California than 
during these "Tom Reed days." 

Many strong men of his party 
have never ceased to regret that he 
could not have had further honors 
and opportunities, but under our 
popular plan it can rarely, if ever, 
happen that a man of his inflexible 
will and dominating habit can go to 
the head. Under the parliamentary 
system he would have become pri- 
mate, for there was no other man 
of his time who, in all the elements 
that go to make up individual force 
in leadership, was any match 
for him. In British politics he 
would have been an overmastering 
spirit, for he had the intellectual 
grasp, the quickness of wit, the 
power of sarcasm — often so effec- 
tive — that have been found com- 
bined in very few public men. He 
had the sturdiness and the stub- 
bornness of Salisbury, the broad 
scholarship — classics and all — of 
Roseberry, and the wit and sarcasm 

large and best sense, strong with the 

Passing more nearly to a study 
of the man himself, it can be said 
that Mr. Cannon's estimate of his 
intellectual strength and uncompro- 
mising honesty was shared by every 
friend and acquaintance, old and 
new. These qualities made a part 
of his unique personality, even as 
did his manner of speech. He was 
a bashful man who shunned the 
places where he would be looked at 
by the curious, and hated conven- 
tional functions and parade. He 
had the usual desire for approval 
and applause, but he avoided all oc- 
casions where there was no legiti- 
mate part to enact, and rarely could 
be beguiled into lecturing or occa- 
sional miscellaneous addresses and 
talks/ as, if, somehow,' he held these 
to have a cheapening effect. He 
wrote for the magazines, and on 
rare occasions made addresses up- 
on topics outside of politics. There 
were also some social functions like 
the dinners on Forefathers Day and 
the jinks of the Gridiron and Clover 
Clubs which he delighted to attend, 
red-letter affairs that were the very 
breath of life to him. He loved 
tilts between brilliant men and 
laughed loudest and longest of all 
at the good things said. His own 
wit was as peculiar as his manner 
of speech. His bright sayings came 
of his mood and the occasion. He 
never was a "funny" man. He 
knew, as well as Mr. Blaine knew, 
and lived up to his light, that the 
story-teller of the cloak room al- 
ways comes a little short of being 
a really great man, and that, from 
the discourses of Epictetus down 
to the last word on the subject, it 
has ever been said that wit and 
humor too often are pitfalls and 
perils to men who would be taken 

seriously. Reed knew jokes and 
good stories but he never carried 
a stock. His fun was always his 
own, and it came just as naturally 
as did his bits of philosophy or his 
facts of history. Often his wit 
hurt, though it was generally the 
delicate sword play whose basis 
was fun and good fellowship. In 
later years, wit — especially the 
bludgeon blow — was less and less 
indulged in, and humor, the expres- 
sion of gentler moods, was the new- 
er phase of his fun. He was 
softened too, in many ways, as his 
friends and neighbors saw and felt, 
during the last long vacation spent 
in his old home that last summer 
and early fall, where the writer 
met him day after day for weeks, 
and went over many things, new 
and old, .with him... He .was quite 
out of all political strife, and there 
were no traces of bitterness left. 
His law practice was profitable, and 
he had added to his income by wise 
ventures, till he had no worry over 
the future. Indeed he had the air 
of a man who had just begun to 
grow old and was doing it very 
gracefully, having worn off or put 
away the wiry and warring mien 
that always attaches to a man in 
the midst of strife. He deserved 
rest and he seemed to have found 
real repose in it. I think he felt 
especially gratified at the honor of 
being chosen out of a great company 
of distinguished alumni of the old 
college to deliver the oration on its 
centennial, the old college that had 
been the scene of some severe early 
struggles. Old Home Week, too, 
had found and left him in pleasant 
mood and he was a glad participant 
in a celebration in his old district. 
All these things had at once soft- 
ened and broadened him and es- 



pecially added to the charm and 
freedom of his companionship. 

Perhaps the best remembered of 
all those late summer happenings 
was President Roosevelt's day's 
stay in Portland. Not only had the 
President spoken in significant 
praise of Mr. Reed in his forenoon 
address to the great throng in the 
city square, but he had called upon 
him at his house. Both there and 
in the large company at the old 
Cumberland Club, where awaited a 
notable feast and welcome, both 
men were at their best. Only those 
who were in the far east at the 
pinch of the coal famine can quite 
understand how trusts, tariff, and 
the labor situation, overshadowed 
all other questions, and how inevi- 
table it was that the President's un- 
usual attitude had made these sub- 
jects the main topics of conversa- 
tion everywhere. Reed unreserved- 
ly talked of these things, always 
with kindly respect for the Presi- 
dent's position, but with very de- 
cided views of his own, views ex- 
pressed in fragmentary talk over the 
morning's news, in a more elaborate 
way during leisurely afternoons, 
and in little snatches along with the 
evening cowboy pool. His direct- 
ness and crispness of comment 
showed the old simplicity of style. 
As to the labor question he held 
what, to him, was the logic of the 
situation, the remorseless logic he 
was always invoking and from 
which he was incapable of escaping. 
He declared against the position of 
the labor unions as illogical and 
mischievous. "The striker," said 
he, "claims the right to leave his 
place and yet to control it." Surely 
a straight and simple way to put it. 
The trust he thought could not long 
work injustice, or even, in the long 
run, succeed against the genius of 

individualism and the inevitable 
kinship between capital and con- 
tented labor. Live and let live must 
be the next motto, for the capitalist 
can never take himself away from 
the element of safe, reliable labor, 
represented by the great armies of 
workers. These must be interested 
partakers of the fruits of labor, else 
labor cannot be depended upon to 
hold up any industrial fabric. Capi- 
tal that builds without this support, 
builds in the air. Nor can one trust 
long maintain itself against a com- 
petitor whose business is not along 
the lines of natural and just meth- 
ods. "All combinations will smash 
if they do not deserve to live," was 
the refrain throughout. 

As to the tariff he thought noth- 
ing should be disturbed, for any 
tariff is a compromise of jealous in- 
terests, and must be, or seem to be 
unjust in some particular. But 
when a tariff bill is fairly debated 
and agreed to, it should stand so 
long as the general policy upon 
which it is based stands. "It is 
safer to trust business to adapt it- 
self to schedules, than to tinker at 
schedules to try to fit them to real 
or fancied needs of trade." He de- 
clared that even a tariff injustice, 
if not a glaring one, is better borne 
than made the occasion of "theo- 
retical meddling," which upsets sta- 
bility, since "prosperity never 
perches upon an uncertainty." For 
the doctrine that "Reciprocity is 
the handmaid of Protection," he had 
small respect. He declared that it 
is rather a break that endangers the 
whole bulwark of protection. He 
instanced many experiments that 
really meant giving up a great na- 
tion's trade for the possible trade of 
a lesser one. He thought these con- 
cessions weak and based on a false 
sentiment, and said he would like 



to be told, for instance, what good 
the letting in sugar free from 
Hawaii had done American citizens. 
"It has put two millions, probably, 
into the pocket of a private interest 
instead of the national treasury, and 
without benefit to the people." 

When I read Reed's magazine 
article in December, on Protection, 
I found it to be, in substance, the 
talks of last vacation time. He 
seemed so sure of his ground on the 
few single lines of his political 
creed, that he never appeared to 
question the foundations of his be- 
lief. Any question that he had 
settled in his own mind, was to him 
practically a settled question. 
Alone against a thousand strong 
men, he would be unmoved, unless 
possibly made a little more strenu- 
ous. Yet with all his positiveness 
he was a man almost wholly with- 
out fads or hobbies. Only a few 
things he cared about, but these he 
would die for. There was little 
pride of opinion, nor was he, in 
manner, controversial ; but he was 
not to be stirred from the beliefs 
that were dear to him. 

On the Philippine question he had 
lost his bitterness of attack but 
nothing of his disapproval. He de- 
clared that we had taken on "the 
last colonial curse of Spain" and in 
defiance of every tradition of our 
people. "It was a policy no Repub- 
lican ought to excuse, much less 
adopt." In one conversation it was 
suggested that the Filipinos had 
been given a great many civil 
rights. "No rights at all," declared 
Reed, "only privileges, something 
given to those who have lost their 
rights." And so on, through the 
whole discussion, which in some 
form or other was often raised, Reed 
defended his views with the same 
pitiless logic. It has been said of 

him that in this Expansion business 
he "lacked moral enthusiasm." 
Perhaps he did, perhaps he was 
wrong; but no one could fail to be 
impressed with the tremendous 
earnestness of the man. He did not 
provoke or seek to prolong discus- 
sion of this latter problem, and 
seemed only to deplore what was 
done, and that so many years of 
cost and uncertainty must intervene 
before any settlement would be in 
sight. Pie expressed no bitterness 
in any discussion of the subject, 
nor did he seek to prolong it. In- 
deed the very last time the matter 
was talked over, Reed dismissed it 
with the good-natured remark that 
when he was a young man he sup- 
posed talk was not only safe but 
valuable; but now he thought there 
were abnormal conditions when one 
should keep still, citing the sad 
fate of the Kansas pup that impu- 
dently barked at the cyclone. "Face 
the breeze, but close your jaw," he 
declared must be the rule with pru- 
dent folks, when things go wild. 

The last few months of Mr. 
Reed's life showed more sharply 
and more clearly than ever, to his 
friends, how faithfully and devout- 
ly he had worked out the main lines 
of his political faith. He had never 
wasted, never scattered, but 
strengthened his equipment for the 
work at hand, and had no ambition 
but to be strong there. He never 
roamed in any domain where there 
was no crop to be grown, nor 
troubled himself or others over 
mere speculations, or side issues. 
His mind was active and his range 
of reading and observation wide ; 
but he pulled along the main high- 
way, carrying his own load without 
waste or worry, as a big-brained 
man may do, saying what he had to 
say in phrase so simple that his 

statement was half an argument; 
and his sincerity and the occasional 
epigram did the rest. 

Mr. Reed left public life, which 
he loved, for the sake of the interests 
of home and family that were so 
much dearer to him, for his devo- 
tion to these was without stint or 
flaw. His private life, in all its re- 
lations, was as blameless as his pub- 
lic career was honorable. And thus 
he lived and died, a man who had 
incurred the passing animosities of 
some of his fellows, because of his 
imperious will, but one whom 
calumny could not touch, whom 
envy could not belittle, whom fame 
and flattery could not sway, nor 
money buy or bend. 

Shocking as was the sudden tak- 
ing off of one who had been to the 
country and to his life-long friends 
what Tom Reed had been, there re- 
mains to the living the gratification 

of remembering him to the last in 
the full strength of his manhood. 
How keen this loss was felt to be, 
and how vividly he was remembered 
by the great public, has been shown 
on every hand; not the least of the 
honors to his memory being the 
action of Congress in adjourning 
on the day his body was borne 
away from the Capitol, an honor 
only twice bestowed on like occa- 
sions, these being the deaths of Clay 
and Blaine. 

Such a loss not only brings anew 
before us the tremendous mystery 
of existence here, but it seems to 
open a little wider than common the 
gate of that other sphere, and we 
try to catch something of the vision 
that lies beyond, and to gain some 
further and fuller meaning and 
measure of that richest of all God's 
gifts to earth ; the brave, strong, 
helpful, human life. 


By Clarence H. Urner 

The Humming Bird, a bold but fitful lover, 

Was made to tease and break the royal Rose's heart 
So, o'er the soul the wings of Fancy hover, 

Then flitting off, perplex the Dreamer's utmost art. 

An Ordeal by Fire 

By F. M. Coates 

Author of "The Honourable Tom" 

the verandah outside his door, 
and looked straight in front of 
him, with an air of contented pro- 
prietorship. The prospect was well 
worth looking at, and from the 
boards of the verandah beneath his 
feet to the sharp line of frontier 
bush two miles away, it was all his 
own, and the successful work of his 

The mysterious languid beauty of 
the Indian summer lay upon it all ; 
upon the little patch of fenced gar- 
den, upon the open space where the 
fowls pecked and clucked round the 
diminished wood pile, upon the half 
circle of buildings — stable, granary, 
and wagon house — upon the golden 
stubble of his gathered crop gilding 
the broad prairie beyond. 

The great arch of sky was clear, 
but over the distant line of trees, 
directly in Willoughby's line of 
vision, there hung one soft greyish 
cloud. As his eye rested upon it, it 
broke suddenly, and a second puffed 
up below it; and Willoughby turned 
his head towards the open door be- 
hind him. 

"Another bush fire, Kitty," he 
said. "That's the third this week. 
There must be some tinder knock- 
ing about there. I guess I'd better 
plough up the stubble round the 
farm to-morrow." 

"I dare say," answered his wife 
listlessly, and Willoughby frowned. 
Surely, after only four months of 


marriage, it was soon to be listless. 
He stood still for a moment, then 
shook his shoulders impatiently, and 
went into the kitchen. 

"I'll have to go into town to see 
Nelson about those steers," he an- 
nounced rather shortly. "I can be 
out again by supper time." 

His wife was standing by the 
table, kneading a great mass of 
dough. She was very young, very 
pretty, and very tired. Her face 
was hard, but her eyes were full of 
tears, as she answered quickly — 

"Oh, stay and have supper with 
Nelson ! — and talk about steers all 
evening. He may not be as weary 
of them as I am !" 

Her husband turned and looked 
at her, and saw the hard lines that 
matched the hard voice ; but the 
tear-dimmed eyes were lowered, and 
he did not see them. It did not 
strike him that he failed to under- 
stand the tired girl who wanted 
more than details of the farm to 
flavour her days of work. He loved 
her so dearly and unquestionably 
that he never realized that few 
women can take a man's love for 
grafted, especially when that love 
is all that makes long days of drudg- 
ery worth the doing. He forgot 
that Kitty was only twenty, and 
that her summer of labour had not, 
like his, been lived in the broad sun- 
shine, but in the unkinder heat of a 
stifling kitchen. He only knew that 
he did not mean to quarrel, so he 



said, "I'll be home by seven, any- 
way, whether you want me or not," 
and went out to put the horse in. 

He thought he was wise in leav- 
ing Kitty to get over it, and the fact 
that it gave him a very bad heart- 
ache, did not have the effect of mak- 
ing him any wiser. He drove off 
with the frown which so often ac- 
companies the ache, and gave his 
willing little mare a strenuous hour 
of it. And the only thing in life 
that was at all clear to him was the 
belief that Kitty was tired of the 
farm and of him. 

The town trail led straight away 
from the back of the house due 
north for eight lonely miles, his own 
farm being the most outlying in the 
district. He drove the whole way 
without a backward look, found 
Nelson, settled the business of the 
steers, and was conscious all the 
time of Kitty's sweet face with the 
new hard lines upon it. It had been 
such a soft little face when he had 
kissed it first. 

He stood in one of the stores with 
some other men, and tried to display 
his usual interest in the threshing 
results, and the price of corn, while 
his mind slowly grasped the fact 
that he had been a fool to leave 
Kitty until he had learned conclu- 
sively whether she still loved him 
or not. It dawned upon him clearly 
that the steers did not matter. 

He was trying to listen to the 
drawled opinion of a veteran upon 
the year's harvest, when a man 
standing near the doorway broke in 
on the important utterance. 

"Here's Tom Bryan coming along 
the sidewalk 's if he was a day or 
two late. What's hunting you, 
Tom ?" 

Bryan stopped breathless at the 
store door and looked in. 

"You fellows will be gassing 

when the second deluge comes 
along," he said politely. "There's a 
big fire down south and — Good 
Lord, Jack, is that you? Come here, 

man !" 

He caught Willoughby's arm and 
dragged him out and along the side- 
walk to a corner of the street from 
which they could see the long lines 
of the prairie rolling away south- 
ward. The sun was near its setting, 
and the sky was splendid with its 
glories, but the fiery glow marked 
more than the red track of the sun. 
A line of angry, flame-pierced 
smoke leaped and flickered along the 
southern horizon ; the bush fire had 
broken loose upon the sun-dried 
prairie, and Willoughby's farm lay 
right in its track. 

In two minutes the town and its 
noisy voices were left behind, and 
the buggy whirling along the fa- 
miliar home trail. Young Bryan 
swung himself in as it started, and 
presently he put Willoughby's 
thoughts into words. 

"There's only the plough team on 
the farm, isn't there?" he asked, and, 
as Willoughby nodded without 
speaking— "That's all right. She 
could not get off on one of them. 
We'll meet her, I guess. Wasn't 
there any sign of it when you left?" 

"A puff of smoke in the bush; 
there has been some nearly every 
day for a week. I meant to have 
ploughed up an acre or two to-mor- 

Willoughby ended with some- 
thing like a groan, and looked des- 
perately along the endless straight 
trail. There was no speck to break 
its weary line. The sunshine lay 
round and on them, soft and un- 
caring; the larks dropped to their 
nests in the brown grass; the go- 
phers peered out of their holes with 
cautious, unsympathetic eyes. 



With voice and whip Willoughby 
urged on the brave mare, and the 
hoof beats grew thunderous in his 
ears. He spoke no more during that 
mad hour, and soon young Bryan 
ceased his efforts at consolation. 
For there was no sign of the team 
or Kitty, even when they were so 
near that the little patch of farm 
buildings stood out black against 
the background of fire. 

"It's not got round anyway/' 
Bryan said under his breath, but 
Willoughby did not heed. The 
reek of the smoke was in his eyes; 
the hideous crackling of the fire was 
magnified in his ears; he only 
tightened his grasp on the reins. 
Foam flecked from the mare's nos- 
trils and her eyes grew wild, but the 
iron grip held her to the trail, and 
she dashed on into the far-reaching 
line of smoke. The sun was sombre 
and terrible behind the clouds of 
vapour, and the big outline of barn 
and stable rose black for a moment 
against a frightful curtain of lurid 
flame : then the smoke swept over 
buildings and homestead, burying 

Willoughby brought . the whip 
across the mare's streaming shoul- 
ders, and, quivering, she plunged 
forward. Suddenly the great billow 
of smoke parted, and beyond the 
buildings, a moving object was 
silhouetted sharply for a moment 
against the fire. Bryan sprang to his 
feet with a shout — 

"My God, Willoughby, she's 
ploughing \ Oh, well done, well 
done !" 

The terrified mare swerved fran- 
tically, put her head down, and 
dashed into the heart of the stifling 
smoke, past the house and across to 
the stable, where the flying sparks 
were running to and fro amongst 
the loose straw by the door, whilst 

the cattle were bellowing frantically 
in their corral. Willoughby flung 
the reins away, sprang out, and ran 
past the gable of the barn. 

Stretching away from his feet, a 
hundred yards before him and to 
right and left, the ploughed ground 
lay dark and moist, circled by lick- 
ing, baffled flames. Away to the 
right, half hidden by the smoke, 
Kitty drove the great ploughing 
team into the very face of the wall 
of fire. Blackened, scorched and 
blinded, she forced the maddened 
horses to their work by sheer force 
of desperate will and the power in 
her rigid aching arms. From her 
torn hands, round which the reins 
were twisted, the blood dropped 
slowly, but the swerving plunging 
horses were held to their furrow till 
the fire leaped in their red eyes and 
in the splashes of foam on their 
shoulders. She had not heard the 
buggy wheels through the roar of 
the flames and the deeper roaring in 
her ears : Willoughby was close be- 
side her before she saw him. 

"Kitty, Kitty, it's all right!" he 
cried. "You've done it, my dar- 
ling !" — and she reeled sideways and 
fell into his outstretched arms. 

He untwisted the reins, and the 
freed horses, with a frantic swerve, 
flung the gang-plough on its side, 
and, snorting with terror, dragged it 
into the farm-yard, where Bryan 
caught and held them. 

"Lenox and Burnaby have come 
over with Lenox's plough, they're 
working at the back !" he shouted, 
as Willoughby passed. And, with 
a sudden softening, apparent even 
in a voice calculated to drown the 
sounds of fire and terrified beasts, — 
"Is — she hurt?" 

Willoughby shook his head and 
went on. He carried her into the 
kitchen, where the cloth was laid 



for his supper, and the kettle boiled 
unheeded on the stove. He laid her 
down on the couch, brought oil and 
tenderly dressed her scorched lips, 
and, when she opened her eyes, 
bent down and kissed her burnt and 
blistered hands. 

"Why didn't you get away on one 
of the horses?" he asked, with his 
face down. 

"I wanted to save the farm — for 
you," she whispered hoarsely. 

The distant roar of the fire seemed 
very far away, the kitchen was si- 
lent save for the cheerful voice of 
the kettle. Willoughby raised his 
head, and looked down into the face 
disfigured in his service. 

"Did you think it was worth more 
to me than you are?" he asked with 
a sudden break in his voice. 

She did not answer at once, but 
presently tears welled up into her 

"Isn't it?" she asked very wistful- 
ly, and a fuller understanding of a 
woman's heart came suddenly to 
Jack Willoughby. And with his 
new-learned wisdom he answered, 
his face against his wife's scorched 

"I love you better than all the 
buildings and all the corn in 


By M. C. Allen 

Once at the threshold of a House of Art 

I chanced when round it stood a sceptic crowd, 

Who rudely threw the Gothic doors apart, 

And asked where Beauty was, in voices loud. 

No answer stirred the sacred twilight there, 

And with discordant sneers the senseless rout 

Tramped past the marvels of impassioned care, 

Whose secrets shrank the insult of their doubt. 

I questioned also at this House of Art, 
And reverently waited for reply ; 

When suddenly, from out my deepest heart, 

A soft voice shyly answered : "Here am I !' 

The Funeral of John Brown 

By Rev. Joshua Young, D. D. . 

Editor's Note : — The author of the following article, the venerable Dr. Joshua 
Young, died at an advanced age, at his home in Winchester, Massachusetts, a week 
or two after submitting the MS to the New England Magazine. The publishers feel 
that they have been especially fortunate in securing for publication the last piece 
of literary work executed by Dr. Young ; one, too, of such unusual and intrinsic 
interest as this story of John Brown's funeral from the pen of the very clergyman 
who performed the burial service on that memorable occasion. 

IT happened to the writer of 
this paper, on the 8th of Decem- 
ber, 1859, to stand in the shadow 
of a great solitary rock in the wil- 
derness of the Adirondack Moun- 
tains, and see committed to the 
grave, with the usual rites of honor- 
able burial, the body of one who 
but six days before, beneath the dis- 
tant skies of Virginia, was swinging 
on a gibbet; convicted by the court 
that tried him with indecent haste, 
of treason, of conspiring with slaves 
to rebel, and of murder in the first 
degree. It was a scene of touching 
pathos, of unutterable emotion. 
Across the wintry sky clouds were 
sailing like the swift ships. All 
around stood the deep primeval for- 
est bending to the western winds, 
while in the near distance, capped 
with snow, loomed the everlasting 
hills, grand and solemn, mingling 
the sublimity of nature with the 
moral grandeur of an immortal deed. 
It was the old, old story of the 
prophet's fate : 

"Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong 

forever on the throne; 
But the scaffold sways the throne, 
And behind the dim unknown 
Standeth God, beyond the shadow, keep- 
Watch above His own." 

In less than two years thereafter, 
the name of John Brown became a 

nation's epic and gave to an army 
song with little merit in itself either 
of sentiment or expression an in- 
fluence for patriotism in the mighty 
struggle that ensued for the nation's 
life, hardly inferior to that which 
was exerted, during the French 
Revolution, by the famous Marseil- 
laise. His heroic embrace of death 
in behalf of a despised and op- 
pressed race, roused from fatal 
slumber a nation's conscience, 
thrilled all liberty loving hearts the 
whole world over, and inaugurated 
on this western continent a revolu- 
tion of such magnitude as the world 
never saw before. It struck the 
death knell to chattel slavery with- 
in the Union, and swept from the 
face of the earth the crudest oppres- 
sion that ever revealed the pitiless 
contempt of the strong for the weak. 

What is familiarly known as John 
Brown's Raid at Harper's Ferry, 
had, if we may believe the martyr's 
own word — and that is not for a 
moment to be doubted — a two-fold 
object; first to run off slaves, flee 
with them to the fastnesses of the 
near wooded heights, and thence to 
Canada; second, to strike terror to 
the hearts of the Slave-holding 

Of its disastrous failure, of the 
fierce conflict that ensued in which 



nearly all of the little band of in- 
vaders were either killed or wounded, 
and the leader himself captured, 
blood flowing- from six ghastly 
wounds, and thought to be dying, 
and his two sons lying dead by his 
side — of this the astonishing story 
may be read in any one of the several 
lives of John Brown to be found in 
every town library. The object of 
this paper is to complete the won- 
derful story, to follow the dead body 
of the hero to its last resting place in 
the heart of the Adirondacks, de- 
scribe the scenes that occurred on 
its five days' passage from Harper's 
Ferry to North Elba, and thus to 
contribute to history an authentic 
account of the burial of John Brown ; 
and, incidentally, to submit an ex- 
planation of the humble part taken 
by the writer in the solemn rites 
that closed one of the most re- 
markable chapters in American his- 

But first, to remove a suspicion 
that seems to lurk in the minds of 
some who ask why or how it was 
that Brown's habitation was so far 
removed from what may be called 
the theatre of his public life, as if 
at that time he were in hiding like 
a guilty thing — a simple statement 
will not only answer this question 
but will increase our admiration of 
this remarkable man. 

Gerrit Smith, a noted New York 
abolitionist and philanthropist, 
to whom that territory belonged, 
had set apart a certain portion of it 
for the benefit of such colored per- 
sons, especially fugitive slaves, as 
would go there and establish homes. 
John Brown bought a farm near by, 
and thereon erected a small one 
story and a half cottage — unfinished 
at the time of the raid — that he 
might give to these untrained colo- 
nists the benefit of his experience 

and counsel as a pioneer farmer and 
keeper of herds. 

The second day of December, 1859 
dawned in New England in cold and 
darkness. All day black clouds 
drifted before the wind. From 
morning to night a dismal drizzling 
rain was falling. But in the lull of 
the storm was heard the funeral 
knell. Men met and passed, sad and 
silent, or, if they stopped to speak, 
the one topic on the street was the 
tragedy at Charlestown. In many of 
the principal towns of the North- 
ern states, services of a religious 
character were held, — in New Bed- 
ford, Worcester, Providence, Plym- 
outh, Portland, Concord. In New 
York a prayer meeting was held in 
Dr. Cheever's church ; while a great 
meeting in Philadelphia, at which 
Dr. Furness offered prayer, and 
Lucretia Mott, Edna Cheney and 
other noble women spoke, often in- 
terrupted with hisses, was almost 
broken up by a "respectable" mob. 
In Washington the tolling of the 
historic bell cast in Paul Revere's 
foundry was stopped by orders 
from the White House. In Boston, 
where only a fortnight before, a vast 
assembly had filled Tremont Temple 
(the walls of which were covered 
with mottoes — sayings of Washing- 
ton, Lafayette and John Brown) 
and speeches, voicing the almost uni- 
versal sorrow and indignation, were 
made by John A. Andrew, the Rev. 
J. M. Manning of the Old South 
Church, Ralph Waldo Emerson and 
Wendell Phillips, tokens of intense 
feeling were everywhere visible, 
flags displayed at half mast, bells 
tolled, and religious meetings held 
in several churches. 

The stores of the colored citizens 
on Brattle Street were closed and 
draped. Nor did this groundswell 
of public 'agitation stop here. It 



struck the shores of England and 
France, and called forth from that 
exiled patriot and prophet-poet in 
his island home, Victor Hugo, an 
impassioned appeal to the American 

terrible than Cain slaying Abel ; it is Wash- 
ington slaying Spartacus !" 

In Virginia the sun rose clear and 
bright on the second of December. 
A haze that presently veiled it, soon 
disappeared, and before the hour ap- 

"I fall upon my knees weeping before 
the great star-spangled banner of the New 
World, and with clasped hands and with 
profound and filial respect, I implore the 
illustrious American Republic to see to the 
safety of the universal Moral Law, to save 
John Brown. Oh ! let America know and 
ponder on it well, there is something more 

pointed for the hero's death, not a 
cloud was to be seen. The tempera- 
ture was so mild and genial that un- 
til late in the afternoon the windows 
of all the houses were open, while 
the glittering blades and bayonets 



of regiments of soldiers on foot and 
on horse, called out to guard 
against an attempt to rescue the 
doomed man — such was the conster- 
nation of the people — would have 
suggested to a casual observer, but 
for the absence of the usual crowd 
of spectators, the going on of an im- 
pressive military parade. 

Examined and pronounced dead 
by the physicians in attendance, the 
body was cut down and placed in 
a coffin. The Cavalry, wheeling 
aside, closed in around the wagon 
into which it was lifted, and 
marched back to the jail. Later in 
the afternoon, at about four o'clock, 
as the clouds of an approaching 
storm began to gather in the sky, 
as if nature herself were touched 
with the great sorrow, the body was 
conveyed to the railroad station and 
thence to Harper's Ferry, under a 
strong military escort, and delivered 
to the weeping wife and friends 
to be taken North. 

The next morning the mournful 
journey began ; and strange is the 
story to be told of its passage 
through shuddering cities to the 
distant wilderness. 

The papers having announced 
that the body of John Brown would 
arrive at Philadelphia on Saturday 
at noon, a large crowd assembled at 
the station on Broad and Price 
Streets, most of whom were colored 
people, and in such numbers pressed 
into the building, interrupting the 
business of the place, that the offi- 
cers had to exclude them. Tender 
and sensitive they bore this with 

A committee of fifty men ap- 
pointed at a meeting in Shiloh 
colored church, arrived at the depot 
about twelve o'clock, and not being 
able to get admittance to the build- 
ing stationed themselves on the op- 

posite side of the street. They were 
dressed in black and had come to 
serve as an escort or company of 
pall bearers while the body was be- 
ing taken to its temporary resting 
place in the city. 

On the arrival of the train, the ex- 
citement outside the station in- 
creased and persons pushed their 
way through the fence to get if but 
a peep at the coffin-box. Mrs. 
Brown, accompanied by Mr. Hector 
Tyndale, walked quietly through 
the crowd without being recognized, 
and took passage in the Eleventh 
Street car for the house of a friend. 
The party having charge of the 
body had telegraphed from Balti- 
more to have a wagon at the station 
for the purpose of conveying it to 
an undertaker's where it was to be 
embalmed, placed in another coffin, 
and kept until Monday morning. 

Immediately on the arrival of the 
train the Mayor, attended by several 
policemen appeared upon the scene, 
entered the car and objected to this 
proceeding, insisting that the body 
should be taken directly through the 
city. The committee, of which Dr. 
Furness was one, remonstrated; it 
was an amazing exercise of au- 
thority. Mrs. Brown was sick and 
required rest. Still the Mayor in- 
sisted, and, calling their attention to 
the increased excitement and the 
divided state of public opinion, in- 
formed the committee that the peace 
of the city was more important than 
the accommodation they asked for. 
He would hold himself responsible 
to have the body carefully taken 
across the city to the New York 
station at two o'clock. 

The time was short, and there 
was great danger of a painful scene. 
The Mayor, to quiet the tumult of 
the people and still the clamor of 





the outside crowd, resorted to 

There was in the car a long tool 
box. This he took and wrapped 
around it a deerskin, also found in 
the car, so as to make it look like a 
coffin. The crowd in the station 
was then forced back and this box 
was conveyed carefully to a wagon 
on the shoulders of six policemen. 

"Silent, like men in solemn haste" 
they marched ; the wagon left the 
yard and was driven in the direction 
of the Anti-slavery office, where it 
was said the body would lie in state ; 
followed by the colored crowd al- 
most in a state of frenzy. The sta- 
tion thus cleared of people, another 
wagon backed up to the side door, 
into which was put a plain pine box 
containing the body. It was then 
driven out of the station by the 
northern gate and down to Walnut 
Street wharf, where it was lifted in-< 
to one of the baggage crates, an<p- 
again placed in charge of Mr. J. M. 
McKim, who immediately proceeded 
with it to New York, there to await 
the coming of Mrs. Brown on Mon- 

With all/rthe precaution possible 
to avoid publicity and save a repe- 
tition of a similar scene, the coffin 
was taken to an undertaker's room 
on the Bowery. All day Sunday the 
newspaper reporters were sorely 
puzzled to ascertain the where- 
abouts of the body. It was mid- 
night before they were able "to light 
upon it," nevertheless the gentle- 
men of the press insisted that the 
party having it in charge should get 
up and "show them the elephant." 
Remonstrance was in vain; they 
were admitted to where the body 
lay; the coffin and its contents 
thereupon underwent a close and 
critical examination, and the result 
was spread out in full in the morn- 

ing papers, which called forth from 
one of the more respectable journals 
the remark : "Henceforth let no one 
say the Vampyre is a fiction." 

The next stage in the mournful 
journey was Troy. The little cort- 
ege guarding the precious body 
reached that city at two o'clock on 
Monday afternoon, and stopped at 
the American House. The Ameri- 
can House was a temperance hotel 
and had been Capt. Brown's usual 
stopping place when in that city, he 
himself being a total abstainer from 
all intoxicating drinks, and also 
from tobacco in any form. It may 
likewise be said of him, in this con- 
nection, that he was never heard to 
use a profane word, nor did he al- 
low it to be used by any of his 
company. Like Joan of Arc he 
made all his soldiers leave off swear- 
ing and go to praying. His youth- 
ful ambition was to enter the min- 
istry. His general appearance was 
that of a clergyman. He was a re- 
markable example of personal neat- 
ness and natural refinement. 

At ten o'clock the next morning, 
Tuesday, the party had reached 
Vergennes in the state of Vermont, 
having spent the night in Rutland, 
where they received much attention. 
The news of their arrival spread 
like wildfire and soon the hotel was 
crowded with the leading citizens 
of the place to express their respect 
and sympathy. 

Carriages were provided in which 
to convey the body and the party 
accompanying it to the lake shore, 
a procession was formed in front of 
the hotel and when the hour came 
to start all moved forward amid the 
tolling of solemn bells. 

At the lake shore — Lake Cham- 
plain — a boat was in readiness, 
which, turning from its usual course, 
landed them by the town of West- 



port, and thus accelerated them on 
their mournful journey. Mrs. 
Brown was now among the friends 
and familiar acquaintances of her 
husband, and every kindness which 
the occasion called for was freely 

At this point properly enters the 
story of the writer's personal con- 
nection with the ceremonies of John 
Brown's burial, which many friends 
have persistently urged him to tell. 

his face nor heard his voice save as 
it was in the air in those days of 
anti-slavery struggle. I only knew 
him as a mighty man of valor in de- 
fence of endangered liberty, the 
liberator of Kansas, "John Brown 
of Ossawatomie," a man fired with 
a great passion of humanity, an 
abolitionist from his youth up, the 
son of an abolitionist, a lineal de- 
scendant, too, of Peter Brown, the 
carpenter who came over in the 






My hesitation to do so is over- 
come only by the fact that in this 
way, as can be done in no other so 
well, I can transport my readers 
back a whole generation, reproduce 
the past as in a picture, and show 
them the times of my story as they 

I am entitled to no merit for the 
humble part I took. I did not seek 
it, neither could I decline it. 

I had no personal acquaintance 
with John Brown, had never seen 

Mayflower; and as such I honored 
and admired the man more than I 
can tell. Bred, myself, in the Gar- 
risonian school of Abolitionists, 
with an experience not accorded to 
all, being a member of the Vigilance 
Committee in Boston (organized 
for the protection of fugitive slaves 
upon the passage of the infamous 
Fugitive Slave Bill), an eye-witness 
of the rendition of Anthony Burns, 
a station-keeper on the "under- 
ground railroad ;" when the blow at 



Harper's Ferry shook the whole na- 
tion like an earthquake, and all the 
world wondered, and men turned 
and looked at one another, it was 
easy for an enthusiastic young man 
of only thirty-six years of age to be 
imprudent and to do what so many 
told me afterwards was very impru- 
dent. "You have ruined," they 
said, "all your professional pros- 

I was then pastor, in the seventh 
year of my ministry of the Unita- 
rian Church in Burlington, Ver- 
mont, a city beautifully situated on 
the shore of Lake Champlain, 
across which you see in the distance 
the misty peaks of the Adirondacks 
(John Brown's mountain home), a 
daily spectacle of beauty and 

For spme days conflicting state- 
ments were made as to the route 
by which the hero's body would be 
taken to its last resting place. 

On Wednesday, just after dinner, 
I met on the street my parishioner 
and warm personal friend, an aboli- 
tionist like myself, only more 
ardent, Mr. Lucius G. Bigelow, who 
at once said to me : "It is now known 
that the body of John Brown will 
cross the lake at Vergennes. I want 
exceedingly to go to his funeral. 
Only say you will go with me as 
my companion and my guest, and 
we will take the next train." To 
whom I replied : "I will meet you 
at the station at four o'clock." 

When we arrived at Vergennes 
the threatening storm (it had been 
drizzling all day) had begun. It 
was pouring hard, with every pros- 
pect of a "North-Easter." To our 
inquiries, the answer came that the 
funeral procession had crossed the 
lake the evening before and must 
now be near its destination. 

Confident that we could overtake 

it before it reached North Elba, or 
at any rate get there in season for 
the funeral services, we lost no time 
in hiring a driver to take us to the 
ferry in the township of Panton,. 
six miles distant. We at once made 
known to the ferryman our object,, 
and our great desire to be landed 
as soon as possible, on the further 
shore, Baber's Point. He shook his 
head at our request and at once gave 
us to understand that his license as 
a ferryman did not require him to 
cross the lake at so late an hour and 
in such a storm ; and, moreover, that, 
in his opinion, John Brown deserved 
the fate which had befallen him. 

"Why," said one of us, "do you 
know any evil of him?" 

"No, but a great deal of good. I 
knew John Brown well ; he has 
crossed this ferry with me a hun- 
dred times, .and a more honest, up- 
right, fair man does not exist; we 
all like him, but he had no business, 
meddling with other peoples' nig- 

Our hearts sank like lead. Oh I 
how we did plead with that man to 
convert him. One hour went by r 
and two and three and yet there was 
no softening of that rock, no relent- 
ing. Suddenly there was a bright- 
ness outside the window of the dim- 
ly lighted room ; and, on going to 
the door, lo ! the wind had veered to 
the West, the clouds had broken up, 
and all around the darkness was 
disappearing. Surprised and ex- 
cited I rushed back, exclaiming: 
' 'The stars in their courses fought 
against Sisera.' See Mr. Ferryman I 
God's full-orbed moon has thrown 
a bridge of silver across the lake; he 
bids us go, and who shall hinder?" 
To my unutterable joy as well as 
amazement, he said, "Well, I will 
call my man and if he will get up 
and help me we will see what we 



•can do." In a few minutes we were 
at the shore. It was growing very 
cold and beginning to freeze. 

The ferry-boat was a large scow 
with a mast on one side. The wet 
sail had already become as stiff as 
sheet-iron, and it was with much 
difficulty that we hoisted it to its 
place on the creaking mast. Before 
a strong wind we made the passage 

at once a young man, all dressed, 
as if he were expecting some one, 

We were brief and to the point. 
"John Brown's funeral. We want 
some one to take us to Elizabeth- 
town, if no further." 

"I will, 

if father is willing," he re- 


of three miles in good time, and at 
once the boat put back, leaving us, 
cold and more or less drenched with 
the flying spray, on an utterly un- 
known shore. 

We climbed the bank. It was past 
midnight — what next? At a little 
•distance we saw a glimmering light. 
We hailed it as a bright propitious 
star, and such it proved. In re- 
sponse to our knock at the door, 

was willing ; and in less 
time than I can repeat the 
pious sentiment that came 
to my mind — "The Lord 
will provide" — we were 
putting the ten miles to 
Elizabethtown behind us 
with as rapid pace as the 
roads would permit. We 
reached there about two 
o'clock in the morning. 
But we were yet far be- 
hind, probably the body 
had already reached its 
destination ; there was no 
time to lose. W^e waited 
only long enough to 
change horses ; meanwhile 
we learned that, on the ar- 
rival of the party at 
Elizabethtown, which is 
the seat of justice for Es- 
sex County, New York, 
the court house was at 
once offered as a place in 
which to deposit the body 
for the night. In a few 
minutes, raining as it was, 
a respectable procession 
was formed and the body borne 
thither. Six young men took it up- 
on themselves to sit up all night in 
the court house as a guard of honor, 
while another volunteered to start 
off on a swift horse to notify the 
anxious family of the party's ap- 

Our next stage on this strange 
ride was the valley of Keene where 
we entered a region of the grandest 



and most majestic scenery to be 
found any where in the Adirondack 
country. We had come to what is 
known as "Indian Pass/' a ravine 
or gorge, formed by close and paral- 
lel walls of nearly perpendicular 
cliffs, fully 200 feet in height and 
almost black in color. Through this 
gorge and past the untamed forests 

mer travel had not then begun to 
move into these regions. 

Oh ! what a night was that ! On 
such an errand ! The great moun- 
tains, the deep woods, the awful si- 
lences, the scudding clouds and the 
rolling moon with intervals of 
shadow, weird and spectral ! 

The day was breaking cold and 

Photograph used by permission of Miss Katharine E. McClellan 


that clothed the slopes beyond we 
made our way along a mere cart- 
road, over rocks, over stumps, cling- 
ing hard to our seats, lest the sway- 
ing of the wagon from side to side, 
pitching like a ship in a heavy sea, 
or its frequent plunge from a sur- 
mounted stump should throw us 
out — for the ereat current of sum- 

clear when we came out on a broad 

table-land across 
ing winds swept 
once more a pace 
ing was possible. 

which the pierc- 
unhindered ; and 
faster than walk- 
Soon we crossed 

a bridge spanning a brawling 
stream, worked our way up the long 
sandy road cut through the over- 
hanging bluff, turned to the left, 



entered another long stretch of 
sombre forest, and finally emerged 
into an opening, a mere clearing in 
the woods, where, right before us 
in the near distance, stood the hum- 
ble home of the heroic martyr, soli- 
tary amidst the "solitude that had 
taught him how to die." 

We entered the house stiff in 
every limb, I might say, half frozen, 
and gla^d enough to feel the genial 
heat of the small stove around which 
we found ourselves part of a very 
considerable company of people, 
mostly friends and neighbors, who 
had personally known and admired 
the man who had gone forth from 
them a simple shepherd, and now 
was brought back dead with a fame 
gone out into all the world. 

Presently Mr. Wendell Phillips 
came into the room; a few words 
were exchanged, and then retiring 
for a few minutes, he returned and 
said to me : "Mr. Young you are a 
minister; admiration for this dead 
hero and sympathy with this be- 
reaved family must have brought 
you here journeying all night 
through the cold rain and over the 
dismal mountains to reach this place. 
It would give Mrs. Brown and the 
other widows great satisfaction if 
you would perform the usual ser- 
vice of a clergyman on this occa- 
sion." Of course there was but one 
answer to make to such a request, — 
from that moment I knew why God 
had sent me there. For it must be 
remembered that five households 
and four families of North Elba 
were striken by that blow at Har- 
per's Ferry. 

The funeral took place at one 
o'clock. The services bagan with a 
hymn which had been a favorite 
with Mr. Brown and with which he 
had successively sung all his child- 
ren to sleep. 

"Blow ye the trumpet, blow ! 
The gladly solemn sound. 
Let all the nations know 
To earth's remotest bound, 
The year of jubilee has come." 

Sung to the good old tune of 
Lenox it was at once recognized by 
all who knew anything about the 
old fashioned music, and all who 
could sing joined in; while, heard 
above all the rest, were the plaintive 
voices of the deeply moved negroes 
who, most of them fugitive slaves, 
constituted quite one half of the 
company. After the hymn fol- 
lowed the prayer. It was a spon- 
taneous offering, so the papers said 
at the time, and remarkably con- 
sonant with the spirit of the occa- 
sion. It was reported in full in the 
New York Tribune. I only know I 
prayed. Then followed one of Wen- 
dell Phillips' matchless speeches. 
Never were his lips of music wore 
eloquent with tenderness and sym- 
pathy; and when, from addressing 
the weeping widows and fatherless 
children, he rose on the very wings 
of inspiration, into sublime passages 
of description and prophecy, every 
hearer saw a great vision, — one 
never to be forgotten. For this was 
more than a Mark Anthony speak- 
ing over more than a Caesar's dead 

Another hymn was then sung, dur- 
ing which the coffin was placed on 
a table before the door with the head 
exposed so that all could see it. It 
was almost as natural as life. There 
was a flush on the face, resulting 
probably from the peculiar mode of 
his death, and nothing of the pallor 
that is usual when life is extinct. 
Then followed the short procession 
from the house to the grave which 
was dug at the base of a great pic- 
turesque rock about fifty feet from 
the house, by the side of which al- 
ready reposed, removed from their 



original resting-place in Connecti- 
cut, the remains of his grandfather, 
Capt. John Brown, a revolutionary 
soldier who died from exhaustion 
in active service. 

The procession was in the follow- 
ing order: the coffin borne by six 
voungf men, residents of the little 

the body was lowered into the grave 
the first gush of grief, apparently 
beyond control, burst from the 
family. Then it was that there 
came to my lips the triumphant 
words of Paul, when, according to 
tradition, he was brought before 
Nero just beiore his death: — 

Photograph used by -permission of Katharine E. McCJtellan 

Rev. MacKay Smith 
Hon. Whitelaw Reid Rev. E. A. Beaman 

Rev. Joshua Young, D. D. Col. R. J. Hinton Right Reverend Bishop Potter S. H. Stevens 


hamlet; Mrs. John Brown, sup- 
ported by Mr. Phillips ; the widow 
of Oliver, leaning on the arm of Mr. 
McKim, who, in the other hand 
held that of little Ellen Brown; next 
the widow of Watson Brown sup- 
ported by myself, followed by the 
widow of William Thompson on the 
arm of my friend, Mr. Bigelow. As 

"I have fought a good fight, I have 
finished my course, I have kept the faith. 
Henceforth there is laid up for me a 
crown of righteousness which the righteous 
;udge shall give me at that day, and not to 
me only, but unto all them also that lovt 
his appearing." 

For which utterance at the grave 
of a "felon" I received again and 
again "the deserved rebuke of one 
who had spoken blasphemy." 



Nothing more was added. The 
words seemed, to fall like balm on 
all who heard them. The sobs were 
hushed, and soon the family retired 
from the grave leaving their dead 
with God. 

It was now three o'clock and im- 
mediate preparations to return were 
necessary that we might reach the 
nearest inn before the night was far 
advanced. As we drove away we 
were powerfully impressed with the 
beauty and grandeur o'f the sur- 
rounding country, and remarked 
that there was a peculiar fitness be- 
tween the strong and original 
character of the man and the region 
he had chosen for his final home 
and long resting place. 

North Elba was then, and is still, 
aside from its great summer hotels, 
but a plantation in the wilderness; 
a small hamlet of a hundred souls 
or so. The little cottage which has 
become historic and is now a much 
frequented shrine for hero-worship, 
stands on an elevated plain, faces 
the east and overlooks a magnificent 
prospect of wild grandeur, of rug- 
ged mountains and a vast primeval 
forest, awful in its solitude and 
silence, just the country for the he- 
roic soul of John Brown and a prop- 
er place to be the receptacle of his 

Wendell Phillips once said that 
Massachusetts will eventually claim 
John Brown's remains for interment 
within her own soil. May it never 
be ! Let them stay beside the great 
boulder, itself a relic of the ancient 
glacial age, bearing on its longest 
slope, in letters a foot long, the in- 
scription : 


DEC. 2ND, 1859 

Here Nature's own hand has* 
built for his lasting monument, 

"The great watchtowers of the mountains : 
And they lift their heads far into the sky 
And gaze ever upward and around 
To see if the judge of the world come 

When I got back to Burlington 
I had been gone just two days. 
The next day was Saturday, the next 

How vividly I recall that Sunday, 
my text, my sermon, my subject, 
Christ's example of lowly service, 
washing his disciples' feet, the 
symbol of willingness to serve for 
love's, sake. I remarked the appear- 
ance of the congregation, many new 
faces seldom or never seen there be- 
fore; many familiar ones con- 
spicuous by their absence ; and, in 
the atmosphere, a certain unmis- 
takable indication that things were 
different. But nothing visible oc- 
curred; only a sort of sea-turn had 
set in and a chilling mist hung on 
the air. 

The next day I learned what had 
happened. Six of the wealthiest 
families of my parish had taken an 
oath and gone over to a neighbor- 
ing church ; others, not a few, of the 
class that follow in the train of the 
rich, were equally disaffected. On 
all sides the arrows of public rebuke 
began to fly. On the street I ob- 
served that old friends seeing me 
coming, suddenly remembered that 
they had forgotten something and 
turned back, or, crossing over, 
passed by on the other side. And 
when the next issue of the Burling- 
ton Sentinel appeared — a "pro- 
slavery sheet — it opened its bat- 
teries upon me with a full broadside. 
Even women stepped in to serve at 
the guns, and their shots were 
sharper than the men's. My mo- 
tives, my life-aims, my principles 
were made the target of insinuation, 
misrepresentation, ridicule and 



abuse. I was called all manner of 
names. I was an "anarchist," a 
"traitor to my country." I was an 
"infidel," a "blasphemer," and a "vile 
associate of Garrison and Phillips." 

In the course of a day or two there 
appeared on the street a copy of the 
New York Illustrated News, and 
what merriment there was, with 
many a gibe and jeer, in shop and 
store, wherever men met together, 
over the pictures which the paper 
contained : the funeral scenes, the 
family and the participants in the 
ceremonies of the occasion ! Of 
course, the officiating clergyman 
was not left out, but was there with 
the usual exaggeration of caricature. 
To some of my friends who had up 
to this time half stood by me, it 
then seemed, no doubt, as if my face 
had been put into the rogues' 
gallery ; that I had not only brought 
odium upon myself, but shame and 
confusion of face to them ; and to 
the church of which I was pastor, 
grevious reproach. 

It was indeed a melancholy state 
of affairs, be it confessed, but it was 
of a piece of a whole disordered 
condition of the country. The 
times were stormy ; we were on a 
vexed and tossing sea, and every- 
body was dizzy. 

No one who did not live and move 
among those eventful times which 
tried men's souls, certainly no one 
born since the Civil War, can have 
any adequate conception of the then 
existing political and social con- 
dition of the country, and of the 
fierce divisions of the public mind. 

Going to the burial of John 
Brown, I left Burlington a respected 
and beloved pastor. I returned to 
find myself in disgrace, an exile in 
the place of my residence, and little 
better than a social outcast. Honor- 
able men there were who suggested 

that it would be a spectacle not for 
tears, to see me dangling at the end 
of a rope from the highest tree on 
the common, swinging and twisting 
in the wind. 

;|< sjs •% ^ •%. >|< 

As I come to the conclusion of my 
story, I feel almost ashamed of this 
personal detail in connection with 
an instance of moral greatness which 
properly disposes to silence and 

Let me take my leave by remind- 
ing the reader that all advances in 
justice, in morality, in liberty, have 
been imposed upon, or forced from 
society by some noble violence. 
"Sacrifice is the passion of great 
souls." That crusade at Harper's 
Ferry was under God's eye. Vir- 
ginia, "the mother of presidents," 
where the blow was struck, was a 
slave-breeding State, and as such 
had "incorporated licentiousness in- 
to a commercial system and prosti- 
tuted half her women." Brown's 
enterprise against slavery was not a 
piece of spite or revenge for the ter- 
rible wrongs which he and his sons 
had suffered in Kansas, but the 
keeping of a vow made to heaven 
in his early youth. 

When a mere lad, seeing a slave 
boy about his own age, cruelly ill- 
treated, John Brown wrote in his 
diary : "I swear eternal enmity 
against slavery." Become a man, he 
is writing letters to his brothers la- 
menting the sluggish conscience of 
the church and discussing peaceful 
methods for the abolishment of the 
barbarous institution. Then again 
we see him calling his sons together 
to pledge them, kneeling in prayer, 
to give their lives to anti-slavery 

"Brown with a hunger for right- 
eousness, his soul was kindled with 
the purest and most passionate love 



of liberty, and, under the shaping 
and controlling* severity of this idea, 
he lived all his life. It pressed all 
his powers into the spirit and end- 
less pursuit of freedom." This ob- 
ject was the head-waters of his 
whole career from his youth up, and 
explains all. 

Would we therefore be fair, would 
we be just, would -we judge right- 
eous judgment and measure the 
moral bulk and stature of this man, 
we must see with the eye of the 
spirit that the majesty of his under- 
taking is not in what he did ; that is, 
in the ill-starred invasion of Vir- 
ginia; but in the purpose for which 
he sacrificed his life — in its last 
analysis, that this great continent 
might be free ! 

In the eloquent words of Frederick 
Douglas ; in whose veins mingled 
the blood of both races, 

"it stands out in the annals of history with 
peculiar originality. In it human and di- 
vine sympathy crashed through like a bolt 
from the sky, and broke down all sug- 
gestions of human prudence. 

"All down the ages men had been known 
to die in defence of their own liberty, and 
for that of their friends, and all the world 
had applauded such examples. But the 
example of John Brown is as far as heaven 
is from earth, above such examples. It 
is lifted above self, family, friend, race. 
No chains had bound his ankle. No yoke 
had galled his neck. It was not for his 
own freedom, or the freedom of a family, 
or the freedom of a class that he laid down 
his life. It was not Caucasian for Cau- 
casian ; not white man for white man ; not 
rich man for rich man, but it was Cau- 
casian for Ethiopian, rich man for poor 
man, white man for black man ; the man 
admired and respected for the man despised 
and rejected." 

O, story of divinest love, of splen- 
did fate ! Outside of the New Tes- 
tament it has no parallel in human 
history. His was one of those 
deaths which gave life unto the 
world, which compress into a single 
hour the purposes of a century. 
His name shall never perish out of 
the memory and the wonder of men. 

"He lived, he died to be forever known 
And make each age to come his own." 

The Worth of Life 

By Katharine Lee Bates 

"If thou tastest a crust of bread, 

Thou tastest the stars and the skies." 
So Paracelsus said, 

Paracelsus the wise. 

For the least of beauty that comes 
To the convict watching a cloud, 

The least of love in those homes 
Too poor for cradle or shroud, 

Is Beauty transcending dust, 

Is Love that rebukes the beast. 

Let us say a grace for the crust 

That falls from the infinite feast. 

The Convention of 1 787 

And Its Purpose 

By Hon. George S. Boutwell 

WITHIN the last twenty years, 
and with increased energy 
during the last five years, the 
question of State Rights, as it was 
presented to the country during 
General Jackson's administration, 
has been revived, and opinions have 
been expressed through printed pub- 
lications by Henry Cabot Lodge, 
Gov. D. H. Chamberlain, Prof. Gold- 
win Smith and Charles Francis 
Adams in his two papers published 
recently under the respective titles: 
"The Constitutional Ethics of Se- 
cession,'' and "War is Hell," and not 
unlikely by many other persons 
whose writings have not fallen un- 
der my eye. 

Mr. Lodge in his Life of Webster 
expressed the opinion that Mr. 
Webster erred in his argument in 
his reply to Hayne. That opinion 
as expressed by Mr. Lodge was not 
accepted by the mass of the people 
in the North when the great debate 
took place, nor has there been any 
period since 1830 when the public 
opinion of the North did not fully 
sustain Mr. Webster in that debate. 
For the time being the controversy 
was suspended, and by many it was 
thought that it had ended by the 
establishment of the doctrine that 
the nation was supreme and that the 
asserted right of a state to secede 
upon its own motion had been 
abandoned. It was true, however, 
that in the South the doctrine of 
the right of a state to secede was 
taught in all the schools, in all the 
families, and in all the communities, 

whether the view of Mr. Calhoun 
or the more moderate opinion of 
such men as Alexander H. Stephens 
was accepted as the controlling 
force of society. In the debate that 
has risen during the last twenty 
years, suggestions have been made 
or opinions have been expressed, 
within the limits of the extreme 
views of the North and the South, 
which may be summarized thus, 
viz. : that the convention of 1787 did 
not as a body entertain any view 
as to the legal character of the in- 
strument which they had created 
and submitted to the country, or 
that, having an opinion, they 
thought it wise to conceal it. Pass- 
ing from the convention to the in- 
strument itself, there have been ad- 
vocates of several views of which 
I mention the following: (1) that 
there was a reservation of State 
Rights which justified the South in 
its ordinances of secession of i860 
and 1861 ; (2) that the government 
created and organized was a con- 
solidated union and that each of the 
states that had assented thereto was 
bound to continue in it without re- 
gard to its own opinion as to the 
policy which the government as a 
whole might enter upon and en- 
force ; (3) that from the instrument 
itself it was impossible to deduce 
a legal conclusion, and that those 
who believed it to be a consolidated 
union, and those who believe it to 
be a compact from which a state 
might retire at its pleasures, were 




equally in the right. As a final ex- 
pression of the latter opinion, I 
quote from Mr. Charles Francis 
Adams' work entitled "Constitution- 
al Ethics of Secession," at page 16, 
where he makes the following state- 
ment : 

"Mr. Lodge and Professor Smith may be 
wrong, but whether they were wrong or 
right does not affect the proposition that 
from 1788 to 1861 in case of direct and an 
insoluble issue between sovereign states 
and sovereign nations every man was not 
only free to decide, but had to de- 
cide the question of ultimate allegi- 
ance for himself, and whichever way 
he decided he was right. The Constitution 
gave him two masters, both he could not 
serve, and the average man decided which 
to serve in the light of sentiment, tradition 
and environment. Of this I feel as histori- 
cally confident as I can feel of any fact not 
matter of absolute record or susceptible of 

In the June number of the New 
England Magazine may be found an 
article of very moderate length, in 
which I have expressed an opinion, 
with something of authority and 
something of argument added there- 
to, which involves a denial of the 
historical and legal truthfulness of 
each and all the propositions to 
which I have referred. The view 
presented in that article had been 
forecast by me in a work that I 
published in 1S96 entitled "The Con- 
stitution of the United States at the 
End of the First Century" (page 


It is the object of this paper to 
set forth at greater length and with 
a fresh array of authorities the view 
expressed in my work on the Con- 
stitution and restated in the article 
published in June last in the New 
England Magazine. The views ex- 
pressed in this paper should cluster 
around and give support to some one 
or all of three propositions, viz. : 

1. That the members of the con- 

vention of 1787 were of opinion 
when they assembled that a govern- 
ment could be framed upon the 
basis of a compact such as existed 
in the Articles of Confederation of 

. 77 8. 

2. That the members of the con- 
vention remained of that opinion or 
at least indulged the hope that a sta- 
ble or efficient government might be 
created on the foundations laid by 
the confederacy until as late as the 
thirtieth day of May, 1787, when 
certain declarations were made as 
appears by the Madison papers 
(Mobile Edition, 2, pa. 747) which 
indicate a departure from the 
theories which had guided the con- 
vention previous to that date. 

3. That on the 6th day of Au- 
gust the committee on detail by the 
hand of Mr. Rutledge made a re- 
port in which the preamble to the 
Constitution was so changed as to 
establish the fact that the states as 
sovereignties had disappeared as 
elements of the national govern- 
ment. Previous to that date, every 
proposition for the government, 
especially the propositions submit- 
ted by Mr. Randolph and Mr. Pinck- 
ney, enumerated in the preamble the 
thirteen states as the elemental and 
independent forces in the govern- 
ment to be established under the 
Constitution as then proposed. 
The Confederacy of 1778 contained 
declarations which indicated very 
distinctly that the states were sov- 
ereignties, although members of the 

The peculiarities by which the 
Confederacy of 1778 and the Con- 
stitution of 1787 may be distin- 
guished are these : 

First, in the Articles of Confed- 
eration states are enumerated as the 
elements of power. 



Article 2 of the Confederacy is in 
these words : 

"Each state retains its sovereignty, free- 
dom and independence and every power, 
jurisdiction and right which is not by this 
confederation expressly delegated to the 
United States in Congress assembled." 

Article 3 is in these words : 

"The said states hereby severally enter 
into a firm league of friendship with each 
other for their common defense, the se- 
curity of their liberties and their mutual 
and general welfare, binding themselves 
to assist each other against all forces of- 
fered to or attacks made upon them or any 
of them on account of religion, sovereignty, 
trade or any other pretense whatever." 

Each state was bound to main- 
tain its own delegates in the meet- 
ing of the states and whenever they 
might act as members of commit- 
tees of the states; each state was 
*o have one vote ; states were 
prevented from making treaties 
with each other ; they could not 
send ambassadors to foreign states 
or countries without the consent of 
the United States ; nor could a state 
engage in war without the consent 
of the United States in Congress 
assembled. None of these declara- 
tions, or declarations corresponding 
in character, arc to be found in the 
Constitution of the United States. 
A state, as a state, has no authority 
under the Constitution to do any 
act which can in any form relate 
to or affect the public welfare of 
the country or even of the state 
itself in its relation to foreign 
countries. The change in the pre- 
amble and the omission by the con- 
vention of 1787 to preserve in the 
Constitution any of the distinguish- 
ing features of the Confederacy, by 
which the states might exercise 
authority in affairs affecting the 
fortunes of the entire body con- 
federated, should upon grounds of 
reason be accepted as conclusive 

evidence that the Convention of 
1787 in its final action had aban- 
doned the idea that a government 
resting upon the principles asserted 
in the Confederacy could be an ef- 
ficient government for all the pur- 
poses of peace and war. But the 
Convention did not leave the matter 
in doubt. The Constitution when 
submitted to the people contained 
as an appendix a letter in which 
the views of the Convention are set 
forth, and to which the same assent 
was given by the signature of mem- 
bers as was given to the text of the 
Constitution itself. That letter is 
of such importance, and its ex- 
istence has been so neglected by 
writers and commentators on the 
Constitution of the United States, 
that I think its insertion is fully jus- 
tified at the present time, when the 
moral aspect of the contest of 1861 
is under consideration in this coun- 
try, and concerning Avhich the at- 
tention of leading minds in other 
countries appears to be directed. 
The Letter is printed in the Madi- 
son papers, Volume 3, Mobile 
Edition of 1842, page 1560, and is 
as follows : 

"We have now the honor to submit to the 
consideration of the United States, in Con- 
gress assembled, that Constitution which 
has appeared to us the most advisable. 

"The friends of our country have long 
seen and desired that the power of making 
war, peace and treaties ; that of levying 
money, and regulating commerce, and the 
correspondent executive and judicial 
authorities, should be fully and effectually 
vested in the general government of the 
Union. But the impropriety of delegating 
such extensive trust to one body of men 
is evident. Thence results the necessity of 
a different organization. It is obviously 
impracticable, in the federal government 
of these States, to secure all rights of in- 
dependent sovereignty to each, and yet pro- 
vide for the interest and safety of all. 
Individuals entering into society must give 
up a share of liberty, to preserve the rest. 



'he magnitude of the sacrifice must de- 
pend as well on situation and circumstances, 
as on the object to be obtained. It is at 
all times difficult to draw with precision 
the line between those rights which must 
be surrendered, and those which may be 
reserved. And on the present occasion 
this difficulty was increased by a difference 
among the several States, as to their situa- 
tion, extent, habits, and particular interests. 

"In all our deliberation on this subject, 
re kept steadily in our view that which 
appeared to us the greatest interest of 
every true American, the consolidation of 
our union, in which is involved our pros- 
perity, felicity, safety, perhaps our national 
existence. This important consideration, 
seriously and deeply impressed on our 
minds, led each State in the Convention 
to be less rigid in points of inferior magni- 
tude, than might have been otherwise ex- 
pected. And thus the Constitution, which 
we now present, is the result of a spirit 
of amity, and of that mutual deference and 
concession, which the peculiarity of our 
political situation rendered indispensable. 

"That it will meet the full and entire 
approbation of every State is not, perhaps, 
to be expected. But each will doubtless 
consider, that had her interest alone been 
consulted, the consequences might have 
been particularly disagreeable and injurious 
to others. That it is liable to as few 
exceptions as could reasonably have been 
expected, we hope and believe; that it may 
promote the lasting welfare of that country 
so dear to us all; and secure her freedom 
and happiness, is our most ardent wish." 

Of this letter as a whole it may 
be said that it is devoted largely to 
two aspects of the situation; first, 
that the powers necessary to a gen- 
eral government are very important 
powers, and that the exercise of 
such powers cannot be vested in 
one body of men. Thus the plan 
of legislation necessarily incident to 
a compact between states was re- 
pudiated and disavowed as danger- 
ous with reference to war, peace 
and treaties, levying money or regu- 
lating commerce. These views are 
set forth as conclusive views which 
compelled the Convention to estab- 
lish a government containing two 

branches, — a Senate and a House of 
Representatives. This arrangement 
of necessity annulled the sover- 
eignty of states in regard to the 
great powers of government, powers 
essential to a government adequate 
to all the exigencies of peace and 

(2) Upon this declaration the 
Convention sets forth the duty of 
making sacrifices and the magni- 
tude of such sacrifices is made to 
depend on situation and circum- 
stances. They admit the difficulty 
of drawing a precise line between 
those rights which must be surren- 
dered and those which may be re- 
served. Their important declara- 
tion is in these words : 

"In all our deliberation on this subject, 
we kept steadily in our view that which 
appeared to us the greatest interest of 
every true American, the consolidation of 
our union, in which is involved our pros- 
perity, felicity, safety, perhaps our national 

It cannot be said of the letter 
that there was any attempt on the 
part of the Convention to conceal 
from the people the truth in regard 
to the character of the government 
which they were setting up. They 
declared it was a consolidated gov- 
ernment. They had omitted from 
the Constitution all the distinguish- 
ing features of the Confederacy. 
They declared that the Confederacy 
had failed in substance and that a 
confederated government was inade- 
quate for the exigencies of peace and 
war. It follows from all this that 
from a legal point of view the people 
and states that ratified the Consti- 
tution ratified it upon the under- 
standing that the Confederacy had 
disappeared and that a consolidated 
government was then to be estab- 



The people and states of the 
Union thus became morally and 
legally bound to the Constitution 
upon the declaration which had 
been set forth in the letter of the 
Convention, if the Constitution it- 
self was consistent with the decla- 
rations which the letter contained. 
The Constitution upon the single 
point whether it was a compact or 
a union or in other words a con- 
solidated government was not left 
open to dispute or controversy. It 
was settled by the people them- 
selves, who having before them the 
letter of the Convention in which 
the opinion and purpose of the Con- 
vention were distinctly set forth, did 
by their ratification of that docu- 
ment, ratify it upon the theory set 
forth in the letter as to the nature 
and character of the Constitution 
which the Convention had sub- 
mitted to the people of the country. 
Thus every citizen of the country 
became legally and morally bound 
to support the Constitution upon 
the doctrine set forth in the letter, 
and especially as the Constitution 
appears to be consistent with the 
doctrines set forth in the letter. 
Therefore, the question whether 
the Constitution is a compact or a 
consolidated government is not now, 
and subsequent to the ratification 
of the Constitution never was, open 
for debate as to whether it was a 
compact or a consolidated govern- 
ment. It had been ratified as a con- 
solidated government and every 
citizen was bound by that ratifica- 
tion. It follows that any attempt 
to treat the Constitution as a com- 
pact was a violation of the consti- 
tutional obligations to support the 
government of the country, which 
obligations then rested and must 
continue to rest upon every citizen. 

The conduct of the South — which 

for the purpose of this paper is to 
be tested in the case of General 
Lee — is to be considered in two 
aspects. The inhabitants gener- 
ally, and the leaders perhaps, were 
ignorant of the existence of the 
letter of the Convention or they 
may have treated its statements as 
of no value, or they may have mis- 
interpreted them; and if so, they 
are entitled to whatever justifica- 
tion may be found in the presence 
and combined action of ignorance 
and honesty. They may not have 
considered the subject in all its re- 
lations, and they may have been 
honest in their view that the gov- 
ernment was only a compact, — a 
production in some form of the Con- 
federacy of 1778, but the right re- 
mains and the duty of citizenship 
continues, whatever theories may be 
maintained or acted upon and an 
error as to the nature and extent 
of one's rights does not justify his 
conduct when the legal aspect of his 
doings is under consideration. 

By the terms of the Constitution, 
and by the letter of the Convention 
in harmony with those terms, the 
whole country was bound, and if 
by those provisions in the presence 
of the letter the government created 
was a consolidated government, 
those that contended that it was a 
compact, merely, were in error, and 
being in error, they are responsible 
for their misdoings. Hence, when 
the states of the south passed ordi- 
nances of secession and took up 
arms against the government of the 
United States, they were attempt- 
ing to repudiate an agreement by 
which they were bound, which in- 
cluded the character of the Union 
or Government established in 1787 
and which, by the terms of the 
agreement, could be dissolved only 
by force exercised against constitu- 



tional authority vested in the Gov- 
ernment of the United States, and 
derived originally from the assent 
of the states and people that rati- 
fied the Constitution of 1787. The 
construction was justified by the 
continued observance of the Consti- 
tution according to the terms recog- 
nized in it and set forth in the letter 
of the Convention. 

It follows that the distinction be- 
tween the Northern view as repre- 
sented by Mr. Lincoln, and the 
Southern view as represented by 
Jefferson Davis and General Lee, 
is in this : that Mr. Lincoln was 
maintaining what was constitution- 
ally right according to the agree- 
ment as set forth in the history of the 
Convention of 1787, and that Jeffer- 
son Davis and General Lee were in 
the wrong in their attempt to vio- 
late an agreement which had re- 
ceived the assent of all the States 
and people of the country and which 
recognized in the general govern- 
ment the right of self-existence and 
of continued self-existence inde- 
pendent of the opinion of any State 
as to whether the acts of the Nation- 
al Government were wise or un- 
wise. The parties may have been 
equally honest minded, of that we 
can not form an opinion. That one 
party was clearly in the wrong, and 
that the other party was clearly in 
the right constitutes a distinction 
in law and in ethics which separates 
the parties as widely as justice and 
injustice are ever separated. 

If these propositions can be ac- 
cepted, then it follows that the 
doers of wrong, whether honest or 
otherwise, are not to be canonized 
nor are monuments to be raised to 
their memory. 

General Lee was bound, as every 
other citizen of the country was 
bound, to support the Constitution 

as a Union, and especially and per- 
sonally he was bound by his oath 
to support the Constitution of the 
United States and the Government 
of the United States as it should be 
administered. I may assume, as I 
do assume, that General Lee was 
honest and misguided. I assume 
that he was honest in the course 
that he adopted, but I assert also 
that he was misguided and that he 
lent his capacity as a soldier and 
his influence as a man to the support 
of a policy which was in violation 
of his duty as a citizen, and especial- 
ly in violation of the duty he had as- 
sumed when he accepted a commis- 
sion in the Army of the United 
States. The honors that his name 
and memory may receive should de- 
pend upon the disposition of his 
friends to preserve his name and 
memory for the contemplation of 
future generations, but upon the 
record I venture the expression of 
the opinion that he is not entitled 
to the gratitude of the country. 
General Lee was examined by the 
Committee on Reconstruction of 
which I was a member, and his tes- 
timony may be found in the report 
of the committee part 2, page 133. 
From an examination of great length 
I extract questions and answers 
which throw light on his course in 
1861. These questions refer to the 
body of secessionists : — 

Q. And that the ordinance of se- 
cession so-called, or those acts of 
the States which recognize the con- 
dition of war between the States 
and the General Government, stood 
as the justification for their bearing 
arms against the Government of the 
United States? 

A. Yes, sir; I think they con- 
sidered the acts of the States as le- 
gitimate, that they were thereby 



using the reserved right which they 
had a right to do. 

Q. State, if you please, (and if 
you are disinclined to answer the 
question you need not do so) what 
your own personal views on that 
question were. 

A. It was my view that the act 
of Virginia in withdrawing herself 
from the United States carried me 
along as a citizen of Virginia and 
that her laws and acts were binding 
on me. 

Q. And that you felt to be your 
justification in taking the course 
you did? 

A. Yes, sir. 

On two accasions in the year 1866 
I was present as a member of the 
Committee on Reconstruction, when 
General Lee was under examination. 
The impression that I received of 
him justifies every favorable view 
that has been taken of his character 
and purpose in life. 

The preparation of this paper has 
been delayed that I might obtain 
authentic information either in cor- 
roboration or refutation of a state- 
ment made by Mr. Blaine in the 
first volume of his work, "Twenty 
Years in Congress." On page 302 
he makes this statement: 

"It ought not to escape notice that Gen- 
eral Robert E. Lee is not entitled to the 
defense so often made for him that in 
joining the dis-union movement he fol- 

lowed the vote of his state. General Lee 
resigned his commission in the Union Army 
and assumed command of Confederate 
troops long before Virginia had voted upon 
the ordinance of secession." 

Virginia passed the ordinance of 

secession the 17th day of April, 

1861. In reply to my inquiry I have 

received the following letter from 

the War Department dated July 20, 

1903 : 

Sir: — 

"In reply to your further inquiry in 
letter to the Secretary of War of the 13th 
hist, I have the honor to inform you that 
General Robert E. Lee tendered his resig- 
nation at Arlington near Washington April 
20, 1861, that it was forwarded on the 
same date to Gen. Scott's headquarters by 
the Adjutant General of the Army, and by 
him submitted to the Secretary of War 
April 24, and accepted by Secretary Simon 
Cameron April 25, 1861." 

This letter shows conclusively 
that Mr. Blaine was in error in his 
statement and relieves General Lee 
from the charge that might have 
been made that his testimony before 
the Committee on Reconstruction 
was either inaccurate through error 
or intentionally false. 

As an explanation it may be said 
that the letter of the Convention 
was not known until many years af- 
ter the death of Mr. Madison and 
when the Haynes controversy was 
neglected or forgotten. 


Poetry of Frederic Lawrence Knowles 

AMONG the output of books 
for the year 1900, there ap- 
peared a little volume of verse 
entitled "On Life's Stairway," in 
which discerning critics recognized 
at once the work of a new poet — a 
poet of fresh and original fancy, of 
insight and imagination. The au- 
thor was Frederic Lawrence 
Knowles, whose second volume of 
poems, "Love Triumphant," will ap- 
pear in the fall of this year. It is 
certain that in his new volume, Mr. 
Knowles has made a very definite 
advance in the mastery of his art, 
and its publication will undoubtedly 
add to his growing reputation as a 

The New England Magazine takes 
pleasure in presenting its readers 
with some hitherto unprinted speci- 
mens of Mr. Knowles' verse which 
are to be included in the book, "Love 
Triumphant." But first, it may be 
interesting to learn something in re- 
gard to the poet himself. 

Frederic Lawrence Knowles was 
born in Lawrence, Massachusetts, 

September 8, 1869. His father was 
an ex-army officer, educator, and 
clergyman. Among relatives on 
both sides of the family, he can count 
about fifty preachers and teachers. 
His ancestry is English and Scotch. 
He was educated at Wesley an Uni- 
versity, Middletown, Connecticut, 
and at Harvard, graduating from the 
latter in the class of 1896. He has 
edited numerous anthologies, be- 
ginning with "Cap and Gown, A 
Book of College Verse," Second 
Series, 1897; the latest is "A Treas- 
ury of Humorous Poetry," 1902. He 
has also compiled "The Famous 
Children of Literature" Series, and 
written "Practical Hints for Young 

Mr. Knowles is a member of the 
Boston and New York Authors' 
Clubs, and is a Bostonian by resi- 
dence. He says that he has been 
much influenced by Whitman, 
Browning, Tolstoi, and Emerson, 
but his own poetry shows an origin- 
ality and individuality not to be mis- 

The Steps 

Seize your staff! beyond this height 
We shall find the Infinite Light ! 
Gird your thigh ! this sword shall hew 
Paths that reach the untroubled blue ! 
Though dark mountains form the stair, 
It is ours to climb and dare ! 
Law, truth, love — the peaks are three 
Sinai, Olives, Calvary! 



God's Heart 

Come down with me to the moon-led sea, 
Where the long wave ebbs and fills, — 

Are these the tides that follow 
As the lunar impulse wills? 

Nay, rather this is the heart of God, 

Naked under the sky, 
And we hear its pulse with wonder — 

The shore, and the clouds, and I ! 

Unearthly, awful, uncompelled, 

Eternity framed in clay, 
The urge of exhaustless passions, 

Rocking beneath the gray ! 

Its life is the blood of the universe 

Through cosmic arteries hurled, 
With the throb of its giant pulses 

God feeds the veins of the world ! 

And the lands are wrinkled and gray with time 
And scored with a thousand scars, 

But the sea is the soul of the Infinite, 
Swinging beneath the stars ! 

To a Discoverer 

Long was my spirit like some lonely reef 

In gray, unvisited oceans, where the Sea, 

Relentless, drove its salt waves over me, 
A cold, monotonous surf of unbelief; 
But ere I hardened into hopeless grief, 

Thou earnest, bringing love, faith, sympathy; 

I found myself and God in finding thee, 
And my long dream of doubt looked void and brief. 
Then was my soul, with her new glory dazed, 

Like that green island among tropic seas 

When the strange sail approached the wondering shore, 
And startled eyes beheld the Cross upraised, 

While the great Spaniard sank upon his knees, 
And the Te Deum shook San Salvador! 


To Mother Nature 

Nature, in thy largess, grant 

I may be thy confidant ! 

Taste who will life's roadside cheer 

(Tho' my heart doth hold it dear — 

Song and wine and trees and grass, 

All the joys that flash and pass), 

I must put within my prayer 

Gifts more intimate and rare. 

Show me how dry branches throw 

Such blue shadows on the snow, — 

Tell me how the wind can fare 

On his unseen feet of air, — 

Show me how the spider's loom 

Weaves the fabric from her womb, — 

Lead me to those brooks of morn 

Where a woman's laugh is born, — 

Let me taste the sap that flows 

Through the blushes of a rose, . 

Yea, and drain the blood which runs 

From the heart of dying suns, — 

Teach me how the butterfly 

Guessed at immortality, — 

Let me follow up the track 

Of Love's deathless Zodiac 

Where Joy climbs among the spheres 

Circled by her moon of tears, — 

Tell me how, when I forget 

All the schools have taught me, yet 

I recall each trivial thing 

In a golden, far-off Spring, — 

Give me whispered hints how I 

May instruct my heart to fly 

Where the baffling Vision gleams 

Till I overtake my dreams, 

And the impossible be done 

When the Wish and Deed grow one ! 


A Challenge 

Defeat and I are strangers ; though the scourge 
Of wild injustice, knotted with all wrongs, 
Writhe round my spirit, if I cannot smile, 
Then write me craven, say, "He met the test 
Sent to all souls, only to faint and fall, 
His courage grovels, let us call him slave !" 

rather, when the mad Hands through the dark, 
Unseen and self-provoked, shall lash my will, 

Let me the stauncher bare me to the blow, 
Rise, hide my hurt, suppress the groan, fold arms, 
Erect and scornful, though my back may bleed, 
Though flesh, nerve, sensibilities, cry out! 
Not otherwise Zenobia must have felt, 
Fettered with golden fetters, when she walked, 
Behind Aurelian's chariot, still a queen ! 
Not otherwise Napoleon, when he trod 
That abject island, where the very guards 
Felt him the master, though they bore the guns 
And he was weaponless, the man whose eye 
Could daunt Disaster and command the world. 
Thus would I live and thus would die; I come 
God knows! of a long lineage of kings: — 
Burke, Cromwell, Luther, Paul, and Socrates, 
Emerson, Milton, Cranmer, Charlemagne, 
Columbus, Tolstoi, Lincoln, Augustine — 
The monarchs of the spirit in all times, 
Exalted thrones defiant of decay. 
Then hurl all thunderbolts upon my brow, 
Dash me, O life, with waves of salt and blood, 
Empty thy quiver, Sorrow, in my breast, 
Ye cannot, O ye Powers, compel my soul, 
For, rob me as ye will, three things are left 
Which make your fury impotent and vain : 
That pride in self that lifts me from the worm, 
These sympathies that join me to my kind, 

1 nis Higher Hope that hands me on to God, 
And armors me in immortality! 


The Thief 

With all his purple spoils upon him 
Creeps back the plunderer Sea, 

Deep in his rayless caves he plunges, 
Fed full with robbery; 

His caverns filled with dead men's treasure, 
With coins and bones and pearl; 

For curtains and for golden carpet, 
The hair of some drowned girl ! 

bandit with the white-plumed horsemen, 

Raiding a thousand shores, 
Thy coffers crammed with spars and anchors, 
And wave -defeated oars ! 

1 hear again thine ancient laughter, 

Thy mirthful, mad unrest, 
Yet catch the notes of shame and torture 
Within thy bravest jest. 

For lo ! there is a Hand that holds thee 

And curbs thy proudest wave, 
Thy boundaries have been set forever — 

Thou art thyself a slave ! 

The lash is given to wild task-masters! 

Thy lips may foam with wrath, 
Still moons shall call and thou must follow, 

Still winds shall scourge thy path ! 

O impotent thief! I scorn thy pillage, 

Marauder of pale coasts ! 
The brigands whom I dread are fiercer 

Than thou and all thy hosts ! 

For Death hath stolen friend and comrade, 
Love robbed the heart of rest, 

Sin snared a soul, while thou wast hoarding 
Some sailor's treasure chest. 

O braggart, laughing o'er thy booty, 

Boast on till days are done, 
And the frail star where thou disportest 

Hath dropped into the sun ! 


Love Immortal 

Churches, nay, I count you vain, — 
Lifting high a gloomy spire, 

Like some frozen form of pain 
Aching up to meet desire; 

Standing from God's poor apart — 

Granite walls and granite heart! 

Sects, ye have your day, and die, 
Eddies in the stream of truth, — 

The great current, sweeping by, 

Leaves you swirled in shapes uncouth, 

Born to writhe, and glint, and woo — 

Broken mirrors of the Blue. 

Creeds ! — O captured heavenly bird, 
Fluttering heart and folded wing! 

Shall ye see those pinions stirred? 
Can your caged Creation sing? 

Will ye herald as your prize 

What was bred to soar the skies? 

Rites and pomp, what part have ye 
In the service of the heart? 

Rituals are but mummery, 

Faith's white flame is snuffed by art; 

Candles be but wick and wax, 

Alms have grown the temple-tax. 

Yet the East is red with dawn, 

Like a cross where One hath bled ! 

And upon that splendor drawn — 

Gentle eyes and arms outspread — 

See that figure stretched above ! — 

As God lives! its name is Love! 

Love that lights the tireless brands, 

Love that cares for world and wren, 

Bleeding from the broken hands — 

Crowned with thorns that conquer men 

Only Love's great eyes inspire 

Church, sect, creed to glow with fire. 

Then our lips shall have no sneer 

For the spire, the mosque, the ark, 

Broken symbols shall be dear 

If they point us through the dark; 

Laws and scripture served our youth, 

Who have grown the sons of truth ! 


[see page 263] 


New England Magazine 

Volume XXX 

May, 1904 


Number 3 

New England Artists at the 
St. Louis Exposition 

By Jean N. Oliver 

IN spite of the conspicuous absence 
of many of Massachusetts' best 
Known artists from the state sec- 
tion of the Art Exhibition of the St. 
Louis Fair, the men whose work is 
represented are, on the whole, fairly 
typical of the best painters of New 
England. As a matter of fact, one 
who knows the geographical distri- 
bution of those whose work has been 
thus honored, is struck by the ex- 
tremely narrow limits within which 
the artists represented are confined. 
Nearly all of them come from Mass- 
achusetts and the larger part of these 
reside in the city of Boston. The 
reason is a simple one. The prac- 
tice of art, like that of other indus- 
tries, is subject to the laws of con- 
centration, and, after New York, 
Boston is unquestionably the art- 
center of this country. 

The preliminary exhibition held 
in Boston during February of the 
artistic output intended for the St. 
Louis Exposition was sufficiently in- 
teresting and comprehensive to sat- 
isfy one that New England's repre- 

2 59 

sentation does not lack dignity and 
worth. The Massachusetts section 
is not as large as the New York dis- 
play, but it will be worth while 
remembering that a very large num- 
ber of New York's most prominent 
artists are, in reality, Boston men; 
having here received their instruc- 
tion and the achievement of their 
first successes, later to be lured 
away by the greater opportunities 
and rewards of the metropolis. To 
be precise in instances, may be men- 
tioned Childe Hassan, Winslow 
Homer, Abbott Thayer and Theo- 
dora Thayer, Robert Reid, and H. 
O. Walker. 

It is not because Massachusetts 
is the home of the Woman's Rights 
movement that one of the most nota- 
ble features of the collection is the 
heroic statue, "The Volunteer," by 
Mrs. Theo Ruggles Kitson. It 
holds its prominence by right of 
masterly excellence, and in the exhi- 
bition may be taken as symbolical, 
not only of the idea for which it was 
definitely intended, but as express- 



ing also the volunteer spirit which 
has made Massachusetts the pioneer 
in all advance movements. 

Mrs. Kitson is a young woman 
who, at the age of seventeen, with 
her hair in two long braids and 
wearing a short dress, received from 
the astonished officers of the Paris 
Salon a medal for her beautiful child 
figure, "The Young Orpheus," her 
first exhibited work of sculpture. 

a long one and her distinction is 
even yet only in its youth. 

Perhaps the most striking and 
mind-haunting of all the paintings 
which represent the art of New Eng- 
land at St. Louis is Charles Herbert 
Woodbury's big sea picture called 
"The North Atlantic." It seems 
trivial to designate this simply as 
a "marine" for the impression of its 
beauty and strength is overwhelm- 


Every subsequent year has won for 
her new successes. She studied 
drawing for some time in Paris, and 
then coming under the direction of 
Henry Hudson Kitson, her abilities 
were rapidly developed and she 
made a name for herself while still 
in her teens. Beside this "Volun- 
teer" she has recently completed a 
statue for Vicksburg. The list of 
her achievements in sculpture is 

ing, lifting it above the thousands 
of sea pictures that deserve no more 
than a collective. It is the element- 
al, unconquerable soul of the ocean 
which the artist has portrayed in 
a moment of sternest power. 

If Mr. Woodbury possessed the 
kind of mind that would have con- 
tented itself with the interpretation 
of the sea in its passive moods, as 
so ably expressed in Whistler's Noc- 



turnes, it is not an overword to say 
that that great yet jealous master 
would probably have found in 
Woodbury's work much to praise 
with his condemnation. But the 
latter attempts and surmounts the 
wave as Whistler did the ripple, 
with as much subtlety and artistic 
finesse, and, with the added value 
of a virile expression all his own. 

In the last few years Mr. Wood- 
bury has worked almost entirely up- 
on the problem of the strength of 

tinction as an artist in lead pencil 
and in the early part of his career 
originated a method of drawing in 
that difficult medium that is still 
used in public and studio drawing 
classes. He is a native of Massa- 
chusetts, having been born in Lynn 
in 1865. He comes of a well-known 
old family but is the first of his 
name to distinguish himself in art. 
Mr. Woodbury's wife, Marcia 
Oakes Woodbury, is equally cele- 
brated in her own field of subjects. 


waters and since the exhibition ten 
years ago of his first sea picture, 
his progress in the understanding 
and expression of the irresistible 
forces of the deep has been accretive 
and profound. One of his large 
canvasses, "Rock and Sea," received 
a medal at the Paris Exposition and 
also at Buffalo. The Berkshire 
Athenaeum now owns "Mid Ocean," 
and another of his masterly paint- 
ings is in the Carnegie collection. 
Mr. Woodbury has also won dis- 

A few drawings of children ex- 
hibited in the Boston Art Club ex- 
hibition of 1888 marked her entrance 
into the world of art, and later, 
after a year or two spent in Holland, 
she showed a collection of studies 
of Dutch children that immediately 
established her as a painter with a 
rare understanding of the character 
and moods of children ; always dif- 
ficult subjects to present with truth 
and vivacity. Except for some 
early instruction in drawing from 






Tomaso Juglaris, Mrs. Woodbury 
has worked out her own artistic 
destiny, a noble one under any cir- 
cumstances. As she has said about 
herself, she has learned what she 
knows by her failures. 

Mrs. Woodbury has received 
many honors, among them a prize 
from the Boston Art Club, honor- 
able mention from the Nashville Ex- 
position, a medal from the Me- 
chanic's Association of Boston, and 
one also from the International Ex- 
position at Atlanta. 

A justly celebrated painting, en- 
titled "The Smoker," holds a definite 
place for her in the present Expo- 
sition at St. Louis. 

In contrast to Mr. Woodbury's 
conception of the sea, yet equal in 
truth and understanding of both 
medium and subject, is that of Mr. 
Walter Dean, whose shore-picture 
"Ballast Haulers," is filled with hu- 
man as well as marine interest and 
tells its own story well, a merit too 
often ignored by present-day artists. 
The rough heavy shore in the fore- 
ground, the elusive sea beyond, the 
heavy cart and patient horses, and 
the figures of toilers of the sea, make 
a composition dramatic and faith- 
ful to life. Another of Mr. Dean's 
paintings is of the deep sea fish- 
eries, entitled "Halibut Fishing." 
Mr. Dean paints boats and the sea 
as if he knew them by heart, 
which indeed he does, for since 
childhood he has spent at least 
a third of the time on the water. He 
is an enthusiastic yachtsman and at 
one time was a winner in many re- 
gattas with his yacht "Clithro." It 
has been his custom in the fall of 
the year to start off with the herring 
fleets to the fishing banks, studying 
effects of light and movement and 
masses, both by day and night. 

Mr. Dean's first master was Ar- 

chille Oudinot, of Boston, but later 
he went to Europe where he studied 
for three years under Jules Lefevre 
and Boulanger. Part of this time 
was spent rambling about the coasts 
of France, Holland, Italy and Eng- 
land. In 1892 one of the best-known 
paintings in the country was 
"Peace," a painting of the Squadron 
of Evolution, the first of the mod- 
ern navy. He has since exhibited 
in all the large exhibitions in the 
country, and his pictures are to be 
seen in many galleries, among them 
the Ayer Library, the Fitchburg 
Art and Library Building, and the 
Boston Art Club. He was born in 
Lowell, but with the exception of 
the years spent abroad, has always 
lived in Boston. 

A most "live" portrait is the one 
of Miss Christine Woollett, by Mrs. 
Elizabeth Taylor Watson. It is 
painted with the fresh enthusiasm 
of a young painter and the technical 
dexterity of an old one. Mrs. Wat- 
son is a product of the Boston Art 
Museum and in her art pays an 
original tribute to Mr. Tarbell's 
work. She was born in New York 
but came to Boston as a child and 
was one of the youngest pupils of 
the Museum school. During recent 
years she has exhibited in all im- 
portant shows throughout the coun- 
try. Among her notable portraits 
are those of Dr. McColister, Miss 
Elizabeth Lawrence and Mr. and 
Mrs. Jacob Edwards. 

Among Boston's young painters 
whose pictures are immediately 
notable in the present exhibition 
are Herman D. Murphy, William M. 
Paxton, George H. Hallowell, Ar- 
thur Hazard and Louis Kronberg. 
Mr. Murphy has contributed four 
interesting subjects, a portrait of 
Rev. James Reed being especially 





distinguished by great subtlety of 
handling and dignity of pose. 

Mr. Paxton shows a portrait exe- 
cuted in his best manner and Mr. 
Hallowell two paintings ; strong and 
unusual portrayals of life among the 
lumbermen of the Maine woods. In 
arrangement and color they portend 
for him a future of great possibili- 

Mr. Hazard, although a young 
man, has accomplished a surprising 
amount of work, and has already 
made a name for himself. He was 
born in North Bridgewater thirty 
years ago and at an early age 
adopted art as a profession. He 
studied for several years in the Bos- 
ton Museum School and the Cowles' 
Art School; at the latter place un- 
der the influence and instruction of 
that master-draughtsman, Joseph 
DeCamp. In Paris, later, he was a 
pupil of Rene Prinet and G. Cour- 
tous. Since his return from abroad 
he has painted portraits of high ex- 
cellence of Dr. R. R. Shippen, of 
Washington, Rabbi Fleischer, the 
daughter of the late Frank Robin- 
son, and the beautiful Mrs. Edward 
Mower, of Chicago. Mr. Hazard 
has traveled over his own country 
with a thoroughness that few Ameri- 
cans can boast, and has also 
spent two winters in Jamaica, where 
he made interesting studies of native 
life in the tropics. He contemplates 
shortly seeking, as so many others 
have done before him, the larger 
successes of New York. 

Mr. Kronberg, a native of Bos- 
ton, has devoted his abilities to one 
special branch of painting and is 
perhaps to America what Degas is 
to France, a painter of ballet girls 
and pictures of the stage. He was 
a pupil of the Museum School, later, 
in New York, of William M. Chase, 
and as the winner of the Long-fellow 

Traveling Scholarship, a student for 
three years in European schools. 
Returning to Boston in 1898 Mr. 
Kronberg painted in quick succes- 
sion portraits of many noted mu- 
sicians and actors, among them 
Gabrilowitch, Coquelin, Richard 
Mansfield, and Benjamin Woolfe. 
He has exhibited several times in 
the Paris Salon and in the exhibi- 
tions of this country. The painting 
at St. Louis is in subject somewhat 
out of the artist's usual choice — a 
Salon picture, Egyptian in theme, 
and undoubtedly the finest compo- 
sition that he has yet produced. The 
painting is of an Egyptian priestess, 
sitting between the giant paws of a 
Sphinx, holding in her uplifted 
hand a lotus blossom. It is full of 
the sombre mystery of the dead 
faiths of ancient Egypt. 

Sarah C. Sears (Mrs. Montgomery 
Sears) is represented by two por- 
traits in pastel and three water 
colors, distinguished by broad sure 
qualities of color and drawing. Mrs. 
Sears was born in Cambridge and 
was a student of the Museum School. 
Another field of endeavor in which 
she excels is that of decorative 
metal work. 

A large and important canvas by 
Henry H. Gallison called "The Grey 
Mist" is sent by the Detroit Art 
Museum. This painting is typical 
of Mr. Gallison's style, which is tru- 
ly American. He paints a rocky 
pasture, or an open meadow, or a 
sloping hillside as few landscapists 
can. Mr. Gallison has exhibited 
much abroad, and his pictures have 
always received marked apprecia- 
tion in London, Paris and Munich. 
Recently the Italian government 
purchased a painting by him, ex- 
hibited in the Turin Exhibition, for 
the Government Museum. In all the 
important exhibitions in this coun- 





try, also, Mr. Gallison has shown 
his work and has received many 

Mr. Gallison is a native of Boston, 
where he has had a studio for many 
years ; first in the old Studio Build- 
ing, and later in the Copley Hall. 
He was born in 1850, and after 
studying for some years in this coun- 
try, went to Paris for a long stay. 
Mr. Gallison spends at least half the 
year in the country, and has a sum- 
mer studio at Annisquam, Massa- 
chusetts, where he finds much of the 
material for his pictures. 

Two portraits by Lee Lufkin 
Kaula are painted with a sympa- 
thetic understanding of character 
and a most clever handling of the 
material. One is of an earnest look- 
ing girl in a white dress, which re- 
ceived marked appreciation at the 
Paris Salon, at the Pan American 
and Atlanta expositions. Mrs. 
Kaula first studied in the Metropoli- 
tan Museum School, later with 
Charles Dewey, and in Paris with 
Colin and MacMonnies in the 
Academy Vitti. She now resides in 

Two sculptors of Boston, Cyrus 
E. Dallin and Bela L. Pratt, show 
work of a high order ; the former by 
two character studies, a reduction of 
"Medicine Man," and "Don Quix- 
ote," and the latter by three figures 
in marble from his "Fountain of 
Youth," exquisite figures classically 
conceived and beautifully executed. 

Few miniatures are to be seen in 
this collection, but the eight shown 
are most interesting. Miss Laura 
Hills' stand preeminent for their 
characterization and decorative 
qualities. Perhaps no American 
miniaturist has so well succeeded in 
depicting upon a few inches of space 
such wonderful color relations, such 
individuality of portraiture, as has 

Miss Hills. Microcosmic in expres- 
sion, Miss Hills' art is cosmic in its 
feeling. All of a great picture glows 
within the limits of the little ovals 
that enclose her jewel-like paintings. 

She comes from the quaint old 
town of Newburyport. In drawing 
she was a pupil at the Art Students' 
League, in New York, and the 
Cowles' Art School, in Boston, but 
in her miniature work she has not 
had, nor has she needed, any better 
master than herself. Her exquisite 
work is known in Europe as well as 
widely known in this country. 

Miss Ethel Blanchard and Miss 
Sally Cross also show good work in 
this line. Miss Sally Cross has two 
miniatures of unusual excellence. 
She paints in an original way, with 
good sense of color; and an under- 
standing of values. The little boy 
with a violin is especially interest- 
ing. Miss Cross is a New England 
girl, having spent the greater part 
of her life in Boston. She studied 
at the famous Cowles' Art School, 
and came there under the influence 
of Joseph DeCamp, and other well- 
known painters. She has exhibited 
at the Boston Art Club, Copley So- 
ciety, New York Society of Minia- 
ture Painters, Pennsylvania Acad- 
emy of Fine Arts, and in all the im- 
portant exhibitions. 

Miss Ethel Blanchard is another 
Boston miniature painter, formerly 
a student in the Museum of Fine 
Arts. She has lived all her life in 
Boston or vicinity where, with the 
exception of two years in Chicago, 
she always has had her studio. She 
has painted a number of children 
and seems to have remarkable un- 
derstanding of their moods and feel- 
ings. She is a member of the Copley 
Society, the Society of Miniature 
Painters, and has exhibited in all 


the well-known exhibitions of the 
United States.* 

The remarkable painting of 
"Death and the Captive," which 
Miss Mary L. Macomber sends to 

St. Louis, will be remembered from 
its first appearance "in the Copley 
Society Exhibition a few years ago. 
It is not easily forgotten, for it ap- 
peals strongly to the imagination, as 

Editor's Note: — Miss Jean N. Oliver, the writer of this article, and an artist and 
miniature painter of reputation, is also represented by a miniature at the St. Louis 
Exposition which she has reluctantly allowed us to reproduce in this connection. 
Miss Oliver was formerly a student at the Museum of Fine Arts. She has ex- 
hibited in the Copley Society, the Boston Art Club, etc. She was born in Lynn, Mass- 
achusetts, but has had a studio in Boston for the last five years. 


I all her work does, having some- 
thing to say apart from their techni- 
cal excellencies. Miss Macomber's 
career has been one of the hardest 
kind of work and well merited suc- 
cess. She studied for a number of 
years at the Museum of Fine Arts, 
under the direction of Mr. Benson 
and Mr. Tarbell. Her first public- 
ly exhibited picture was in 1889, in 
the National Academy and since 
that date she has been a constant 
exhibitor in all the leading exhibi- 
tions in America. 

Two other clever women painters, 
Adelaide Cole Chase, and Mary 
Fisher (Austin), show representa- 
tive work, modern, well-painted and 

W. B. Closson, who ten or fifteen 
years ago was known as one of the 
best wood engravers in this country, 
and who is now equally well known 
as a portrait painter in pastel, shows 
in this exhibition but one picture, a 
fascinating study of "A Nymph." 
This is a youthful, golden-haired 
figure contrasted well against the 
brilliant greens of the bank which 
forms a background — a mellow yel- 
low glow over the whole painting 
giving it much depth of tone. 

During a long career as a portrait 
painter Mr. F. P. Vinton has painted 
many distinguished people, and now 
the portraits of Hon. A. W. Beard 
and Henry Howland are added to 
the list. 

Mr. Thomas Allen, is one of the 
best known men in Boston, al- 
though he is not a native of this 
state. He has been since 1876 a con- 
tributor to all the important shows, 
and his first success was in an ex- 
hibition given in the Williams and 
Everett Gallery in 1883. For a num- 
ber of years his studio was in the old 
Pelham Building, but later he es- 
tablished himself in his present 



place at 2 Commonwealth Avenue. 
Mr. Allen studied first in Dussel- 
dorf,and later at the Royal Academy, 
where he was graduated in 1878. 
During this time he exhibited in the 
National Academy and four years 
later he was represented in the Salon 
for the first time. 

Mr. Allen's one contribution to 
the St. Louis Exhibition is a water 
color, "Dartmoor," a seriously paint- 
ed composition with a remark- 
able atmosphere. There is in this 
painting a feeling of air and light 
and movement, while the color is 
good, and the relation of one mass 
to another is well expressed. 

In the years that John J. Enne- 
king has been in Boston since 1865, 
his name has been familiar to every 
one interested in art, and it is not 
too much to say that in his own 
class of work he is without an equal. 
He paints the late afternoon effects 
of a November day as one who un- 
derstands the subject, and with a 
real love for it. His career is inter- 
esting, for he has worked himself out 
of commercial life into art entirely 
by his own efforts. It was in 
Munich that he first studied serious- 
ly, attracted there, as so many stu- 
dents were in the seventies ; but his 
own sense of rich color was disap- 
pointed by the methods in vogue, 
and, after a short stay, he went to 
Paris. There he worked under 
Bonnat and other celebrated masters 
for three years. By the advice of 
Daubigny he then studied land- 
scape painting in the different Euro- 
pean sketching places. Since his 
return to Boston he has had a 
studio, and has always been repre- 
sented at important American ex- 

William J. Kaula's pictures have 
remarkable depth of tone and qual- 
ity. He paints when the subject 






pleases him with a most sensitive 
feeling for nature. The two land- 
scapes he sends to St. Louis are 
most interesting, both as regards the 
color scheme and the composition. 

Frances C. Houston's "Indian 
Summer" is perhaps the best of her 
later works, and is a noticeable paint- 
ing, full of charm and poetic feeling. 
Her pictures never give the impres- 
sion of having been painted merely 
as clever studies, but are satisfactory 
and complete. 

Eric Pape's picture of "Foaming 
Surges" is highly decorative in 
theme, suggesting the fanciful con- 
ceptions of some of the leading 
French painters. 

Mr. Philip Hale is well repre- 
sented by his two paintings, differ- 
ing as they do in subject. They are 
"The Boxers" and a portrait. 

Among other New England 
artists whose work creditably 

sustains their reputation in the St. 
Louis exhibition may be mentioned : 
Maurice Prendegast, Joseph Lin- 
den Smith, Dodge McKnight, Theo- 
dore Wendell, I. H. Caliga, Edmund 
Garrett, William Picknell, Charles 
Davis, Charles Hopkinson, Albert 
Schmitt, William Burpee, Howard 
Cushing, Augustus V. Tack, Charles 
Pierce, Ernest Major, Caroline Rim- 
raer, Lucy Conant, Harold Warren, 
Mary Wesselhoeft, Hendricks Hal- 
lett, Charles Hudson, Sears Galla- 
gher, M. L. Bumpus, Florence Rob- 
inson, Susan Bradley, Dawson Wat- 
son, M. R. Sturgis, Charles Pepper, 
Edward Barnard, Anne Blake, 
Dwight Blaney, Margaret Fuller, J. 
H. Hatfield, Geo. Leonard, Lilla 
Perry, F. H. Richardson, Leslie P. 
Thomson, James Rich, E. L. Chad- 
wick, Warren Nettleton, Wm. Hen- 
derson, Charles Adams, T. B. Mete- 
yard, and D. J. Nolan. 


By H. Arthur Powell 

A sylvan path, whose trees and leafage form 
Arcades of emerald, color-shot, yet cool, 

Where prismy ardor makes a very storm 

Of rainbow lightnings play o'er yon dark pool. 

A pact 'twixt man and nature, sweet as rare, 
Uplifts to dignity the passing hour; 

While, charged with sympathy, the crystal air 

Suffuses grief with glamour, pain with power. 

This, then, the woodland way that may be thine; 

Yet heed the warning that a lost one cries — 
It is a path that, forking at a Shrine, 

Leads, this to madness, that to Paradise. 

Mrs. Bassett's Fall 

By Elizabeth Robbins 

A COMELY woman in her fifti- 
eth year, but straight and al- 
most as slender as when a girl, 
with hardly a wrinkle on her fair, 
pleasant face, — a woman to whom 
one felt instinctively drawn. Such 
was Mrs. Bassett. She stood in her 
cheerful, immaculate kitchen con- 
templating the two pies she had 
just taken from the oven and set on 
the table; pies with delicately 
browned, flaky crust, diffusing a de- 
licious fragrance. "I believe I'll take 
one over to Emma; there'll be just 
time before dinner," she soliloquized, 
glancing at the clock. "Will is 
coming home to-day and she will be 
glad to have it." 

Her daughter's house was on an- 
other street but by going through 
her own back yard and across a 
small field she had only to climb a 
wall to be in her daughter's yard. 
"I declare!" she laughed, as she 
squeezed through a gap in her back 
fence, pie in hand, "if there isn't 
Emma starting over here!" 

The younger woman did not wait 
till they met before speaking. 
"Will has come," she said, "and 
what do you think? He's had a 
splendid position offered him, out 
there, — twice as much salary as he's 
been having, and the work hardly 
any harder." 

"Is he going to take it?" Mrs. Bas- 
sett asked. 

"Why, of course he'll take it, 
mother," the daughter answered, a 
little irritably. "We're going to be- 

gin packing up right away. Will 
hired a house there before he came 
home. I'm glad to have the pie, — 
how good it smells. It's the first ap- 
ple pie I've seen this season. Well, 
I must hurry back, I was only com- 
ing over to tell the news. — I'll run 
in again towards night. 

"You haven't heard from Edith?" 
she paused at the wall to call back. 

"Yes, day before yesterday. They 
were at Liverpool, just about to go 
aboard the steamer. They're prob- 
ably in New York now. Her father 
was homesick, she said." 

"Well, he ought to be," comment- 
ed Emma severely. "It was the 
greatest idea, his going with them 
on their wedding trip." 

"Well, I don't know," mused Mrs. 
Bassett, as she returned to her own 
house. "It seemed to me the most 
natural thing for Mr. Morrison to 
go, seeing how devoted he and Edith 
have always been to each other. 
You don't often find a father so all 
wrapped up in his daughter as he is. 
In all the twelve years they've 
boarded with me, I never have 
known him to speak a harsh word 
to her, or think of himself first. And 
she was worth all his care and 
thoughtfulness. Edith is a dear, 
good girl. It most broke my heart 
to have her go away, and I'm going 
to miss her dreadfully, — and her 
father too. Mr. Morrison is a good 
man if ever there was one. 

"But clear me ! what a mother I am 
to be thinking of them, and here's 




my own daughter going away out 
West to live," she reminded herself 
reproachfully. "Emma never liked 
here, and she always wanted to live 
in a city, so she's pretty well pleased, 
I guess, though she probably 
couldn't live anywhere but what 
she'd find something to worry about. 
I declare ! I don't see how Will 
stands it. He couldn't if he hadn't 
the evenest disposition that ever 
was. I wish it wasn't so far. But 
then, it's only two days' travel after 
all, and with Will's salary she can 
afford to come back on a visit once 
in a while." 

Mrs. Bassett was one to whom a 
refined way of living had become a 
habit, so that her table for one was 
set as carefully and daintily as 
though she had been expecting the 
most fastidious guest. Everything 
was ready and she was thinking 
how lonely it was to dine alone, 
when the outside screen-door opened 
and closed and a man appeared at 
the dining-room door, — a prosper- 
ous looking man of middle age, with 
a kindly face. 

Mrs. Bassett's face lighted up. 
"Why, Mr. Morrison !" she ex- 

They shook hands cordially and 
were frankly glad to see each other. 
In the manner of neither was there 
a trace of self-consciousness. "How 
is Edith?" Mrs. Bassett asked, as 
she went to get another plate and 
knife and fork. 

"She's nicely. I left them in New 
York, this morning. They're going 
to stay at Sam's aunt's, while they 
are getting ready to go to house- 
keeping," Mr. Morrison answered. 
"I thought I would come and get the 
things I left here, before beginning 
to work again. I've engaged board 
with the Willetts. You've heard 
me speak or them ?" 

"Then you are not going to live 
with Edith?" 

"No, nor retire from business," 
Mr. Morrison answered, a shade 
crossing his face. "That was what 
we planned at first, but — well, Sam 
is a good fellow and well meaning 
but he's young and naturally some- 
what thoughtless and selfish and I 
don't feel as if I could stand his way 
with Edith always. I'd be likely to 
speak out sometimes and it would 
make trouble. Thev have got to 
get used to each other and it will 
be better for them to have no third 
party around to complicate things. 
I thought it all over and that is the 
conclusion I've come to." 

"I think you're right about it," 
said Mrs. Bassett, "though it's hard 
on you, — and on Edith too. But 
you will be going to see her often." 

"Yes, she made me promise that." 
He looked thoughtful for a moment, 
then changed the subject. "Mrs. 
Bassett, your dinner tastes the best 
of anything I've eaten since I went 
away. Talk of French cookery! 
American cooking beats it out of 
sight. I'd rather have a slice of 
your bread and butter than any- 
thing I saw or ate all the time I was 
gone. And Edith said the same 
thing." He looked about the room, 
and drew a deep breath of the Sep- 
tember air that was drifting in 
through the open windows. 
"Everything is so clean and sweet 
and wholesome here," he said. "Oh, 
why must young people go and get 
married?" he questioned whimsical- 
ly. "It does seem as if Edith was a 
great deal better off with her old 
father than she is now, — but they 
will do it," he added with a sigh. 

Them he began talking of the 
sights he had seen while abroad, and 
continued to talk after they had 
finished eating and while Mrs. Bas- 



sett cleared off the table and washed 
and wiped the dishes, she making a 
comment now and then or asking a 
question. "I've missed the train I 
meant to take," he said, "but the 
next one will do as well. However, 
I think I'll go and get those things 
ready for the expressman, before I 
say any more." 

Mrs. Bassett had changed her 
dress for the afternoon and was in 
the sitting-room sewing when he re- 
turned. He had thought of some- 
thing more to tell her, and so came 
near missing another train. "Oh!" 
he exclaimed as he rose to go. "I 
nearly forgot that I was to give you 
Edith's love, and say that she will 
write the first minute she gets and 
that you are to make her a long 
visit next winter." 

"She's a dear girl," said Mrs. Bas- 
sett, with emotion. 

"Yes, she is," her father agreed. 
"And you made a happy home for 
us all these years. I wish it needn't 
have been broken up." 

Mrs. Bassett watched him go 
down the street. "Yes," she said, 
half aloud, "Edith is a good girl, and 
I don't wonder he feels broken up. 
I somehow feel worse about her go- 
ing away than I do about Emma's 
going. I must be a very unnatural 
kind of a mother. I'll go over and 
help Emma pack. There's nothing 
especial to keep me at home now ; I 
can go day-times as well as not." 

Then her thoughts went back to 
Edith and wandered to next winter 
and her visit to New York. It 
would be something pleasant to 
look forward to all the fall. 

A little while after supper, Emma 
came in. She sank into a chair with 
a sigh that was almost a groan. "It 
seems as if I never was so tired in 
all my life," she complained. She 
was always so thin and nervous and 

worried that she looked nearly as 
old as her mother. There were 
some who insisted that she looked 

"Will and I have decided that 
you must go with us, mother," the 
younger woman said presently. 
"There's nothing to keep you here, 
now the Morrisons have gone, and 
I shouldn't have a minute's comfort 
thinking of you all alone here. 
There's plenty of room in the house 
Will has rented, and }^ou can let 
this house. Will thinks we could 
find someone who will take it just 
as it is, all furnished, — or you could 
sell it." 

Mrs. Bassett's work had fallen in 
her lap, and she was staring at her 
daughter as if dazed. "But — why, 
Emma, I don't want to go !" she 
gasped, as soon as she could find her 

"Now, mother!" Emma protested, 
in the tone of impatient long suffer- 
ing one might use with a fractious 
child, "of course you want to go. It 
will be ever so much pleasanter in 
every way than it is here." 

Mrs. Bassett was silent. She had 
never been one to argue; it seemed 
to her like quarreling. 

"You must go," her daughter con- 
tinued. "You wouldn't want me to 
be perfectly miserable in my new 
home, thinking of my mother all 
alone here, so far away?" 

"There's nothing to harm me here, 
Emma," pleaded Mrs. Bassett. 

"Nothing to harm you!" cried her 
daughter scornfully. "Do you never 
read the papers, mother? There's 
always some dreadful thing happen- 
ing to women who live alone." 

"Perhaps I could get someone to 
live with me," said Mrs. Bassett. 
"I might take a boarder." 

"Yes, and slave yourself to death! 
You've worked enough in your life; 



you ought to take things easy now, 
— and don't you have any affection 
for me ?" pursued the daughter in an 
aggrieved tone. 

"Of course I do," Mrs. Bassett 
answered, with a touch of indigna- 

"Then you will go with us and 
not make any more fuss," Emma 
concluded. "Will can put the place 
in the hands of a real estate agent 
to-morrow morning — " 

"Oh, no ! he must n't," cried Mrs. 
Bassett agonizingly. 

"Why, what will you do, then?" 

"Oh, — leave it empty — if I go." 

"Yes, and have people breaking 
in to steal the furniture, and boys 
breaking the windows and every- 
thing going to pieces. Now, mother, 
do be reasonable." 

There was a short silence. 

"I saw a man that looked like Mr. 
Morrison going by the corner this 
noon," Emma said. "He hasn't been 
out, has he?" 

They talked about Mr. Morrison 
and his daughter for a while and 
then Emma returned to the former 
subject, and so persistentty did she 
argue and plead and scold that when 
she went away she had extracted a 
half promise from Mrs. Bassett that 
she would go West with her. 

But when she was again alone, 
Mrs. Bassett's soul rebelled and she 
wept bitter tears. She could not 
go and leave this pleasant home en- 
deared by precious memories. It 
seemed a part of her very life. And 
there were her friends and neigh- 
bors and acquaintances ; she per- 
sonally knew nearly everybody in 
the town and loved them and was 
interested in all that affected them. 
There was her church, also. How 
could she leave it all and go to a 
strange city where she knew no one? 

And with Emma! Mrs. Bassett 

recalled the years of her married 
life. She had formed a romantic 
attachment for a man considerably 
her senior, — a nervous, fretful, ex- 
acting invalid — and after a brief 
courtship had married him at nine- 
teen. Her disillusionment had been 
swift and complete, and the three 
years in which he lived had been 
very unhappy ones for her. Emma 
had grown to be like him. It was 
very wearing to have her come only 
to spend the day ; what would it be 
to have to live with her? 

But how could she help it? She 
knew from many past experiences 
that when Emma set out to have her 
way there was no withstanding her; 
she simply wore one out so that one 
had to give in to her. 

Mrs. Bassett could not sleep that 
night. She thought over the many 
years of happiness she had had in 
the beloved home and all of she 
would lose in leaving it, and the 
more she thought the worse she felt. 

Along toward morning, she sud- 
denly resolved that for once in her 
life she would not give in. She 
would assert her right to stay where 
she wanted to stay, and she tried to 
think of all the reasons she could 
bring forward to fortify her position. 

"But, oh, dear!" she sighed, as 
the dawn began to show in the east, 
"when I see her and she began to 
talk, I shall just do as she says, the 
same as ever." 

Emma returned to the fray im- 
mediately after breakfast, and, as she 
had feared, Mrs. Bassett found her- 
self yielding inch by inch. 

"Of course," said Emma at last 
when she felt that her case was 
nearly won, "if you had some one 
to take care of you — if for instance 
you were married, or even expect- 
ing to be married — it would be a 
very different matter." She wished 



her mother to see that she was not 
wholly unreasonable. 

If she were married, or even ex- 
pecting to be married. To Mrs. 
Bassett, seeking wildly for some 
way to escape, a sudden inspira- 
tion came. To be sure it was deceit 
but was not even deception justifia- 
ble in one so sore beset? She hesi- 
tated but for an instant. 

4 'I am thinking- of getting mar- 
ried, ' she said desperately. 

"You — are thinking of — getting 
married I" Emma gasped. 

"That was what I said." 

"Well, well!" ejaculated her 
daughter, recovering from the 
shock. "Of course it is to Mr. 
Morrison. He must have spoken 
yesterday, when he was here. Why 
didn't you tell me before? How 
could I know why you were so set 
on not going West with Will and 

"I hardly know myself, yet," Mrs. 
Bassett answered. "And, Emma, 
you must not tell anybody, — not any- 
body, do you understand?" 

"Of course not, if you don't want 
me to. When is it to be? Soon I 
suppose, as long as there is no rea- 
son for putting it off. Hadn't you 
better go with us after all, and be 
married from our house?" 

"When I marry it will be from my 
own house," her mother answered 
with dignity. 

"Well, then, I don't see but what 
I shall have to give up my plan of 
having you live with me," Emma 
said slowly. 

Mrs. Bassett's heart thrilled with 
exultation. She was free once more, 
and how easily it had been accom- 

"As soon as I get my own work 
done I'm coming over to help you 
pack your things," she said calmly. 

"I shall be glad to have you," 

Emma said. "It seems if it would 
take forever, there is so much stuff;" 
and she departed with a subdued 
and vanquished air that caused Mrs. 
Bassett to laugh inwardly. 

"I hoped you were going with 
us, mother," Will said significantly, 
as they were working together that 
afternoon, "but under the circum- 
stances I don't suppose we can ex- 
pect it." 

So Emma had told him ! Mrs. 
Bassett was vexed. "I thought I 
made her understand," she thought 
uneasily. "Will Bradley is the best 
fellow that ever lived but everybody 
knows he can't keep anything to 
himself." She took pains to caution 
Emma again. "You must .impress 
it on Will that what I told you this 
morning isn't to be mentioned to a 
living soul till I give the word." 

"I did," said Emma a little guilti- 
ly. "I don't think he will tell, — 
though I don't see why you need 
to be so terribly private about it. 
It is what everybody has been ex- 
pecting for years." 

Will was to go to the city on an 
errand the next day and Mrs. Bas- 
sett was in an agony of apprehen- 
sion lest he see Mr. Morrison or 
some mutual friend and mention the 
forbidden subject. But when he re- 
turned there was nothing in his 
manner or words to indicate any 
such encounter or disclosure and she 
breathed more freely. 

Mrs. Bassett well knew there was 
to come a day of reckoning with her 
conscience, but she postponed it. 
For the present it was enough that 
she was not forced to go away from 
what she held so dear. Indeed, she 
was so busy that she had little time 
to think. 

But at last Will and Emma were 
gone, and with the return of her 
simple, quiet life, Mrs. Bassett's 



conscience began its work. Now 
that she was face to face with her- 
self she was aghast at what she had 
done. She, a Christian woman, to 
so far forget herself as to tell a lie ! 
And so indelicate, so shameful a lie ! 
What would Mr. Morrison think if 
he knew? She was as sure as that 
the sun shone that the idea of marry- 
ing her, or any other woman, had 
never entered his head. How could 
she look him in the face if she 
should ever see him again? 

Well, one thing was clear : she 
must give up her class in Sunday- 
school and cease to attend Com- 
munion service. 

As the days passed she went less 
and less among her neighbors ; she 
was no longer fit to associate with 
good people, she told herself. She 
who had been the busiest, the cheeri- 
est, the most neighborly of women, 
now stayed closely at home and 
would sit for hours at a time brood- 
ing over her wrong doing. She was 
very lonely, and the days dragged 
interminably. She dreaded the long 
nights in which she could not sleep, 
and when morning came there 
seemed to be nothing in life worth 
getting up for. 

Her many friends became quite 
concerned about her. They had not 
thought she cared so much for 
Emma, they told each other. Some 
of them came in often and tried to 
divert her mind and others thought 
she was ill and urged her to see a 
doctor. But to none of them, not 
even to the minister, could Mrs. 
Bassett tell her trouble. 

At last, one morning in Novem- 
ber she arose with the light of a 
new determination in her face. She 
had neglected her housework some- 
what of late and the forenoon was 
spent in restoring everything to its 
accustomed state of order and clean- 

liness. After dinner, when she had 
made herself nice for the afternoon, 
she sat down to her desk to write 
to Emma. The body of the letter 
was short, — "I am ready to come 
and live with you, if you still wish 
it. I am not to be married." A 
great peace filled her heart as she 
addressed and sealed the envelope. 
Her home and all connected with it 
was as dear as ever, but a clear con- 
science was above everything and 
surely to give up all she had sinned 
for would atone for the sin. 

"I will put on my things and carry 
it to the post office right away," she 
said to herself. Her step was elastic 
and her eyes bright as she started 
across the room. 

As she was passing through the 
little front hall the door-bell rang. 
"Some peddler, it is likely," she 
thought, and opened the door. She 
started back involuntarily, the color 
rushing to her face, for the person 
standing on the doorstep before her 
was Mr. Morrison. 

'ID id I frighten you?" he asked. 

"You startled me a little," she 
answered, with a nervous laugh. "I 
wasn't expecting you." 

He took off his hat and overcoat, 
and they went into the sitting-room 
and sat down. Mrs. Bassett made a 
heroic attempt to conceal her em- 
barrassment and appear as usual. 
She asked after Edith and talked of 
the weather and other commonplace 

For some reason Mr. Morrison 
did not seem as responsive as usual. 
Was he embarrassed too? He cer- 
tainly no longer looked at her in the 
old frank, impersonal way, but 
rather as if he now saw her for the 
first time and was studying her face. 
The conversation was fitful, and 
there were awkward pauses. 

Mrs. Bassett grew more and more 



uncomfortable. "Have you noticed 
my rose tree?" she asked finally, ris- 
ing and going to it. "There are 
twenty-seven roses and buds on it. 
I remember you always admired it 
very much." 

He came and looked down on it, 
absent mindedly. "No, I hadn't 
noticed it," he said. Then suddenly 
he turned toward her. "Mrs. Bas- 
sett," he began, "I have something 
particular to say to you and I might 
as well out with it. A week or more 
ago a friend referred to my 'ap- 
proaching marriage.' I was some- 
what taken aback, he spoke so con- 
fidently, but I recovered myself im- 
mediately and asked him how he 
happened to know of it. He said he 
had it from a mutual friend. Then 
I asked him of the mutual friend had 
mentioned the name of the lady and 
he said that he did, and that it was 
Mrs. Bassett." 

Mrs. Bassett had averted her face. 
Her heart was beating wildly, and 
she bit her lip to keep it from 
trembling. The way of the trans- 
gressor was indeed hard. 

"It seems incredible now," Mr. 
Morrison went on, "but such an idea 
had never entered my head till that 
moment. The more I thought of it, 
however, the more attractive it 
seemed. I have always had the very 
highest regard for you, but since I 
heard that I was going to marry you 
my esteem has changed to a much 
strong sentiment, — I came here to- 
day to ask you to be my wife." 

The tears came to Mrs. Bassett's 
eyes as she bravely faced him. Of 
course he would despise her but he 
should know the truth. She had 
had enough of deception. 

"Do you know where that report 
started?" she asked. Then, without 
waiting for him to answer, "It 
started with me. Emma wanted me 
to go West and live with her and I 
felt as if I couldnt. She would have 
made me go but she happened to say 
that if I was married she wouldn't 
expect me to, and I told her I was 
thinking of marrying. She thought 
it was you and I let her think so." 
She covered her burning face with 
her hands. "You see now that what 
you ask could never be. You 
wouldn't want — a liar — " 

He put his arms around her pro- 
tectingly. "Wouldn't I?" he said. 
"There may be two opinions about 

"Are you sure you understand?" 
she faltered. 

"Perfectly sure, little woman," he 
answered. "I am quite well ac- 
quainted with Emma and I see just 
how it was. The temptation was 
too strong for you and you suc- 
cumbed to it, — and have no doubt 
suffered for it and repented." 

"Yes," she answered eagerly, "I 
have and I wrote to Emma today." 

"Ah !" he said. "Is that the letter 
on the table? May I read it?" 

"If you want to." 

He opened it and ran his eyes 
over the few lines. Then he de- 
liberately tore it in three pieces and 
put the pieces in the stove. "It 
isn't true now, you know," he said 
as he came back to her, "for you are 
not going to live with Emma, and 
you are going to marry me." And 
then he drew her to him again and 
kissed her. 

A Friend of Washington's 

By Chrles W. Stetson 

AS the steamer turns from the 
main channel of the Potomac 
and begins winding its way be- 
tween the buoys which bound each 
side of the narrow cut leading to the 
landing at Mt. Vernon, many visit- 
ors must have noticed the high 
wooded bluff at the water's edge 
of the Virginia shore two miles to 
the south. The river channel, cross- 
ing and recrossing its wide shallow 
bed, comes nearly to the foot of the 
bluff, so that the descent under 
water from the shore is almost as 
abrupt and precipitous as it is above 
land. At low tide a narrow beach 
five or six feet wide skirts the bot- 
tom of the cliff, but when the tide 
is in, even this is covered, and the 
steep wooded ascent rises directly 
out of the water. At one point a 
sharp ravine breaks the face of the 
bluff, and here twenty-five or thirty 
years ago a short wharf projected 
into the river. At its end was a long 
low white pavilion surmounted by 
a pretentious red cupola. The lo- 
cality was then familiar to Wash- 
ington excursionists under the name 
of the "White House Landing," but 
both wharf and pavilion gradually 
rotted away, and the only habitation 
now visible from the river is the 
little brick cabin of a negro fisher- 
man. In the 1 8th century the bluff 
and the plateau back of it bore an- 
other name. It was then "Belvoir," 
and upon the commanding point 
overlooking the river for miles up 
and down stood the substantial 
mansion of the Fairfax family. 

The connection of the Fairfaxes 
with Virginia dated back to the 
latter part of the 17th century, when 
Charles II undertook to bestow up- 
on Lord Culpeper all the unpat- 
ented lands of the Colony. The 
grant raised such a storm even 
among the loyal colonists that Lord 
Culpeper was obliged to content 
himself with the proprietorship of 
the unclaimed lands in the North- 
ern Neck, the territory between the 
Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers, 
reserving for himself and his heirs 
a quit rent of two shillings a hun- 
dred acres upon each tract which 
he granted. As this section of Vir- 
ginia gradually filled with settlers, 
and fresh counties were carved out 
of it, the quit rents grew into a very 
handsome revenue. Lord Cul- 
peper's only daughter married the 
fifth Lord Fairfax, and upon her 
death the Northern Neck became 
the property of Thomas, sixth Lord 
Fairfax, the early patron of Wash- 
ington. As the proprietors lived in 
England, the actual business of the 
collection of rents and the granting 
of land patents devolved upon their 
colonial agent. This office was for 
many years held by the cousin of 
Lord Thomas, William Fairfax, who 
built a residence for himself at Bel- 
voir in 1736. His eldest daughter, 
Anne, married Lawrence Washing- 
ton and the young couple estab- 
lished themselves on the neighbor- 
ing "neck" of Mount Vernon. This 
William Fairfax was a man of con- 
sequence in Virginia. He was Presi- 



dent of the Council of State and the 
Collector of Customs for the South 

One of our earliest glimpses of 
Washington occurs in a letter of 
his to Lawrence Washington, writ- 
ten in 1746, — when George Wash- 

ington was fourteen. 

"George,"' he says, "has been with us 
and says he will be steady and faithfully 
follow your advice, as his best friend. I 
gave him his mother's letter to deliver, 
with a caution not to show his. I have 
spoken to Dr. Spencer, who, I find is often 
at the widow's (Mrs. Washington's) and 
has some influence, to persuade her to 
think better of your advice in putting- 
George to sea." 

Lawrence Washington, it seems, 
wished to procure a midshipman's 
warrant for his younger brother and 
Mr. Fairfax promised to lend his 
influence. The project, however, 
came to nothing as Mrs. Washing- 
ton v/ould not consent to it. 

In 1746 Lord Fairfax made a visit 
to Virginia to inspect his posses- 
sions. He made his home with his 
cousin at Belvoir. The visit was 
unexpectedly prolonged into a forty 
years' sojourn, for his Lordship 
never recrossed the ocean to Eng- 
land again, though he lived long 
enough to see the tie which bound 
the colony to the mother country 
severed. The tide of population 
was just beginning to flow into the 
Shenandoah Valley, and there about 
twelve miles from Winchester, on 
the edge of the wilderness, Lord 
Fairfax established himself at Green- 
way Court. Biographies of Wash- 
ington often give a romantic touch 
to his long life there by describing 
it as the lonely retreat of a hermit 
driven from the world by a disap- 
pointment in love. Such chance 
letters of his as have survived give 
the impression rather of an active 
man of affairs, busy with the man- 

agement of his property and the 
collection of his quit rents and alive 
to the public interests of the col- 
ony and his own country. He was 
for many years the Lieutenant, or 
executive officer, of Frederick 
County, and as Justice of the Peace 
presided in the County Court at 
Winchester; he took an active and 
fearless part in the defence of the 
frontier after Braddock's defeat. 
Many strong cultivated men in our 
own day find an exhilaration in liv- 
ing upon the confines of civilization, 
close to the solitude of nature, and 
Lord Fairfax may have been of a 
like mind. His retirement was 
neither gloomy nor inactive. 

About the time Lord Fairfax 
built Greenway Court, Washington 
entered his employment and set out 
on his famous surveying expedition. 
His companion on the trip was 
George William Fairfax, eight years 
his senior, and the eldest son of 
Mr. William Fairfax of Belvoir. A 
healthy, though a rough experience, 
the excursion proved to both young 
men. After several days of work, 
Washington noted in the Journal 
which he kept of the trip : 

"Worked hard until night and then re- 
turned. After supper we were lighted in- 
to a room, and I, not being so good a 
woodsman as the rest, stripped myself very 
orderly and went to bed, as they called it, 
when to my surprise, I found it to be 
nothing but a little straw matted together, 
without sheet or anything else but one 
threadbare blanket, with double its weight 
of vermin. I was glad to get up and put 
on my clothes, and lie as my companions 
did. Had we not been very tired I am 
sure we should not have slept much that 
night. I made a promise to sleep so no 
more, choosing rather to sleep in the open 
air before a fire." 

The little Journal closes with the 
entr}' : 

"Mr. Fairfax got safe home, and I to 
my brother's house at Mt. Vernon, which 
concludes my journal." 



The influence of William Fairfax 
soon after procured for Washing- 
ton the position of Adjutant to the 
northern division of Virginia militia. 
This brought him to the notice of 
Governor Dinwiddie when occasion 
arose for communicating with the 
French on the Ohio. The French 
and Indian War took both young 
friends to the frontier. Washing- 
ton's resolution and genius won 
him greater laurels but Fairfax was 
not idle. Writing to Governor 
Dinwiddie after Braddock's rout 
had carried consternation up and 
down the Shenandoah Valley, he 
says : 

"This instant Mr. Dennis McCarthy came 
here and gave me the agreeable news of 
Col. Dunbar's being ordered back (Dun- 
bar commanded the army after Braddock's 
death) with my friend Colonel Washing- 
ton who is to have command of the forces 
to be raised by this colony, which un- 
doubtedly is a great trust, but I dare say 
he will discharge it with honor. * * * 
I cannot help expressing my intention and 
great desire of serving my country at this 
juncture, not sembling in the least to serve 
under my valuable friend. * * * I hope 
I am not too late in my application and 
must beg the favor of you to postpone 
any office you may incline to favor me 
with until I consult my good and indulgent 
parent and my worthy patron L'd Fairfax, 
who I am in hopes will spare me from his 
office. Wives, good sir, are not to be con- 
sulted on these occasions, but I make no 
doubt mine would consent to so laudable 
a call." 

The wife of whose consent the 
writer speaks so jauntily was Sarah, 
daughter of Colonel Cary, a wealthy 
Virginia planter, and a lady with 
whom Washington corresponded 
during the Braddock campaign. 
The gallantry of some chance ex- 
pressions in his letters have given 
rise to the unfounded suspicion that 
he was in love with his friend's wife. 

The death of William Fairfax in 
1757 made George William Fairfax 

master of Belvoir, as the death of 
Lawrence Washington's only 
daughter a few years before had 
made George Washington master of 
Mt. Vernon. The future careers of 
the two proprietors seemed likely to 
run along parallel courses. The 
next few years Fairfax spent most- 
ly in England. While abroad he 
kept Washington informed of the 
doings at the center of the Em- 
pire : 

"The chief talk of the metropolis is of 
immediate peace (the Seven Years' War 
was about to be concluded) and of the 
King's marriage with the young princess 
of Brunswick, not quite fifteen years of 
age, but I believe neither certain, though 
the stocks rise every day. The changes 
and other particulars I shall refer you to 
the magazine here enclosed, and I wish I 
could say they were satisfactory to the peo- 

A rumor that Washington in- 
tended to change his residence from 
Mount Vernon evidently gave him 
much concern, — 

"should be glad to know of your deter- 
mination about leaving that part of the 
world, for I assure you 'tis our greatest 
inducement and will turn the scale very 
much whether we come back or not." 

Another letter written in the fall 
of 1761 alludes to an attack of ma- 
laria — river fever, it was then called 
in Virginia — from which Washing- 
ton was recovering and suggests 
that a change of air might be of 
benefit, — "and if you have any busi- 
ness or even fancy to see England, 
we shall be extremely glad to see 
you at York, or at out little retreat 
not many miles from it" ; and the 
writer goes on in confidence to de- 
plore the bad influence which one 
Martin, a nephew of Lord Fairfax, 
has over his Lordship and to fear 
"that it will daily lessen the esteem 
which people have for the good old 
gent'n." Washington, on his side, 



appears to have been a faithful cor- 
respondent, as the letter just quoted 
begins by acknowledging the re- 
ceipt of four separate letters from 
him. The only one which has sur- 
vived contains a long circumstantial 
account of the death of a valuable 
mare which had been left by Fair- 
fax in his charge. 

On the cessation of hostilities be- 
tween England and France, Fairfax 
and his wife returned to Virginia 
and began anew their quiet pleas- 
ant life at Belvoir. The immediate 
estate on which they lived was a 
peninsula or "neck" containing 
about 2000 acres of land, with the 
Potomac in front, and on two sides 
estuaries formed by the mouths of 
two creeks. The land lay high and 
level. Perhaps a fourth of it was 
cleared and under cultivation. To- 
bacco and corn were the chief crops. 
On the high bank which rose 200 
feet above the Potomac stood the 
mansion, with its wide spacious cen- 
tral hall, four rooms upon the first 
floor and five upon the second, gar- 
rets above and cellar with servants' 
hall below. Surrounding the house 
and its flower garden, after the man- 
ner of the Eighteenth Century, was 
a low brick wall. Close at hand 
stood the little office building which 
the elder Fairfax and George William 
had till lately used to transact the 
business of the proprietor's agent. 
Nearby there were other brick out- 
buildings, — kitchen, dairy, servants' 
quarters, stables and coach house, — 
for Belvoir of course had its chariot; 
and forward across the lawn where 
the cliffs fell away in sheer descent 
to the river, was the summer house. 
Below at the foot of the steep rocky 
roadway which wound its way down 
a narrow defile was the private land- 
ing where the yacht and barge of 
the proprietor were fastened. Fur- 

ther down the river where the fall of 
the water was more gradual, was the 
warehouse and wharf from which 
the tobacco of the plantation was 
shipped to the owner's factor in Lon- 
don. The fisheries which supplied 
the slaves of the plantation with a 
great part of their food, centered at 
the wharf. Other tenements for 
slaves were scattered here and there 
over the estate. 

On the next "neck" below Belvoir 
was "Gunston Hall," the home of 
George Mason ; and elsewhere in the 
country, mostly in sight of the river, 
were the modest homes of other 
gentlemen, — the Wests of "West 
Grove," the Cockburns of "Spring- 
field," the McCarthys of "Cedar 
Grove," the Alexanders, the John- 
sons, the Chichesters. Several miles 
down the river was "Leesylvania," 
the home of the father of "Light 
Horse Harry" Lee, Washington's 
devoted friend and follower, and be- 
yond the seats of other Washing- 
tons, Fitzhughs, Stuarts. Still fur- 
ther down where the river widens 
out into an arm of the Bay lived 
Councilman Carter of "Nomini," 
and near his seat was "Stratford," 
the great house of the Lees. 

The duty of public worship and 
the desire for social intercourse 
drew the gentry of the country to- 
gether weekly at Pohick Church, — 
old Pohick, for the present church 
was not finished until a few years 
before the Revolution. The Sunday 
scenes before its doors were no 
doubt like those witnessed before 
the door of another Virginia Church, 
by Philip Fithian, the young Prince- 
ton tutor in Councilman Carter's 
family and by him set down in his 
Journal : 

"It is not the custom for Gentlemen to 
go in Church til Service is beginning, 
when they enter in a Body, in the same 



manner as they come out; I have known 
the Clerk to come out and call them after 
prayers. They stay also after Service is 
over, usually as long, sometimes longer 
than the Parson was preaching." 

Washington and Fairfax were 
both vestrymen of Truro Parish and 
each purchased pews in the new 
church, though a misunderstanding 
afterward caused Washington to 
change his attendance to Christ 
Church, Alexandria. In the general 
wreck of the Episcopal Church of 
Virginia which followed close on 
the Revolution, Pohick became de- 
serted and stood for many years 
open to wind and rain. The initials 
G. W. F. on the Fairfax pew were 
still to be seen until the Civil War. 
Close to the new church was the 
"race course near Bogges." Every 
Virginia county had its track and 
most more than one. Northumber- 
land appears to have three as early 
as the beginning of the Eighteenth 

The daily "where and how my 
time is spent" which Washington 
kept gives many glimpses of the pur- 
suits and pleasures of his neighbors. 
No entry occurs more frequently 
than — "Colo. Fairfax and his lady 
* * * dined here ; and * * * 
stayed the night," — or the recipro- 
cal entry, — "Went to Belvoir with 
Mrs. Washington and dined." The 
two houses were not over four or 
five miles from each other by the 
road, and by water they were little 
over two miles apart. Hardly a 
week passed without some inter- 
course between the two families, 
and during this period Fairfax was 
Washington's most intimate friend. 
This same diary in which Washing- 
ton set down the daily round of his 
occupations and happenings enables 
us to guess what his neighbors were 
doing. The outward tenor of all 

their lives was the same. What 
Washington did one day, Mr. Ma- 
son or Mr. Fairfax was likely to be 
doing the next. 

Thus we find that one day Wash- 

"planted out twenty young pine trees at 
the head of my cherry walk. Received my 
goods from York. Hauled the sein again, 
catched two or three white fish, more 
herring than yesterday and a great num- 
ber of Cats. Made another plow, the same 
as my former one, except that it has two 
eyes and the other one." 

A day or two later : 

"The heavy rains that had fallen in these 
few days past made the ground too wet 
for plowing. I therefore set about the 
fence which encloses my clover field." 

On another day : 

"Visited my plantations and found the 
new negro Cupid ill of a pleurisy at Doeg 
Run Quarter, and had him brought to 
the house in a cart for better care of him. 

"Mr. Carlyle and his wife still remain- 
ing here, we talked a good deal of a scheme 
of setting up iron works on Colo. Fairfax's 
land on Shenandoah. 

"Finished threshing and cleaning my 
wjieat at Doeg Run Plantn. 

"Began shearing my sheep. 

"Cold northerly wind. Colo. Fairfax 
and I set out (for the Court House in 
Alexandria) to settle and adjust Clifton 
and Darrell's accounts, conformably to the 
decree of our General Court." 

The Referees found it more con- 
venient to hold subsequent sessions 
at their respective houses, and — 

"according to appointment Colo. Fairfax 
and Mr. Green met here upon Clifton's 
Affair, he being present, as was Mr. Thomp- 
son Mason, as counsel for him * * * 
others left at six, but Colo. Fairfax and 
Mr. Green stayed the night." 

Other entries tell of occasional re- 
laxations : 

"Went fox hunting with Colo. Fairfax, 
Captn. McCarthy, Mr. Chichester, Posey, 
Ellzey and Manley, who dined here with 
Mrs. Fairfax and Miss Nicholas. 

"Went to x\lexandria to see Captn. Little- 
dale's ship launched, which went off ex- 
tremely well. 



"Went fishing in Broad Creek. 

"With Mrs. Washington and ye two 
childn. went up to Alexandria to see In- 
constant or the way to win him" (played.) 

So the years went busily and hap- 
pily by, with little heed to occasion- 
al ominous political rumblings. In 
1768 Fairfax was made a member of 
the Council, or upper house of legis- 
lature. He had some years before 
this served a term as Burgess. 
Washington represented Fairfax 
County in the Flouse of Burgesses 
from 1764 to the meeting of the 
First Continental Congress, so the 
two were frequently in Williams- 
burg together during the last years 
of the colonial government. 

In 1773, through the death of his 
father's brother, Mr. Fairfax inherit- 
ed some property in Yorkshire and 
found it necessary to make another 
voyage to England. As his stay was 
to be of several years' duration, Bel- 
voir was offered for lease. The ad- 
vertisement describing its "beautiful 
site," its "mansion house all brick," 
its "large and well furnished garden 
stored with a great variety of valu- 
able fruits" and its "valuable fisher- 
ies" may still be read in the faded 
columns of the Virginia Gazette. 
Washington undertook in his ab- 
sence to "perform the duties of a 
friend by having an eye to the con- 
duct of your Collector and steward." 

Fairfax never returned to Virgin- 
ia. Indeed he was hardly settled in 
his Yorkshire home when the un- 
happy dispute between the two 
great branches of the English race 
passed into a conflict at arms. There 
was little for him to do but to re- 
main where he was. With his many 
English connections, and attached 
to England as he was from his many 
visits there, he would probably not 
in any event have taken an active 
part in a war against her authority. 

Flad he been in Virginia when hos- 
tilities broke out, he would doubt- 
less have remained there, a pained 
and inactive spectator of events, 
sympathizing in a measure with 
each party. Another Member of 
the Council, who was confined for 
his loyalty by the Virginia Conven- 
tion, — Ralph Wormeley of "Rose- 
gill" — expressed what must have 
been the attitude of many whom 
their contemporaries called Tories, 
when he set out in a petition which 
he presented to the Convention, 

"that he had from the origin of the un- 
happy contest disclaimed the right of taxa- 
tion in the British Parliament, but that it 
was his great misfortune to differ in senti- 
ment from the mode adopted to obtain a 
renunciation of that unconstitutional claim." 

It is hardly accurate though to 
call George William Fairfax a loyal- 
ist. Living in England where the 
war naturally aroused much bitter 
feeling against the Americans, his 
sympathies seem throughout to 
have been with his friends in Vir- 
ginia. When he heard that John 
Randolph, Attorney General of the 
Colony, had come to England after 
the breaking out of hostilities, he 
writes to his informant that he was 
"never more astonished" and fears 
it "bodes no good to his country," 
and, "I should not be surprised if I 
should see in the papers his appoint- 
ment to some lucrative place here." 
The suspicion was unjust to that 
unfortunate loyal gentleman, who 
lived and died in obscurity in Eng- 
land, leaving the last request that 
his body should be carried over the 
ocean and buried in his native colo- 

The rest of the letter reveals in a 
measure Mr. Fairfax's views on the 
struggle in progress and is worth 



"I cannot really believe that the Ministry 
will be able to get 50,000 men landed in 
America (as his correspondent had heard 
was planned) or that the commissioners 
will do anything effectual unless they are 
allowed to treat with the Continental Con- 
gress. They may indeed protract matters 
and enrich themselves with the overflow of 
your T— y, but I expect very little national 
advantage from their negotiations. How- 
ever I do most sincerely and heartily wish 
that I may be mistaken and that the com- 
missioners may obtain peace and tranquil- 
lity through the British dominions, though 
from letters lately received from G. W — 
I must agree with you that there is little 
prospect of so happy an event. Sad re- 
flections for me, my good sir, whose chief 
resources are now cut off and forced to 
contract his living to the small income he 
has here" * * * 

The letter was written shortly af- 
ter the evacuation of Boston by the 
British. Lord Howe and General 
Howe had been appointed members 
of a commission to treat with the 
colonists, but without authority to 
recognize the Congress. The time 
had probably gone by when an ac- 
commodation of any kind could be 
effected, but the mode suggested in 
this letter, — recognition of Congress, 
and an adjustment of difficulties 
through it, — was surely the one 
course which presented any hope of 

Washington had now an oppor- 
tunity of repaying the debt of grati- 
tude which he felt he owed the Fair- 
fax family for his early advance- 
ment; and he did it with ample in- 
terest. His services in protecting 
the aged Lord Fairfax in the enjoy- 
ment of his property brought from 
the latter at his home at Greenway 
Court a touching letter of acknowl- 
edgement. When Bryan Fairfax, 
the brother of George William, in 
the middle of the war, determined to 
go to England, he furnished him 
with a safe conduct to the British 
lines at New York, but Bryan Fair- 

fax found the oath prescribed for 
loyalists by the British General was 
so strict that he preferred not to 
take it and returned to his home in 
Alexandria. When a project was on 
foot in the Virginia legislature to 
sequester the estate of George Wil- 
liam Fairfax, he wrote to a friend in 
that body : — 

"I hope, I trust, that no act of legislation 
in the State of Virginia has affected or 
can affect the property of this gentleman 
otherwise than in common with that of 
every good and well disposed citizen of 

and the knowledge of his disapprov- 
al was enough to prevent the plan 
from being carried farther. He 
could not, of course, act any longer 
as the agent of his friend when he 
was compelled to entrust his own 
affairs to the care of others. And 
like all persons residing in England 
to whom American debts were ow- 
ing, Fairfax found that his remit- 
tances ceased during the war. 

In spite of hostilities, Washington 
found opportunity to write to Fair- 
fax occasionally during the years 
1775 and 1776. The tone of his let- 
ters shows that he counted upon the 
latter's sympathy with the Ameri- 
can cause. Thus he took care that 
Fairfax should have the American 
as well as the British account of 
Lexington, concluding his letter in 
a strain of passion unusual for him : 

"unhappy it is, though, to reflect that a 
brother's sword has been sheathed in a 
brothers breast, and that the once happy 
and peaceful plains of America are either 
to be drenched with blood or inhabited by 
slaves Sad alternative ! But can a virtuous 
man hesitate in his choice." 

A little later he communicated 
the news of his appointment to the 
command of the Continental Army 
and gave an American version of 
Bunker Hill. After this there seems 



to have been no correspondence be- 
tween the two for several years. 
The reports he had from Virginia 
of the neglected condition of Belvoir 
induced Washington to write again 
in 1780. 

Archdeacon Burnaby, who knew 
Mr. Fairfax, adds a few details of 
his life in England during the war. 
He says : 

"During the ten years' contest, the con- 
sequences of which Mr. Fairfax early fore- 
saw and lamented, his estates in Virginia 
were sequestered and he received no re- 
mittances from his extensive property. 
This induced him to move out of York- 
shire, to lay down his carriages and retire 
to Bath, where he lived in a private but 
genteel manner, and confined his expenses 
so much within the income of his English 
estate that he was able occasionally to lend 
large sums of money to the government 
agent for the use and benefit of American 

Just before the war ended Bel- 
voir was burned to the ground; and 
Fairfax gave up all thought of re- 
turning to his Virginia home. 

With the return of peace the old 
correspondence was renewed, and 
Washington's letters show the 
strong attachment he still felt for 
the friend of his youth. In a letter 
from New York, after its evacua- 
tion by the British Army, he says : 

"There was nothing wanting in (your) 
letter to give compleat satisfaction to Mrs. 
Washington and myself but some expres- 
sion to induce us to believe that you would 
once more become our neighbors. Your 
house at Belvoir, I am sorry to add, is no 
more, but mine (which is enlarged since 
you saw it), is most sincerely and heartily 
at your service till you could rebuild it. 
As the path after being closed by a long, 
arduous and painful contest, is, to use an 
Indian metaphor, now opened and made 
smooth, I shall please myself with the hope 
of hearing from you frequently, and till 
you forbid me to indulge the wish, I shall 
not despair of seeing you and Mrs. Fair- 
fax once more the inhabitants of Belvoir 
and greeting you both there the intimate 
companions of our old age, as you have 
been of our younger years." 

In another letter written at Mount 
Vernon in that peaceful interval of 
retirement between the resignation 
of his commission and his election 
as President, Washington says : 

"Though envy is no part of my compo- 
sition, yet the picture you have drawn of 
your present habitation and mode of liv- 
ing is enough to create in me a strong desire 
to be a participator in the tranquillity and 
rural amusements you have described. I 
am getting into the latter as fast as I can, 
being determined to make the remainder 
of my life easy, let the world or the affairs 
of it go as they may. I am not a little 
obliged to you for the assurance of con- 
tributing to this last by procuring me a 
buck and doe of the best English deer 
* * * My manner of living is plain. I 
do not mean to be put out of it. A glass 
of wine and a bit of mutton are always 
ready, and such as will be content to par- 
take of that are always welcome. - ' * * * 

Mr. Fairfax's health had been fail- 
ing for several years and in 1787 he 
died. Mrs. Fairfax survived him 
until 181 1. He left no children, and 
the estate passed by his will to the 
son of his brother Bryan. Belvoir 
was never re-built. 

We know that agriculture upon a 
large scale became singularly un- 
profitable in tidewater Virginia to- 
ward the close of the Eighteenth 
Century, and that old society of 
landed gentry which had flourished 
there and which made the name of 
Virginia famous, suffered ship- 
wreck. John Randolph said it was 
dead by the year 1800. Just what 
caused the catastrophe, nobody has 
satisfactorily explained. The ex- 
haustion of the soil, to which it is 
sometimes ascribed, may have been 
an element, though agricultural 
chemists of the present day are scep- 
tical of the final and permanent ex- 
haustion of any soil. The same 
estates had stood the drain of tobacco 
growing for a long period before the 
downfall, and at no time were the 



planters who lived upon them more 
prosperous than before ruin came 
upon them. Perhaps some deep- 
seated economic change, consequent 
upon the opening up of the Western 
prairies, contributed, though it could 
hardly have originated the disaster. 

But the Revolution itself, and the 
democratic legislation which Jef- 
ferson carried triumphantly through 
the Virginia legislature must have 
had a large share in bringing about 
the result. The war cut off entirely 
for eight years the principal market 
for Virginia tobacco. The long set- 
tled connections between the plant- 
ers and their English factors and 
mercantile agents were broken up, 
and were never re-established. 
When peace came, the planters 
found, perhaps to their surprise, that 
the freedom of trade with all the 
world which they had gained, did 
not compensate them for the loss of 
the practical monopoly of the 
British tobacco market, which the 
legislation of the mother country 
had secured to them. 

During the war the system of en- 
tails by which estates had been kept 
together from generation to gener- 
ation in the hands of the same fami- 
lies, was abolished, and the present 
system of fee simple holdings es- 
tablished. And for primogeniture 
had been substituted the more equi- 
table system of an equal division 
among the surviving heirs. Such 
changes were no doubt inevitable 
under the conditions of modern 
American civilization, but they told 
against the permanence of a society 
which had been founded upon a dif- 
ferent basis. The system of entails 
kept the capital of the colony in a 
few hands. The profitable applica- 
tion of slave labor to the production 
of a crop like tobacco required both 
capital and a large scale of opera- 

tions. With the splitting up of es- 
tates the individual holdings became 
smaller, the slaves fewer, and the 
margin of profit inadequate to sup- 
port any but those who worked with 
their own hands. 

But whatever the cause there can 
be no doubt of the fact. Randolph 
writing to Francis Scott Key in 
1814, says: 

"What a spectacle does our lower country 
present. Deserted and dismantled country 
houses, once seats of cheerfulness and 
plenty, and the temples of the Most High 
ruinous and desolate." 

And Bishop Meade, who travelled 
extensively throughout the old tide- 
water country a few years later, de- 
scribes it as almost a desert. 

As it was elsewhere in the lower 
counties, so it was in the neighbor- 
hood we have been describing. 
Washington bequeathed the 2000 
acres of his estate which adjoined 
Belvoir to his nephew Maj. Law- 
rence Lewis, and to Nellie Custis 
who had married Lewis. Together 
they built there the noble brick man- 
sion of "Woodlawn." Lewis had for 
some years been the manager of 
Washington's farm, and the latter 
thought highly of his business capa- 
city. Yet after years of unremuner- 
ative effort, Maj. Lewis and his 
wife simply abandoned house and 
estate and moved westward to an- 
other property in the Shenandoah 
Valley. Mount Vernon itself, and 
the bulk of the estate, as is well 
known, were devised to Judge Bush- 
rod Washington, who was certainly 
neither improvident nor careless in 
his management of it; yet he also 
found the prevailing conditions too 
adverse to cope with successfully. 
By 1854 it is said there were but 
three white families living upon the 
whole of the 8000 acres which the 
Mount Vernon tract comprised in 
1799. Broom sedge and pine bar- 



rens covered what in Washington's 
day had been cultivated fields. Al- 
most as sad a fate overtook the no- 
ble estate of Gunston Hall, though 
George Mason left behind him 
capable and energetic sons who 
strove hard to maintain the pros- 
perity of their ancestral home. 

Under such conditions the culti- 
vated fields of Belvoir gradually 
lapsed again into forest land, and be- 
fore the Civil War the estate became 
the property of a retired Washington 
butcher, whose descendants still 
own it though they have never lived 
upon it. Of its 2000 acres a clear- 
ing of perhaps 150 lying around one 
of the tenements of the old estate 
is still cultivated. Here and there, 
through the rest of it, timber is oc- 
casionally cut into firewood, and in 
the autumn the boys and young men 
of the country find the shooting on 
the peninsula excellent. 

Close to the bluff there is a little 
opening in the forest and the sun- 

light peeps through. Here one may 
find five or six little mounds of 
grass-covered brick, a well filled al- 
most to the surface with earth, the 
remains of an extensive cellar, a few 
worn-out cherry and pear trees, long 
since past bearing, and, mingled 
with the grass around, "a host of 
golden daffodils," descendants of 
those which a century and a half ago 
bloomed in Mrs. Fairfax's garden. 
Through the trees to the northward, 
one catches a glimpse of the wooded 
slope of Mount Vernon ; and the 
obvious contrast is suggested of the 
different fates of the homes of these 
two friends; — one a shrine of pil- 
grimage for the world, the other a 
forgotten ruin. One brings to mind 
the vision of the mighty America 
which worships there ; the other 
that "extinct race of country gentle- 
men" whose homes once adorned 
the banks of the Potomac, the Rap- 
pahannock and the James. 

Heirs of God 

By Burton Ives 

Life is God's legacy. Joint heirs are we 

To vast creation's limitless estate ; 
Ours are the treasures of the land and sea, 

And ours the boundless unpaid wealth of fate. 

And out of the great fortune that is ours, 

Grim Time, the trustee, pays us, one by one, 

The golden days of labor, love, and flowers, 

Which, well or ill, we spend 'tween sun and sun. 

The Whistler Memorial Exhibition 

By Maurice Baldwin 

TAKING the first night of the 
opening of the Whistler Show, 
held in Copley and Allston 
Halls in Boston, during February 
and March, as a foundation for a 
study of the exhibition, it must be 
admitted that on that occasion the 
people who had come to see the 
works of this dead, great, and little- 
understood painter of pictures 
formed the most interesting feature 
of the evening. 

These twelve or fifteen hundred 
holders of special tickets set the 
rank of those to whom Whistler's 
art makes its appeal, and that the 
quality of appreciation was both 
high and rich may be gathered from 
the character of those who made up 
that first collection of visitors. 

During March the Automobile 
Show in Symphony and Horticul- 
tural Halls drew, on the first night, 
eight thousand people. Automo- 
biles and Whistler are the fashion, 
and very much else, as well; and 
both, during these exhibitions at- 
tracted the same two classes of peo- 
ple — those who understood fine 
workmanship and high inventive 
genius, and those who can afford to 
own the products of special and 
great skill. 

After these two classes follow, of 
course, the sheep — that amiable and 
facile-minded multitude who gave to 
fads and fashions and follies the 
strength of numbers. 

Boston society, with no small 
abetment from the best of other 


cities, set the seal of its interest 
and approval upon the Whistler 
Show on its initial night. As nearly 
as might be, those whose names may 
directly or indirectly, be traced back 
to the passenger list of the May- 
flower, were present on this occas- 
ion. Boston's Smart Set is very 
much more than an aggregation of 
fashionables. Its erudition, its in- 
terest in and understanding of the 
greater things of life, art, philoso- 
phy, literature, music is sincere and 
genuine. In spite of its politics and 
its city council, Boston is still a city 
where great social distinction and in- 
tellectual distinction are reasonably 
compatible terms. 

During the days that followed, the 
"attendance at the exhibition, both 
day and night, and on Sundays, was 
large and appreciative. People 
came from El Paso, Texas. Or- 
lando, Florida, and way stations, to 
view Whistler's "Nocturnes" and 
etchings. Boston for a time, as on 
many previous occasions for other 
reasons, became a Mecca. Student 
bodies from the art schools of other 
cities visited the galleries. Artists 
from everywhere made definite their 
appreciations and doubts. Teachers, 
school boys and girls, college pro- 
fessors, business men, actors and 
politicans, Christian Scientists and 
Socialists, Russians and Japanese 
formed part of the heterogeneous 
stream of interested humanity that 
attended the show. In the low hum 
of comment and conversation before 


the pictures could be discerned the 
drawl of the West, the lilt of the 
South, the patois of the East. The 
railroads might easily have made the 
Whistler Show an excuse for re- 
duced rates. On Thursdays tea 
was served by prominent society 
women. A Boston paper referred to 
it editorially as an affair of both nat- 
ional and international importance 
— the exhibition. The Copley So- 

ciety, under whose auspices the ex- 
hibition was held, very justly bene- 
fited greatly, financially and other- 
wise, by the event. 

If one's sense of humor be some- 
what stirred by the pious serious- 
ness with which Boston took this 
chief exhibition of the year the 
event itself does not suffer either in 
dignity or importance. Both as a 
memorial to a great American artist 




and as an exhibition of art the affair 
was of unusual distinction and 
value. As a recognition of the 
genius of Whistler this gathering to- 
gether from all parts of the world 
of so large a number of his works 
was an extraordinary testimonial of 
appreciation, only worthy of the 
very great. Whistler's fame will 

It was one of Whistler's insistent 
ideas in his own exhibitions in Lon- 
don, that the exhibition itself should 
possess a decorative character — that 
is, that the display of his works, 
whether paintings or prints, should 
have a definitely complementary set- 
ting. He proposed that the effect of 
his paintings should gain from the 

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not suffer after the exuberance and 
over-praise have subsided, for both 
the artist and his art have entered 
the eternal life. This exhibition 
alone places Boston in the same 
rank as an art center in America, 
that London holds in England and 
Paris in Europe. 

environment of their frames — that 
the whole exhibition should, in a 
sense, be a Whistler picture. How- 
ever one may question the entire 
wisdom or right of an artist to de- 
pend upon the surroundings of his 
work for the enhancement of its 
artistic qualities there can be no 




doubt that a certain consistency and, 
consequently, benefit is to be gained 
by a regard for the secondary con- 
siderations of arrangement and 

In preparing Copley and Allston 
Halls for the exhibition the com- 
mittee in charge endeavored to pro- 
vide a decorative scheme which 
should follow as closely as might 
be the ideas and preferences of the 
artist. Certainly the result was an 
effective and beautiful one. The en- 
tire interiors were repainted, re- 
papered, and redecorated. In Cop- 
ley Hall a very beautiful pearly-gray 
grass cloth of Japanese manufacture 
covered the walls. A few Japanese 
brasses, woodcarvings, gilded stucco 
wreaths, a number of bay trees and 

small decorative shrubs relieved the 
long lines of the hall. A wall with 
wide arched doors was placed across 
the stage to which a circle of steps 
led, thus making a small room in 
which some original pencil sketches 
and studies were hung. This room, 
brilliantly lighted, was covered with 
a warm straw-colored grass cloth, 
and seen through the two doors 
from the main entrance saved the 
larger hall from a gray monotony. 
Between these two doors hung "The 
Princess du Pays de la Porcelaine," 
one of the most brilliantly colored, 
as well as beautiful, of the paintings. 
Opposite it, upon the screen at the 
entrance to the hall, was the famous 
"White Girl." Two small alcoves 
enclosed small marines and street 
scenes, and a number of lithographs 
made in Whistler's youthful days. 

On the two long walls hung about 
a hundred of the chief oil paintings 
of the artist. It is unlikely that 
there will ever be another exhibition 
of Whistler's works so comprehen- 
sive and extensive as was this. The 
collection contained about one hun- 
dred and fifty oils, water-colors, and 
pastels; about two hundred and 
twenty-five etchings; and a large 
collection of lithographs and draw- 
ings. "The good and the bad, the 
worst and the best" of the painter's 
work were here. The exhibition was 
Whistler's artistic autobiography, 
the unqualified truth of his weak- 
ness and his strength, his failures 
and successes, his whims and phan- 
tasies, his triumphs. Its very hu- 
manity enobled it; its uneven merit 
was one of its charms; its greatness 
explained the failures. 

And now before discussing what 
Whistler was as an artist let us con- 
sider some of the things he was not, 
for upon these latter points have 
been built up a structure of adverse 



criticism and misunderstanding as 
unjust as it is ridiculous. 

One of the most common expres- 
sions heard during the exhibition, 
and which was made by quite intel- 
ligent and often highly cultivated 
people, was that "Whistler's por- 
traits don't look like anybody." 
Well, why should they? Yielding 
to the importunities of insistent 
friends, sometimes under pressure 
of circumstances. Whistler occa- 
sionally painted pictures in which 
his sitter played a part. The only 
satisfaction to the vanity of the sub- 
ject lay in having one of Whistler's 
pictures named after him and in pay- 
ing for the honor. The police force 
would have found Whistler's por- 
traits, with three or four exceptions, 
useless as means of identification. 
In the first place Whistler was not 
a portrait painter and didn't want to 
be one. When he painted the three 
or four exceptions referred to they 
were simple tours-de-force — b oasts 
merely to show what he could do if 
he tried. And as portraits and 
boasts, his paintings of his "Moth- 
er," "Thomas Carlyle," "The Black- 
smith," and the "Little Rose" are 
perfect. Having proved that his 
style of art was elective and not a 
limitation, he proceeded to follow 
his bent. 

Out of every hundred persons who 
have the vanity and the money to 
Tiave their portraits painted there 
is not more than one who is worth 
painting. The domain of art is 
Beauty — it has no other reason for 
existence and needs none. Apart 
from their possible historical sig- 
nificance, portraits, with one excep- 
tional consideration, are of no earth- 
ly value. Great art may save them 
from being tiresome, but in these 
cases it is the art and not the per- 
sons portrayed that makes the paint- 

ings worth the space they take. 
Photography is the proper resort of 
those who wish their features per- 
petuated. There is a place for 
miniatures if the subject be worthy. 
The only excuse for a portrait is the 
call of love for an enduring present- 
ment — which time may not mutilate 
nor custom stale — of someone dear. 
And because true love — deep love — ■ 
would not vaunt itself and its ten- 
derness to the world, neither should 
the portrait, the symbol of an idol, 
be much larger than the heart in 
which, like a secret shrine, its wor- 
ship burns. 

But for the thousands of paint- 
ings of smug aldermen, financiers, 
and fat ladies, there is really no 
place in art. High technical skill 




may save one from becoming sick 
at the sight of them, but beauty 
alone remains the purpose and the 
true goal of art. 

And so thought Whistler. He en- 
tered fully into that reserve which 
is a characteristic of Japanese art, 
which he greatly admired and was 
influenced by — the disinclination to 
use the human form and face in any- 
other way than as part of a decora- 

dreamer, nature provides no more 
than a stone from which to spring 
into flight. The uplift of wings 
takes him who soars further away 
from the earth from whence he 
sprung: its facts of sea and land, of 
rock and tree, of life and death, be- 
come spiritualized and changed to 
something other than they are in the 
pure ether of the altitudes, and it is 
this illusion which alone gives to a 

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tive intention. The expression of 
beauty in color is the total of what 
Whistler strove for in his art. The 
expression of those phases of 
beauty in color which made a special 
appeal to his imagination was the 
end to which he bent all his energies 
and the subtleties of his genius. 
Whistler was a colorist, a poet of 
the brush, a musician in tint , a 
dreamer of irridescences and designs. 
To the true artist, poet, musician, or 

poem or picture or a song its beauty, 
which is its soul. 

In his so-called portraits, then, 
and indeed in nearly all of the paint- 
ings executed in Whistler's best 
manner, there is evident no other 
intention than the interpretation of 
the beauty of color as he chose to 
see it. To him subject was inci- 
dental, very often accidental, serv- 
ing no more than as a spur in the 
side of his intent, an excitant to an 



emotion which could only find ex- 
pression in a tonal harmony, a re- 
lation of values depending only up- 
on their truth for their beauty. 
Whistler clothed nearly all of his 
themes in a rich and subtle glamour 
— the mist of dreams. His pictures 
might have suggested these lines 
from a forgotten poet : 

Every thought has a hue — 
Red or blue, 

Black and Brown" ; the uninterest- 
ing "Comte Robert of Montesquiou- 
Fezensac" and more uninteresting 
"Arthur J. Eddy"; the "Sarasate," 
full of distinction ; the portrait of 
Miss Cassett; "The Andalusian," a 
beautiful study, in dark grays, of a 
Spanish woman with back turned to 
the beholder, a cheek showing over 
the shoulder. 

In none of these paintings was 


There are atoms of perfume 

In gloom ; 

There are colors heard when sleeping, 

There is music seen when weeping, 

There are concerts vague of tune 

In the moon. 

To finish with the portraits, those 
shown in this exhibition include 
"The Fur Jacket," one of the most 
appealing and exquisite of the full 
length studies, holding in its vague 
outlines and the delicate flesh tones 
of the face a rare and tender charm ; 
the finely posed and effective "Miss 
Rose Corder," an "Arrangement in 

perceptible any of the oriental feel- 
ing that pervades many of Whist- 
ler's smaller figure studies. And in 
none of them was apparent much of 
the Velasquez quality which some 
have claimed to have perceived in 
them. Whistler's fastidious, sensi- 
tive genius seems quite another 
thing than that of Velasquez. 

"The Symphony in White — The 
Little White Girl," with its dainty 
Japanese treatment of accessories 
seemed to be the apogee of Whist- 
ler's delicate and exquisite taste. 


There is drawing enough in this per- 
fect and lovely thing to satisfy the 
most exacting realist, but it was not 
of the drawing that one thought in 
contemplating this masterpiece so 
filled with the white charm of in- 
nocency and youth. It seemed a 
maiden-soul — almost without the 
clay, so radiant and sweet and pure 
it is. 

Near this painting hung a famous 
and especially delightful group of 
five decorative studies very Japanese 

in arrangement and treatment — the 
"Symphony in White and Red/' 
"Venus," "Symphony in Green and 
Violet," "Symphony in Blue and 
Green," and "Variations in Blue and 
Green." Their delicacy of color and 
the illusive grace of their drawing 
made them of especial note. 

On the western wall of Copley 
Hall hung the final utterances of 
Whistler's art — the incomparable 
"Nocturnes." These supreme paint- 
ings embodied all the refinement, 



poetry, feeling, insight, and manual 
■dexterity of the painter's life as an 
artist. Flawless, marvelous, spirit- 
ualized twilight and darkness — it is 
"hard to describe the beauty which 
seems to- be diffused from these 
splendid canvasses. Their techni- 
-cal simplicity is not the least won- 
derful thing about them. In these 
are particularly noticeable a fine 
poetized glamour — the wistful in- 
tangible grace of hidden things — the 
"witcheries and mysteries of night. 
No other artist has ever expressed 

the sweet still hush of eventide so 
exquisitely or so simply. In gazing 
upon them the observer slowly felt 
the sober pensive loveliness of dusk 
and dreams stealing over him. As 
someone said, "a moment more and 
one might expect the stars to break 
through the deep velvety skies, and 
to see their reflections in the placid 
waters." It is useless to attempt in 
words to convey an idea of their 
memory-haunting loveliness. 

Their names describe them as well 
as may be. Three in "Blue and 


Silver — Bognor — Battersea, and 
Cremorne Lights," Nocturne in 
"Black and Gold — The Falling 
Rocket," "Nocturne — Southamp- 
ton," and the rest of the group ;per- 
fect in their expression of night's 
elusive enchantments. 

With these more important works 
to which only the briefest reference 
has been possible were numerous 
small paintings of figures, street 
scenes, landscapes and the sea. 

These "bits" were in quality and* 
character equal in every way to the 
more pretentious canvasses. In 
them the sensitive color feeling pre- 
dominated and made each a gem — 
precious miniatures of flower-like 
perfection. Looking at these tiny 
paintings one realizes that Whistler 
had no disdain for an illustrative 
value when it did not intrude upon 
the color quality which he desired' 
to retain. 




Of the large number of etchings 
and other studies which rilled All- 
ston Hall nothing need be said. 
Whistler's fame as an etcher was 
made permanent years ago. Even 
in these his passion for color gives 
them a unique character. 

Great as is Whistler's contribu- 
tion to the beautiful paintings of the 
world his gift to the knowledge of 
art is greater. His insight as to the 

relations of values and his acute 
perception and taste in color will 
long possess a wealth of suggestion 
and instruction for artists to come. 
When the foolishness of faddism has 
passed away Whistler's paintings 
will take their just place among the 
great art treasures of the world and 
Whistler's name will be found 
among the names of the masters. 

Abby Sophia's Legacy 

By Harriet A. Nash 

^T COME right over just as 
X soon as I heard," declared 
Mrs. Foster, seating herself 
in the large rocker. " 'Twas dret- 
ful sudden, wasn't it?" 

"Sudden at the last," agreed her 
hostess, a tall thin woman, whose 
gingham wrapper hung limply about 
her, and who seemed to radiate an 
atmosphere of overwork. She hung 
a huge brass kettle upon the crane 
as she answered and added a stick 
to the fire beneath it. 

There were five neighbors sitting 
about the room before Mrs. Foster's 
arrival, but Mrs. Merritt had mourn- 
fully assured each and all of them 
that "there wasn't a thing they could 

"I was settin' in front of the fire- 
place piecin' a quilt," explained the 
newcomer, "when all to once there 
come the awfullest bell in my left 
ear. I clapped my hand up to my 
head and says I, 'AVhat poor creat- 
ure's dead now?' 'Twasn't half an 
hour before 'Lisha come in with the 
news. 'Poor Abigail Merritt's gone 
at last,' says he." 

A counterpart of the thin woman 
before the fireplace came softly 
through the stairway door, a huge 
armful of clothing almost conceal- 
ing her face. 

"How d' you do Mis' Foster," she 
said in a subdued tone. "You heard 
poor Abigail was gone, I s'pose? 
Well she's been a poor sufferin* 
soul and I for one can't wish her 
back." The six neighbors cast 
some significant glances toward one 
another. They had often expressed 
sympathy for Eleazer Merritt in his 
peculiarly assorted household, which 
had included, besides two maiden 
sisters of his wife, his own widowed 
sister, the fretful invalid just gone 
from earth. The fact that the de- 
ceased woman possessed a substan- 
tial property left her by her hus- 
band, while the "Simmons girls" 
were dependent upon their brother- 
in-law, was not believed to add to 
the household harmony. 

"I wonder'f she left a will," sug- 
gested Mrs. Foster. 



A nearer neighbor nodded with 
some importance. "Ezry'n I wit- 
nessed it," she explained. But 
when further pressed for particu- 
lars as to its contents, she was 
obliged to admit that she did not 

Sophia Simmons having deposited 
her load upon the wooden settle, 
came back to seat herself among the 

"I s'pose you've heard about the 
will," she began. "It seemed kind of 
unchristian to open it before the fu- 
neral, but we knew she'd left direc- 
tions as to just what she wanted 
done, so we had to. It'll be a pretty 
lifeless affair with neither singin' 
nor flowers, I'm thinkin', but them's 
her own wishes. Abigail was 
naturally of a gloomy turn of mind 
and her trouble aggrevated it, poor 

"She'n Henry never spoke after 
they separated, did they?" ques- 
tioned a neighbor. 

"Never. She always blamed his 
folks for that. He sent for her when 
he was dyin' but she didn't get 
there till it was too late. I always 
thought it showed a good disposition 
in Henry Clark to leave her all his 
property after all. But she was 
terrible sparin' in the use of it, as if 
she begrudged bein' beholden to 
him. And Oak Hill's never been 
lived in from that day to this." 

"I supposed," suggested an inter- 
ested neighbor, "that Abigail would 
naturally leave Oak Hill back to the 

Sophia Simmons shook her head 
with some importance. "The Clarks 
hadn't any claim to it," she said 
shortly. "Henry made his money 
himself in Californy and if he'd 
wanted them to have it it stands to 
reason he'd said so. She willed — " 

The busy hostess turned from her 

dye kettle. The little flush upon 
her thin cheek betokened that she 
knew what privileges were hers by 
right. "She left Oak Hill to Abby 
Sophia," she announced. 

A little figure uncurled itself from 
the settle in a shadowy corner. 

"Who, me, ma?" she inquired 
amid a chorus of interested excla- 

"I didn't know you was there 
child," replied her mother shortly, 
as she resumed her work, but Sophia 
Simmons continued. 

"Yes, you. How do you suppose 
you'll feel to be sole mistress and 
owner of Oak Hill? You'll have to 
be an awful good girl to deserve 
such a piece of luck. There's a con- 
dition to it though which you'll do 
well to remember. There's Merritt 
enough about you to make you go 
contrary to your Aunt's will after 

"Sophia !" interrupted Mrs. Mer- 
ritt sharply, but her sister continued, 
addressing the guests : "Oak Hill 
is left to Abigail Sophia so long as 
she don't marry one of Alexander 
Clarkses boys," she explained. 
"You hear now, child." 

A subdued laugh, quickly checked, 
ran around the room, while the little 
girl, uneasily conscious that she had 
suddenly become an object of in- 
terest, retreated to the window. 
Mrs. Merritt stirred the black dye 
with an offended air. 

"Abigail meant well by the child, 
no doubt," she admitted, "but I 
sh'd rather she'd left the property 
elsewhere than had foolish notions 
put into her head too young." 

There was a sound of wheels in 
the dooryard, a bustle in the side 
entry, and the third Simmons sister 
entered the great kitchen, loaded 
with boxes and bundles. Sophia 
turned eager attention to the various 



packages while the new arrival re- 
moved her bonnet and greeted the 
guests in decorous tones, in keeping 
with the near presence of death. 

"I've been out to the village bor- 
rowing mourning," she announced. 
" 'Lizy bein' naturally forehanded 
has had hers all ready for months, 
but Sophia and I don't calculate to 
mourn after the funeral, and so 
long's Lizy's got the children's sum- 
mer things all made up she ain't cal- 
culatin' to put any of them but Abby 
Sophia into black for good. She 
wouldn't her but for the will. 
You've all heard, of course? So I 
borrowed for the two oldest girls 
and Viry Ann and the baby. I got 
Mis' Judge Haskell's best crape for 
me, Sophy, and her second best for 
you. The children's things I had 
to pick up around, a bonnet here 
and a cape there. They say it's 
goin' out of style for children to 

Eight heads clustered about the 
table where Sophia was critically 
inspecting the borrowed raiment. 
Mrs. Merritt with the air of one who 
has no time to w^aste upon trifles 
gave close attention to the contents 
of the brass kettle. 

: ' 'Lizy's terrible put out at flavin' 
to color today," the eldest Miss Sim- 
mons whispered to a neighbor. 
"She makes it the pride of her life 
to be forehanded in everything, but 
she got belated this time owin' to 
her never dreamin' how the will 

Abigail Sophia from her window, 
watched her mother with fascinated 
eyes. Her ten year old brain was 
sadly perplexed with events of the 
past few hours, since she had 
awakened to find herself elevated to 
a position of importance, which, as 
third of her father's five daughters, 
she had not previously occupied in 

the household estimation. Now, 
had come this new piece of informa- 
tion. She was the owner of Oak 
Hill, and in order to retain it she 
must remember never to marry any 
of the Clark boys. Abby Sophia 
had long since determined not to re- 
main single and follow in the foot- 
steps of her maternal aunts, but 
further than that her matrimonial 
plans were all unformed. Aunt 
Abigail need not have worried about 
the Clark boys ; for her niece was 
deeply in terror of Tom and Silas r 
who were among the dreaded "big 
boys" of her school, and Henry was 
only a little boy. It became evident 
to Abby Sophia, sitting thoughtful- 
ly in the south window, that when 
she married, her choice would be a 
gentleman, like Elder Spooner or 
Dr. Drake. 

At that moment Mrs. Merritt 
lifted Abby Sophia's best red cash- 
mere dress and plunged it into the 
kettle of boiling dye; it came up a 
moment later, a dripping black 
. mass, which the child regarded with 
swelling heart. Oak Hill with its 
great house and wide gardens over- 
grown now with neglected shrub- 
bery, was a very poor substitute at 
this moment for her beautiful dress ; 
but remonstrance she knew was use- 
less. Tears blinded her eyes as she 
turned to look far down the road to 
the schoolhouse where her sisters 
had been sent as usual. 

"Mother," she petitioned restless- 
ly. "Can't I go out in the yard a 
little while?" Mrs. Merritt looked 

"I don't care — " she began, but 
the eldest Miss Simmons inter- 
rupted. "Of course you can't when 
your poor aunt's died and left you 
all her property," she said severely, 
while her sister Sophia added : "I 
should think you'd be ashamed not 



to show a proper spirit of grief, 
Abby Sophia." 

Abigail Sophia found her per- 
plexity deepening, as passing days 
developed her changed position in 
the household. It was not un- 
pleasant to receive at home and 
abroad the deference considered 
justly due the owner of Plainville's 
finest estate, and to be pointed out 
to strangers who found their way 
to the Huckleberry district, as the 
little girl who had inherited Oak 
Hill; but the pleasure ceased when 
she began to learn how many enjoy- 
ments, permissible to the third of 
her father's five daughters, were 
considered unbefitting the heiress of 
her aunt. The two Miss Simmons 
who felt themselves equally respon- 
sible with their sister and brother- 
in-law for the proper training of 
their nieces, did not fail to keep be- 
fore her a high standard of excel- 
lence. The future mistress of Oak 
Hill must walk and net run, must 
keep her curly hair smooth and sit 
erect in her chair; and when the 
minister called, instead of slipping 
out with her sisters to play "going 
to meeting" in his roomy carryall, 
must sit silent with folded hands 
in a corner of the parlor, listening 
to the conversation and endeavor- 
ing to profit thereby. Her mother 
set long "stents" of sewing in spite 
of tearful objections. 

"You'll be only too thankful to 
me, child, when you come to have 
the over-seaming and hemming of a 
large house on your hands," Mrs. 
Merritt assured her daughter. Even 
the easy going father began to de- 
mand an excellence in school work 
and to criticize a lack of proficiency 
in arithmetic. "You can't know too 
much about weights and measures, 
to saw nothin' of notes and inter- 
est," Eleazer Merritt declared. "It's 

a solemn thing for a woman to be 
left in charge of a fine property like 
Oak Hill, Abby Sophia." 

Yet it was at school that Abby 
Sophia met her most serious diffi- 
culties. A guarded line of conduct be- 
came necessary, lest the girls should 
consider her unduly elated by her 
inheritance. The boys made de- 
risive inquiries concerning her 
spring planting, or petitioned with 
mock humility for privilege to go 
nutting in the Oak Hill woods 
"come autumn," while the entire 
school tormented her sensitive na- 
ture with significant allusions to 
the Clark boys, and warnings 
against any special interest in them. 

Tom and Silas Clark laughed 
good-naturedly when the childish 
banter reached their ears, but their 
younger brother writhed in spirit, 
feeling the will of his uncle's widow 
an insult to his name and race. 

"You needn't be scared," he 
scornfully assured Abby Sophia 
when he met her upon the play- 
ground one day. "You won't never 
lose Oak Hill through me 'cause I 
wouldn't marry you if 'twas leap 
year and you asked me to." Never- 
theless the next time Abigail fled 
from her tormentors to weep in a 
retired corner by the stone wall 
Henry valiantly precipitated him- 
self upon the pursuing group. 

" 'Taint any of your business," he 
asserted between vigorous blows of 
his hard little fists. "I guess the 
Clarks and Merritts can settle their 
own affairs without any interferin' 
from any of you, and the next 
scholar that says 'will' or 'marryin' ' 
in my hearin' is goin' to get licked 
if its a boy or chased with dead 
snakes if he's a girl. I'm tired 'n 
sick of this." 

The fact that Tom and Silas never 
allowed Henry to fight his battles 



singlehanded bore weight with the 
larger boys, and Abigail found life 
more endurable from henceforth. 

"Why didn't Aunt Abigail want 
me to marry the Clark boys?" she 
asked her mother that night after a 
long hour spent in considering the 
question. Mrs. Merritt made an im- 
patient gesture. 

"The Lord knows," she answered. 
"I wish to goodness she'd burnt Oak 
Hill and scattered its ashes to the 
four winds, before she put foolish 
notions into your head. You hadn't 
ought to thought of marryin' for a 
dozen years to come." 

"They're good boys," declared 
Abby Sophia stoutly. 

She cast a look of gratitude to- 
wards her champion when she 
reached the schoolhouse the next 
morning, but he, intent upon trad- 
ing slate pencils with a classmate, 
had apparently forgotten her ex- 
istence. Abby Sophia considered 
again as she laboriously studied her 
geography lesson. Her grateful 
heart had no intention of carrying 
a debt of gratitude for any length of 
time, but it was some days before 
an opportunity presented itself for 
lightening the burden. With it, 
came a demand for self sacrifice to 
which she rose heroically. 

"Goin' to the circus to-morrer, 
Henry?" she heard a schoolmate 

"If I leave off to the head to-night, 
I be," replied Henry with pleasing 
optimism. "I get a quarter every 
time I leave off, but pa says I shan't 
have any money given to me to go." 

Abby Sophia heard with interest. 
She herself was sure of attendance 
upon this same circus, for her 
father had promised to take all of 
his children who had perfect lessons 
to-day. She felt very doubtful 
about Henry whose place was near 

the foot of the class. Secure in her 
own position at the very head, 
she looked down the long line. 
There were many pupils between 
them, for Henry on ordinary occa- 
sions was an indifferent student. 
To-day he spelled carefully and cor- 
rectly each word as it came to him, 
and Abigail was gratified to observe 
that he came upward to the very 
middle of the class. If he had only 
more time he would earn his 
quarter, she decided as she spelled 
evolution with a careful choice of 
letters. The little girl at her elbow 
mis-spelled chemicals and a panic 
carried the disaster on down the 
class. A moment later Henry had 
mounted to the second place. Abi- 
gail wished it was last night again 
that he might succeed to her place. 
A sudden thought came to her as 
the word "mosquito" came up to her 
from the foot. Abigail fixed her 
eyes upon the floor; her cheeks 
were crimson with the enormity of 
the deceit. "M-u-s-k-e-e-t-o-e," she 
spelled deliberately, while a smoth- 
ered laugh ran through the class, 
and Henry, spelling the word cor- 
rectly, went above her. 

"You must have got muddled," he 
whispered sympathetically. 
"You've spelt lots harder words'n 

Abby Sophia sat upon the door- 
step and contentedly watched her 
sisters drive away to the long talked 
of circus, next morning, consoling 
herself with the assurance that 
when she was actually mistress of 
Oak Hill she could attend unlimited 
circuses at her own pleasure. 

Eleazer Merritt was not a wealthy 
man, and the many feminine de- 
mands upon his purse made careful 
economy necessary. As his daugh- 
ter's guardian he gave careful atten- 
tion to the Oak Hill property, keep- 



ing the unused buildings in repair, 
and the large farm in a proper state 
of cultivation. It required more 
time than he could well spare from 
his own farm work, but he declined 
to recompense himself from the Oak 
Hill income or even to use any part 
of it for Abby Sophia's expenses. 

"I guess "Leazer Merritt can bring 
up and educate his own children." 
he asserted when his wife's sisters 
lamented the folly of his course. 
"It don't make any difference if 
Abby Sophia's future station in life 
does demand higher privileges now. 
The Clarks ain't goin' to have it to 
twit on that we're livin' on Henry's 
property. When she's twenty-one 
she can begin to spend it, but up to 
that time we must manage to get 
what she needs ourselves." 

Yet Abigail continued to wear 
muslin and cashmere while her sis- 
ters were forced to content them- 
selves with calico and delaine, and 
at the age of fifteen was transferred 
to the village high school though 
Martha and Jane had cheerfully 
completed their education at the 
little district schoolhouse. 

Truth to tell Abby Sophia had 
not even yet arrived at an age where 
she appreciated her superior ad- 
vantages, and was deadly homesick 
in the unaccustomed routine of the 
village school. She roomed in the 
kitchen chamber of a family friend 
and boarded herself upon food 
brought fresh from home each 
Monday morning. It was some- 
thing of a comfort on the second 
morning to discover Henry Clark's 
freckled countenance among the 
many unfamiliar ones. 

"I didn't know you was here," 
she said shyly, when she met Henry 
on the broad walk at recess. "I 
thought vou was going to be a farm- 

"So I am." replied Henry in a 
burst of confidence. "But I want 
an education all the same. I never 
could see any reason why ministers 
and lawyers should have all the 

Abby Sophia didn't mean to be 
deceitful, but somehow it was far 
easier to make no mention of Henry 
on her Friday night visits home. 
So she missed the specific prohibi- 
tions of his acquaintance which the 
two Miss Simmons would have 
promptly laid upon her. Henry 
cheerfully walked the two miles be- 
tween his home and the village each 
night and morning, bringing to his 
homesick neighbor daily reports 
from the Huckleberry district. 
They were no longer classmates, for 
Henry developing a brilliancy of 
scholarship which far surpassed 
Abby Sophia's conscientious ef- 
forts, was bent upon completing the 
four years' course in three. 

"Then I'm going to the State Col- 
lege." he confided to Abby Sophia 
one moonlight night when neighbor- 
ly courtesy demanded that he "'see 
her home" from the High School 
Literary Club. 

"You'll be too grand for the 
Huckleberry district after that," 
suggested Abby Sophia doubtfully, 
as she stood upon the doorstep of 
her boarding place. 

"No I won't." replied Henry firm- 
ly. "The Huckleberry district needs 
breadth of character much as the vil- 
lage does and I'm going to college 
more for experience than for learn- 

Abigail Sophia was nearly nine- 
teen when Eleazer Merritt sold his 
yearling colt to purchase a graduat- 
ing dress with elaborate trimmings 
of real lace which did full credit to 
her future home. 



'"I'd much rather have plain white 
muslin like the rest.*' the girl ob- 
jected sensibly., but the two aunts 
joined in silencing her. Even her 
mother whose highest ambition in 
Abby Sophia's behalf was to "keep 
her free from foolish notions." de- 
clared sagely, "the others ain't 
owners of Oak Hill child. Take 
what you can get and be thankful 
for it." 

"It's to be hoped she won't marry 
before she comes into her property/' 
grumbled Miss Sophia. "Her 
father'd probably scrimp us all and 
mortgage the farm to fit her out, 
rather'n make use of what's her 

'* 'Leazer Merritt'll prob'ly do as 
he pleases with what's his own." re- 
torted Mrs. Merritt in a sudden 
burst of independence. "And so 
long's his wife that's helped to earn 
it don't object, I guess outsiders 
needn't feel called on to interfere." 

So Abigail graduated in the lace 
dress., then cheerfully bestowed it 
upon her next younger sister for a 
wedding gown. Viry Ann who had 
for years been clothed in Abigail's 
outgrown raiment accepted the 
dress with much pleasure. The 
second sister had married a year 
earlier, while the eldest seemed' to 
follow the example of the two Miss 

"You must try and do something 
for Martha when you're twenty- 
one." urged the second sister with 
the patronizing air of young matron- 
hood. "It's really too bad for 
poor father to have another old maid 
on his hands." 

Abby Sophia cheerfully settled 
herself to teach the Huckleberry 
district school and wait for her 
twenty-first birthday, on which date 
it had been agreed in family council, 
she should take up her abode at Oak 

Hill. She went sometimes to visit 
the great house with its cheerful 
rooms and rich furnishings with 
which the years had dealt kindly, 
and saw visions of herself living 
there alone through a long vista of 
years. She always came away with 
a feeling of depression wrought by 
remembrance of the great house's 
early history. 

"Poor Aunt Abigail." the girl 
often sighed, gazing off .from the 
wide veranda over a rich farming 
country closed in by far or! hills. 
Yet a little of reproach usually 
mingled with her pity. "She ought 
to have been happy here," Abby So- 
phia decided with the swift judg- 
ment of youth. "She didn't have to 
live alone." 

Still if the future held anything of 
loneliness it also promised independ- 
ence and a blessed freedom from the 
daily criticism which had been her 
lot from childhood. There were 
many long accumulating plans to be 
carried out in the immediate years 
following her coming of age. "I 
shall do just as I please about every- 
thing," declared Abby Sophia, "and 
give the other girls all the good 
times and pretty clothes they want." 

But as the long expected birthday 
drew near and various articles 
which had been accumulating since 
childhood, were packed for removal 
to the new home, it became apparent 
that the two Miss Simmons were 
also packing. 

"Are you going visiting?'' the 
girl inquired innocently one day as 
Miss Joanna brought down a hair 
covered trunk from the attic. 

"Bless you child, we're going to 
live with you." replied Miss Sophia. 

"You didn't suppose a girl of your 
age was goin' to be left to manage 
that great house and farm alone, 
did you?" 



So Abigail, though nominally the 
owner of Oak Hill, found herself by 
no means its mistress and was quite 
as much under orders as she had 
been in younger days. She would 
have celebrated her advent by a 
quiet family gathering, but Miss 
Joanna firmly put the preference 
one side. 

"Your poor dead aunt's memory 
requires something more," she de- 
clared, and arranged for a large 
party to which the whole country- 
side should be bidden. 

On the night of the party Henry 
Clark came home from college. 
Miss Joanna would not have con- 
sidered this an important circum- 
stance, since the Clarks were the 
only family in the Huckleberry dis- 
trict who had not been invited, but 
neighbors whispered the news to 
one another and commented on 
what might have been had Henry 
Clark, Senior, remembered his duty 
to his own blood. 

It was not an enjoyable party to 
Abigail, though she delighted in 
such gatherings, as a rule. Tonight 
she was burdened with the solemn 
realization that to be mistress of a 
house and fortune did not bring un- 
clouded happiness as she had long- 

She had gone this afternoon 
bankbook in hand to her father urg- 
ing him to accept from her the 
money which her education had cost 
him. Eleazer Merritt had drawn 
himself proudly erect. 

"If sister Abigail had desired me 
to have any of her property, it was 
in her power to will it to me," he 
declared obstinately. "So long as 
she didn't I could bring up my child- 
ren without her help." 

In the light of his reply many of 
the things which had puzzled the 
girl became clearer. What wonder 

if the hard working farmer had 
cherished a slight resentment all 
these years. It would have been so 
easy for Aunt Abigail with her 
wealth to have lightened a little of 
his many cares. Even her sister 
Martha had proudly refused the 
offer of a new dress for the party. 
Indeed when Abigail came to reflect 
upon the matter, the two Miss Sim- 
mons were the only members of her 
family who were willing to share 
her fortune. 

"Abby Sophia, have you spoken 
to the Petersons?" demanded Miss 
Joanna, as' the crowd surged through 
the rooms. "They've driven way 
out here from the village, and we 
must show a proper appreciation of 
the effort." 

The girl obediently started in the 
direction indicated, but Miss So- 
phia stopped her. "You must go 
and talk with Mis' Judge Haskell," 
she commanded. 

Abigail, unable to obey both com- 
mands, rebelliously turned about 
and went out, down the steps into 
the summer moonlight. At the foot 
of the steps she met Henry Clark. 

"I'm afraid to say how long I've 
been standing here, waiting for a 
glimpse of you," he explained. "I 
only returned home tonight and 
didn't know about the party, but it 
didn't seem as though I could wait 
for what I had to tell you." 

They were walking down the 
gravelled path towards the summer 
house and Abigail in her surprise 
was permitting him to hold the hand 
she had offered in greeting. 

"I haven't much of worldly goods 
to offer you in exchange for Oak 
Hill," Henry continued, "but it 
would be an insult to your woman- 
hood if I kept silent for that reason. 
I love you, dear. You knew that, 
didn't you?" 



"Long ago," replied Abby Sophia 
solemnly. "Ever since I was a little 

"It's a fine old place," Henry de- 
clared a long half hour later, as he 
stood looking up at the house. "Are 
you sure you won't regret it, if fi- 
nances sometimes go hard with us — 
later on?" 

Abby Sophia clasped her hands 
upon his arm. 

"Not for a thousand Oak Hills," 
she declared fervently. "And it 
isn't a sacrifice at all, for oh, Henry, 
it hasn't been anything like what I 
thought it would be." 

"Father," she inquired next morn- 
ing, seating herself on the stone wall 
near the corner where Eleazer Mer- 
ritt was industriously hoeing, "what 
becomes of Oak Hill if I don't have 

"I don't know," replied her father, 
absently calculating the long rows 
yet unhoed. "For that matter I 
s'pose nobody livin' knows since old 
Squire Knox that drew the will died 
four years ago come August. 
There's a codicil in his son's hands 
to be opened on your weddin' day, 
whomsoe\^er you marry. Your 
mother'n aunts don't know or they'd 
wore my life out years ago. What 
do you want to know for?" 

"Because," replied Abby Sophia 
tranquilly, "I don't want Oak Hill 
any longer. I'm going to marry 
Henry Clark." • 

Eleazer Merritt resumed his hoe- 
ing. "I might have expected you'd 
do some such fool thing, bein' a 
woman," he said. 

Great was the consternation among 
the feminine members of the Merritt 
family. The aunts in wrath de- 
clared it should not be, the married 
sisters argued from a worldly wise 
point of view, while the mother de- 
clared drearily that she always ex- 

pected some such result from foolish 
notions being put into the child's 
head so young. Her sister Martha 
met the announcement with re- 

"I might have married Silas Clark 
and had a comfortable home of my 
own," she declared, "but they made 
me break it off because Aunt Abi- 
gail left her money to you" 

Oak Hill became closed and ten- 
antless once more ; the Misses Sim- 
mons came back to the brother-in- 
law's home and Abby went about 
modest preparations for a simple 

"I should rather been engaged 
longer and given you time to get 
ahead a little," she explained to 
Henry beneath the lilac bushes by 
the front gate. "But there'll be no 
peace at home until it is over, and 
besides Aunt Abigail's money be- 
longs to somebody and it isn't right 
to keep them waiting any longer. 
My father has an idea that Oak Hill 
is to be used for an old ladies' home 
or something of the sort." 

Henry who had paid his own way 
through college answered cheerful- 
ly that he should "get ahead" much 
faster with a wife to help him. He 
had taken a large farm to work "on 
shares" for the summer and was al- 
ready fitting up a little cottage for 
their abode. In a year or two they 
would have a place of their own. 

Eleazer Merritt resolutely de- 
clared that he had no money to 
spend on his third daughter, but 
Abigail cheerfully constructed a 
dress from some muslin window 
curtains bought with her first school 
money, and contrived a lace bonnet 
from the ever resourceful "piece 
bag." "Silas says he'll stand up 
with us if you will," she informed 
her older sister, and having won 
Martha's reluctant consent, lavished 



far more care upon the bridesmaid's 
toilet than upon her own. 

After the simple little service in 
the parlor of a village parsonage the 
four drove directly to young Lawyer 
Knox's office. 

The lawyer deliberately broke the 
red seals of the codicil and examined 
with much interest a sealed en- 

"This seems to be intended for 
you — Mrs. Clark," he said. The 
bride's white gloved fingers un- 
folded the message from the dead 

Dear Niece Abigail:— 

I'm singling you out from your sisters 
to will you my property, partly because 
you bear my name but more because you 
are clear Merritt, while the others show 
now and then a streak of Simmons. And 
I'm making a curious condition because it 
suits my fancy. Long before this reaches 
your eyes Henry Clark and I will have met 
and made up our differences where mis- 
understandings come no more. He was the 
best man that ever lived, and it was only 
his money that came between us. I hope 
you've grown to be a sensible woman who 
isn't going to let either the possession of 
money or the lack of it spoil your life. I 
know from the way my will reads all 
Huckleberry district is going to declare I 
held hardness against the Clarks up to the 
last, but it isn't true. Henry Clark was a 
man of sterling virtues, and since he didn't 
leave a son to inherit his good qualities, 
there's no reason why his nephews 
shouldn't have got them all. I hope they'll 

grow up to be just such a man as he was, 
and nothin' would please me better than 
to have you turn your back on Oak Hill 
to marry one of them. Perhaps you'll 
never marry at all, but with your two 
Simmons aunts before your eyes it isn't 
to be expected that you'll follow in their 
footsteps. If you do marry the blessing 
of a good man's affection ought to outweigh 
money values. Anyway I have arranged 
that on your wedding day whomsoever you 
may marry, one-half the property I leave 
shall be settled on you forever, while the 
other half goes back to the family from 
which it came and into the hands of Henry 
Clark, Junior, nephew and namesake of my 
beloved husband. I expect the whole 
Huckleberry district and your Simmons 
relation in particular will say I'm crazy 
but I know the Merritt disposition and I 
wouldn't be a mite surprised if you'd been 
attracted to the Clarkses ever since you 
heard my will read. 

Hoping these few lines will find you hap- 
py and contented, I am 

Your Affectionate Aunt, 
Abigail Merritt Clark. 

"The happiest possible arrange- 
ment," declared young lawyer Knox 
with enthusiasm. "Your aunt, Mrs. 
Clark, was possessed of extraordi- 
nary prophetic gifts. The bride 
turned from his offered congratula- 
tions to clasp her hands upon her 
husband's arm. 

"Poor Aunt Abigail," she said 
with tearful eyes, "don't you see 
how much more than Oak Hill she's 
left us — each other and all the happi- 
ness she somehow missed herself." 

The Pilgrim Fathers on the 

By Emma Huntington Nason 

THERE is always a great charm 
in the beginning of things ; and 
to trace to its origin a local tra- 
dition has untold fascination. But 
when, having followed one such 
story to its source, we find it to be 
veritable history, and not that only 
but the history of the founders of 
the Plymouth Colony, then we won- 
der why such a record was ever 
suffered to pass into the realm of 
the half-forgotten. 

The story of the Pilgrim Fathers 
on the Kennebec is one of the most 
interesting and important in the 
early annals of New England, yet 
it has lapsed into an almost legend- 
ary form, and today, many of the 
dwellers on the banks of the Kenne- 
bec are unaware that the Pilgrim 
Fathers were ever sojourners on its 
shores. Nevertheless it is true that 
more than a hundred years before 
the erection of old Fort Western 
which is still standing in the city 
of Augusta, there was a flourishing 
English trading-post in this lo- 
cality; and h^ere for thirty-four 
years the men of Plymouth dwelt 
beside the Abenaki Indians and 
carried on a profitable trade with 
the aboriginal inhabitants of Maine. 
Of this long period no consecutive 
record exists. We can only ask, 
Who came and went as the Pilgrim 
barque plied back and forth between 
Plymouth harbor and the Kenne- 
bec? Who were the successive com- 
mandants of the trading-post? How 

did these men live in this remote 
region? What did they learn of the 
life, character and ancient traditions 
of that remarkable people whom the 
early voyagers called the "Gentle 
Abenakis," and what did they gain 
from their traffic and intercourse 
with these Indians? 

In order to answer these ques- 
tions one must search carefully not 
only the writings of the early New 
England chroniclers and historians 
but also the works of the first 
French missionaries and voyagers, 
and especially the Jesuit records 
kept at Quebec and Montreal. 

In the writings of the early New 
England historians the references 
to the coast of Maine and the Kenne- 
bec are comparatively few and brief, 
but every one is of inestimable 
value; and in these scanty records 
there are two facts which stand out 
with remarkable significance. The 
first is, that when the Pilgrim colo- 
nists were on the verge of starva- 
tion their lives were saved by sup- 
plies from Pemaquid and the adja- 
cent islands. The second is, that 
when the Pilgrim Fathers were on 
the verge of despair and hopelessly 
discouraged in regard to their fi- 
nances they were enabled through 
the profits of their trade on the 
Kennebec river to discharge their 
obligations to the London Company 
and thus establish their colony in 
the New World. 

The students of New England 



history have already recognized the 
fact that there were important settle- 
ments well established in Maine 
long before the landing of the Pil- 
grims, and that the early colony on 
the Maine coast was neither a daugh- 
ter of Plymouth nor in any way de- 
pendent upon the Plymouth Colony. 
It is also known that there were 
profitable fishing and trading-posts 
at Pemaquid, New Harbor, Da- 
mariscove and Monhegan already 
existing in such a flourishing con- 
dition that they were able to send 
supplies to Plymouth at the time 
when the Pilgrims were dying of 
famine. In these fair havens on the 
Maine coasts an extensive trade had 
been carried on since 1607; and in 
1622, when Edward Winslow came 
hither for supplies he found more 
than "thirty sail of ships" at anchor, 
or fishing, in the Pemaquid waters. 
Gov. Winslow himself tells us in 
his "Good News From New Eng- 
land" that "about the end of May, 
1622, our store of victuals was 
wholly spent having lived long be- 
fore with a bare and short allow- 
ance." Learning of the plenty that 
prevailed on the Maine coast Wins- 
low was sent there by Gov. Brad- 
ford. "Here," writes Winslow, "I 
found kind entertainment with a 
willingness to supply our wants. * 

* * They would not take any bills 
(of Exchange) for these supplies 
but did what they could freely * 

* * and supplied our necessities 
for which they sorrowed, provoking 
one another to free gifts for the 
colony to the utmost of their abili- 
ties." "In the time of these straits," 
adds Winslow, "we must have 
perished unless God had raised up 
some unknown or extraordinary 
means for our preservation." 

But the years of plenty which fol- 
lowed the famine afforded little be- 

yond //hat was needed for the sup- 
port of the colony at Plymouth and 
the leaders were overwhelmed by 
their debt to the London Adven- 
turers. In the year 1626, this debt, 
which amounted to eighteen hun- 
dred pounds sterling with six hun- 
dred pounds additional due to other 
creditors, was assumed by Gov. 
Bradford, Myles Standish, Isaac 
Allerton, William Brewster, John 
Howland, John Alden and Thomas 
Prence. These men undertook the 
payment of the public debt, and this 
they accomplished by their fur 
trade with the Indians on the Kenne- 

To Edward Winslow belongs the 
honor of founding and establishing 
the ancient Kennebec trading-post. 
In the year 1625, accompanied by 
six comrades he came with a shallop- 
load of corn to trade with the 
Indians at Koussinoc where the city 
of Augusta now stands. At this 
period the shores of the Kennebec 
were a primeval forest unbroken ex- 
cept here and there by small clear- 
ings where the Abenaki Indians 
built their villages and cultivated 
their fields of corn. It is said that 
there were at this time thirteen 
Abenaki villages on the banks of 
the Kennebec and along the coast 
of Maine, and numerous round 
stone hearths where the Indians had 
their council-fires may still be seen 
up and down the valley of the Ken- 
nebec. Winslow at once saw the 
possibilities for trade with the Indi- 
ans of this river, for the Kennebec 
was the great water-way leading 
from Moosehead Lake and the for- 
ests of Canada. If a trading-post 
were established near the Indian vil- 
lage at Koussinoc, all the hunters 
would speedily learn of this market 
for their peltries. At the same time 
it would be so far from the sea that 



it would not attract the attention 
of the fishing and sailing vessels 
that were always on the lookout for 
traffic with the Indians on the coast. 
The first voyage of the Plymouth 
men was very successful. As Gov. 
Bradford tells us, "It was made by 
Mr. Winslow and some of ye old 
Standards, for seamen had we none." 
These brave landsmen started out 
from Plymouth in a little vessel 
built for them by the house-car- 
penter of the colony. "They had 
laid a deck over her midships," 
writes Gov. Bradford, "to keep ye 
corne dry but ye men were fain to 
stand out in all weathers without 
shelter, and at this season of the 
year it begins to grow tempestuous, 
but God preserved them and gave 
them good success for they brought 
home 700 pounds of beaver besides 
some furs, having little or nothing 
else but this corne which they them- 
selves had raised out of the earth." 
Encouraged by this success the 
colony began life with new hope, 
and the Plymouth merchants at 
once determined to build a per- 
manent trading-house on the Kenne- 
bec. "In 1627," continues Bradford, 
"having procured a patent for the 
Kennebec, they erected a house 
above in ye river in ye most con- 
venient place for trade (as they con- 
ceived) and furnished the same with 
commodities for that end, both sum- 
mer and winter, not only with corne 
but with such other commodities 
as ye fishermen had traded with 
them, as coats, shirts, rugs and 
blankets, pease, prunes, etc., and 
what they could not get out of 
England they bought of the fish- 
ing ships, and so carried on their 
business as well as they could." A 
little later the Pilgrims were able 
to secure a large amount of wam- 
pum which was made only by the 

Narragansetts, Pequots, or other 
coast tribes, and which the Indians 
of the interior were very eager to 
obtain, and the control of this cur- 
rency gave the Plymouth men a 
great advantage over any other 
traders who might wish to buy furs 
of the Kennebec Indians. The ship- 
ments of beaver from the Kennebec 
to England from 163 1 to 1636 were 
very large, that of the year 1634 
alone amounting to twenty hogs- 
heads. These cargoes brought large 
profits to the Plymouth colony, es- 
pecially since the whole expense of 
the business was defrayed by the 
sale of otter skins and other small 

Considering these facts in regard 
to the early dependence of the Pil- 
grim Fathers upon the resources of 
Maine, it is surprising to learn how 
little the historians of Plymouth 
have to say of the Kennebec trad- 
ing-post and the men who occupied 
it for so many years. It has even 
been intimated that the Pilgrim trad- 
ers did not care to advertise this very 
^profitable source of their supplies 
and were purposely reticent on the 
subject. It would, however, have 
been extremely interesting if Gov. 
Bradford had told us who those 
"old Standards" were who came on 
that first trip with Edward Wins- 
low. Now we can only learn the 
names of the noted men who sub- 
sequently came to the Kennebec. 
Among them were Gov. Bradford, 
Myles Standish, John Alden, Thom- 
as Prence, John Howland, Thomas 
Southworth and John Winslow; the 
three latter each being here for a 
term of years in command of the 
Plymouth trading-post. 

What wonderful stories these 
men might have told us and what 
a remarkable volume of folk-lore 
they might have edited. Here was 



an ancient people who claimed to 
be the first and only perfect crea- 
tion of the Great Spirit. They had 
a wonderful and musical language. 
They had a system of writing and 
communication with other and dis- 
tant tribes. They lived in villages; 
they cultivated the soil ; they were 
gentle, unsuspicious and generous. 
They greeted the stranger kindly 
and shared with their white guests 
whatever they possessed, all of 
which was most cordialfy accepted ; 
and yet how few and meager are 
the words which these early visitors 
to the Kennebec have left in ac- 
knowledgement of their debt to the 
Indians. We cannot plead that the 
men of Plymouth were ignorant, un- 
lettered emigrants whose energies 
were wholly absorbed in the struggle 
for existence. Edward Winslow 
was an educated, philanthrophic 
man ; Gov. Bradford thought it 
worth while to keep the Log of the 
Mayflower and the records of Plym- 
outh ; Myles Standish was well 
versed in the Bible and the Com- 
mentaries of Caesar; while John 
Alden, as Longfellow writes, "was 
bred as a scholar" and "could say 
it in elegant language" ; and yet 
these men came to these newly dis- 
covered shores where the air was 
scintillant with local color and the 
wigwams just overflowing with 
available material, and left us no 
record whatever of their experience. 
We cannot help wondering how 
these great and wise ancestors of 
ours did employ themselves during 
the long days and evenings, "both 
summer and winter," as Bradford 
writes; which for thirty-four years 
they passed in this remote region. 
They really could not have spent all 
their time trafficking with the 
Indians. And there must have been 
much of interest constantly tran- 

spiring before their eyes, for Kous- 
sinoc was the great rallying place 
of the Abenakis. Here the solemn 
councils were held every autumn 
before going on the great hunt to 
the Lake of the Moose, and here the 
spring-time feasts were celebrated 
when the braves returned laden 
with their trophies. Here were per- 
formed all the sacred rites and 
ceremonies of the tribe. At these 
celebrations there were games and 
dancing and feasting. The young 
braves exhibited their prowess in 
shooting-matches, foot races, wrest- 
ling, and ball playing. The medicine 
men performed their wonderful 
tricks in magic and jugglery, and 
after the feasts and games were 
ended the Indians gathered around 
their camp-fires and here the songs 
were sung and the tales re-told 
which their fathers had repeated 
from generation to generation. 

Now we know from the valuable 
fragments of Abenaki folk-lore, 
which happily have been preserved 
to us, what a wealth of poetry and 
tradition these Indians once pos- 
sessed. Their system of folk-lore 
was truly wonderful, and presented 
many legends which, for genial hu- 
mor, poetic beauty and mythological 
significance, are comparable to those 
of any European folk-lore. Some of 
these tales possess a subtle sense of 
fun and sarcasm, others have a 
very curious psychological element 
showing that these Indians were 
dimly conscious of the old struggle 
between good and evil which is con- 
stantly going on in the human 
soul ; and if the few legends gath- 
ered here and there at this late day 
from the scanty remnants of the 
Abenaki tribes are so wonderful, we 
can imagine what their folk-lore 
must have been in the palmy days 
of their tribal existence when every 



village had its poet and story teller 
and the Men of the Dawn re-told all 
that their sires had taught them 
from the beginning of the world. 

But of none of these things did 
the Pilgrim traders who came to the 
Kennebec make any record. We 
must therefore cease to sigh for the 
poetry and romance that we might 
have had, and content ourselves 
with the few historic facts which we 
are able to gather from English and 
French sources. 

One of the first agents in com- 
mand of the Plymouth trading-post 
was John Howland. Among all the 
notable men of the colony there was 
no one who bore a fairer record for 
bravery, efficiency and general use- 
fulness than this sturdy youth from 
Essex County; and with his "mili- 
tary turn" and adventurous spirit 
Howland was well fitted for the ad- 
ministration of the business of the 
colony in this important location. 
He was, moreover, one of the com- 
pany responsible for the public debt, 
and therefore especially interested 
in the success of the enterprise on 
the Kennebeck. We also find John 
Howland and John Alden frequent- 
ly associated in the affairs of Ply- 
mouth ; and in May of the year 1634, 
while Howland was in command at 
Koussinoc, John Alden came from 
Plymouth to bring supplies to the 
trading-post; The spring trade was 
just then opening with the Indians. 
One by one the great canoes glided 
down from the head waters of the 
Kennebec laden with the hunters' 
spoils, and a very profitable season 
was anticipated. It was at this 
time, at the height of prosperity of 
the Plymouth company, that the 
tragic Hocking affair occurred. 

It seems that the Piscataqua Plan- 
tation had become very jealous of 
the success of the Pilgrim traders 

who held complete and absolute 
jurisdiction over the territory in the 
vicinity of Koussinoc for fifteen 
miles up and down the river, thus 
controlling all the trade which came 
from Moosehead Lake; and having 
determined to secure a portion of 
this trade, Piscataqua sent John 
Hocking to intercept the Indian ca- 
noes as they came down from the 

Hocking boldly sailed up the 
Kennebec and anchored above the 
Plymouth post. Howland at first 
went out in his barque and re- 
monstrated with Hocking for thus 
infringing on the Plymouth rights, 
but receiving only abusive threats 
in reply, he ordered Hocking to 
drop below the Plymouth limits. 
Hocking refused, and Howland sent 
three men in a canoe to cut Hock- 
ing's cables. The old Plymouth rec- 
ords state that these men were 
"John Irish, Thomas Rennoles and 
Thomas Savory." They cut one of 
Hocking's cables and then, as their 
canoe drifted down the stream, 
Howland ordered Moses Talbot to 
get into the canoe and cut the other 
rope. Talbot accordingly went 
"very reddyly," and brought the 
canoe back within range of Hock- 
ing's vessel. Flocking, standing on 
deck, carbine and pistol in hand, 
first presented his piece at Thomas 
Savory; but the canoe swung 
around with the tide, and Hocking 
put his carbine almost to Moses Tal- 
bot's head. Then Howland, spring- 
ing upon the rail of his barque, 
shouted to Hocking not to shoot 
the men who were only obeying 
orders, but to take him for his 
mark, saying that he surely "stood 
very fayre." But Howland's brave- 
ry was in vain for Hocking would 
not hear, but immediately shot Tal- 
bot in the head. Whereupon, "a 



friend of Talbot's, who loved him 
well," seized a musket and returned 
the fire ; and Hocking "was pres- 
ently strook dead being shott neare 
the same place in the head where he 
had murderously shot Moyses." 

John Alden, although at the trad- 
ing-post at the time this unfortu- 
nate affair took place, had no con- 
nection with it. He soon returned 
to Plymouth, and being in Boston 
a few weeks later, he was arrested 
and imprisoned by the Massachu- 
setts magistrates to answer for 
Hocking's death. The Plymouth 
people were very angry at this un- 
warrantable interference in their af- 
fairs, and the indomitable Myles 
Standish at once started for Boston 
and effected Alden's release. Right- 
eous Boston, however, insisted upon 
an investigation of the matter, and 
requested all the plantations, espe- 
cially Piscataqua, to send delegates 
to the hearing. But after all their 
efforts none of the plantations in- 
vited, not even Piscataqua where 
Hocking belonged, manifested suf- 
ficient interest to send a representa- 
tive. Winslow and Bradford ap- 
peared in behalf of Plymouth, and 
Winthrop and Dudley represented 
Massachusetts. Two or three min- 
isters were also present, and after 
mature deliberation it was decided 
that the Plymouth men acted in self- 
defense and that Hocking alone had 
been to blame. The sad story of 
this early tragedy on the Kennebec 
is relieved only by Howland's dash 
of bravery, and the touching loyal- 
ty of Talbot's friend "who loved 
him well"; but it is of especial in- 
terest in this connection because it 
proves that John Howland and John 
Alden were both at the Kennebec 
trading-post in 1634. 

The next agent at the trading- 
post was Captain Thomas Willett, 

a young man who had been a mem- 
ber of the congregation at Leyden 
and who had followed the Pilgrims 
to Plymouth in 1632. He became 
eminent among the colonists and 
had served them very efficiently at 
Castine before coming to the Ken- 
nebec. Later in life, Willett en- 
gaged in trade with the Manhattan 
Dutch and, in 1664, became the first 
English governor of New York. 
The record of Willett's service on 
the Kennebec, like that of all the 
other agents, would be very dim and 
unsatisfactory were it not for the 
flash-lights cast upon this unknown 
ground by the writings of the old 
French fathers. From these, we 
learn that Capt. Willett was just 
and tactful in his dealings with the 
Indians, that he was interested in 
their welfare and won their confi- 
dence and esteem. 

But while a new and strong light 
is thus cast by the Jesuit records 
upon these elusive pictures of the 
past, giving us in a single glimpse 
the material suggestive of a whole 
chapter of history, it is much to be 
regretted that the story is not more 
connected, and especially that some 
of these authors so frequently speak 
of "the Englishmen" on the Kenne- 
bec without mentioning their names. 

Thus, on one occasion, Ragueneau 
speaks of a certain gentleman who 
had just arrived from Boston and 
"who spoke very good French." 
We wish he had told us the name of 
this accomplished gentleman. We 
would also like very much to know 
who was in command at the trading- 
post in 1642 when one of the Indian 
converts from Quebec came to visit 
the Abenaki village at Koussinoc. 
This Indian had been converted and 
baptized by the name of Charles, 
and furnished with a rosary and an 
image of the Virgin. The Abena- 



kis at once took their guest to visit 
the English settlement which, as is 
stated, was very near. Of course, 
the new convert had not then 
learned that there were two kinds of 
Christians, Catholics and heretics ; 
so he proudly displayed his rosary 
at the trading-post. Great was the 
Indian's surprise when "an English- 
man" told him that his rosary was 
"an invention of the devil" and that 
his beautiful image of the Virgin 
was worth no more than an old rag 
which was lying upon the ground. 
But these Indian neophytes were 
well instructed, and the new con- 
vert promptly retorted that it was 
the devil who put these words into 
the Englishman's mouth and that 
the Englishman himself would cer- 
tainly burn in hell since he despised 
what God had made and ordered. 
"After that time," says the old 
French writer who tells this story, 
"the heretics left him in peace," and 
the Quebec Indian had the comfort 
of seeing the Kennebec chieftain, 
who was with him, speedily con- 
verted and baptized. 

In studying these early records 
of the relations of the French and 
English with the Indians of Maine, 
we cannot fail to be impressed by 
the very curious fact that the Pil- 
grim Fathers, during their long 
sojourn on the Kennebec, made no 
attempt to civilize or christianize 
the "Gentle Abertakis." The policy 
of the French at this time was quite 
different from that of the English. 
The French made every effort to 
conciliate and convert the Indians 
and to make use of them as a po- 
litical power and as allies in their 
long wars with the English. One 
of the old French historians makes 
the following very ingenuous state- 
ment in regard to this point: "We 
believe that God raised up the Abe- 

naki nation in order to protect the 
French people in Canada whom he 
wished to save ; * * * and that 
God gave to these savages their 
bravery and valor in fighting that 
they might become redoubtable to 
the enemies of France." Charlevoix 
also declares that "the Abenakis 
were the principal bulwark of the 
French against the English," and 
that they were so recognized by the 
court and king in France. 

But while the Pilgrims did not 
undertake the work of christianiz- 
ing these Indians themselves, they 
seemed very willing that the French 
should do it; and therefore when 
Father Gabriel Druillettes, a highly 
educated and cultured Frenchman, 
was sent into the wilderness of 
Maine to take up his abode with 
these savages the Pilgrim traders 
gave him a cordial welcome. This 
was in the year 1647, when John 
Winslow was in command of the 

John Winslow was the brother of 
Gov. Edward Winslow and was one 
of the ablest and best men of the 
Pilgrim Republic. He came over 
in the "Fortune" to unite his lot 
with that of the Pilgrims and mar- 
ried the pretty Mary Chilton, who, 
according to some historians, was 
the first of the Mayflower emigrants 
to set foot on Plymouth Rock. 
Winslow became one of the wealth- 
iest and most influential mer- 
chants of the colony, and was for 
many years closely connected with 
the trade on the Kennebec. It is 
not much wonder that the Plymouth 
merchant, during his long and lone- 
ly sojourn at the trading-post, 
should form a warm friendship with 
such a man as Father Gabriel Druil- 
lettes, or that the French priest who 
came to establish a mission-chapel 
at Koussinoc should be frequently 



entertained at Winslow's table. 
One passage in the journal of the 
priest shows the friendly relations 
which existed between these two 
remarkable men. 

"I love and respect the Patriarch," 
said Winslow, using the title com- 
monly bestowed upon the priest. 
"I will lodge him at my house and 
treat him as my brother." And 
Father Gabriel writes, "I shall 
henceforth call him (Winslow) my 
Pereia, on account of the friendli- 
ness he ever showed me." 

The name "Pereia" is here an al- 
lusion to a Portuguese merchant 
named Pereia, who was the devoted 
friend of the famous Jesuit priest, 
St. Francis Xavier; and this name 
was thus very appropriately applied 
to John Winslow, who was the de- 
voted friend of Father Gabriel Druil- 

It is said that the Indian village 
at Koussinoc contained at this time 
five hundred inhabitants, including 
the women and children. There 
were fifteen large lodges on the 
pleasant intervale by the river's side 
and in their midst stood the mission 
chapel of the Assumption. The de- 
scriptions which Father Druillettes 
gives of his life and work, and of his 
associations with the English on 
the Kennebec, are extremely inter- 
esting; and one of the most import- 
ant episodes mentioned is the diplo- 
matic mission of the French priest 
to Plymouth and Boston whither he 
was accompanied by his faithful 
friend John Winslow. 

The object of this mission was to 
establish an alliance between the 
English colonies, on the one hand, 
and the French and their Abenaki 
allies, on the other. A short time 
previous to this the New England 
confederacy, consisting of the four 
colonies of Plymouth, Massachu- 

setts, New Haven and Connecticut, 
had been very anxious to establish 
a commercial treaty with New 
France in order to gain a share of 
the profitable trade on the St. Law- 
rence. In return the French gov- 
ernment now proposed to agree to 
such a treaty providing the English 
would unite with the French and 
Abenaki nation in keeping the hos- 
tile Iroquois from their territory. 

The record of this embassy opens 
with a picturesque scene at Kous- 
sinoc. On St. Michael's Eve, Sep- 
tember 29th, 1650, the French envoy 
arrived from Quebec and had again 
the pleasure of meeting John Wins- 
low, with whom he had been 
pleasantly associated during his 
former sojourn on the Kennebec. 
On the following morning, Father 
Druillettes, in his diplomatic char- 
acter, made a visit of state to the 
trading-post. The Father was ac- 
companied by his intelligent and 
faithful interpreter, Noel Negaba- 
met, of the Sillery Mission at 
Quebec, and followed by a train of 
attendants all decked in the splendid 
finery of the Abenaki braves. After 
the opening ceremonies Noel pre- 
sented W T inslow with a valuable 
gift of beaver skins and made a for- 
mal address in behalf of Monsieur 
the Governor of the river St. Law- 
rence. In response, Winslow not 
only accepted the gift in behalf of 
the English government but con- 
sented to go personally with Father 
Druillettes to Plymouth and, as it is 
recorded, "to do with reference to 
the governor and the magistrates 
all that could be expected from a 
good friend." 

It will be remembered that at this 
time the Massachusetts colonists 
had just passed a law by which no 
Jesuit priest could set foot upon 
their soil under penalty of death. 



But, notwithstanding this law, 
Father Druillettes, as the accredited 
envoy of the French government, 
ventured to visit the forbidden terri- 
tory and was everywhere received 
with courteous hospitality. In com- 
pany with John Winslow, he left 
Koussinoc and made the journey by 
land as far as Merrymeeting Bay. 
"The road was difficult," writes 
Father Druillettes, "especially to 
the agent who is already growing 
old, and who assured me that he 
would never have undertaken it if 
he had not given his word to Noel." 
On reaching Boston Father Druil- 
lettes was entertained by Major 
Gibbons, who cordially received the 
French priest and who even gave 
him a key to an apartment in his 
house where he could, with com- 
plete liberty, offer prayer and per- 
form his religious exercises. Thus 
the Jesuit Father, whose life 
might otherwise have paid penalty 
of the law, was not only kindly re- 
ceived but actually permitted to 
perform mass under a Puritan roof. 
On the 13th of December he was in- 
vited to dine with the Governor and 
chief magistrates of Boston and giv- 
en an opportunity to explain his 

Proceeding to Plymouth, Father 
Druillettes was also courteously 
welcomed by Gov. Bradford, and 
the day being Friday, Dame Brad- 
ford gave him a dinner of cod-fish 
out of regard for his religious scru- 
ples. During his stay in Plymouth, 
Father Druillettes was lodged at 
the house of the wealthy merchant, 
William Paddy, whose name the 
French priest softened into Padis. 
This William Paddy was one of the 
five "farmers" to whom the business 
of the Plymouth trading-house was 
leased in 1649. He must have been 
a very exemplary man, for his 

tombstone, which was unearthed in 
1866 under the north side of the old 
Boston State House, bears this in- 
scription : 

"Here sleeps that blessed one, he 
Whose lief God help us all to live, 
So that when tiem shall be 
That we this world must lieve, 
We ever may be happy 
With the blessed William Paddy." 

Subsequently, Father Druillettes 
made a visit to Roxbury where he 
was greeted as a brother by John 
Eliot, the Massachusetts apostle to 
the Indians. There was undoubted- 
ly much of sympathetic interest be- 
tween these two missionaries, for 
John Eliot listened to his guest 
"with great respect and kindness" 
and begged Father Druillettes to 
spend the winter with him and share 
his labors among the Indians of his 
fold. These details throw a kindly 
light on the character of both the 
Puritan and the Pilgrim who in 
their hearts, perhaps, were not so 
bigoted as they have sometimes 
been represented. 

Father Druillettes remained in 
Plymouth nearly all winter. His 
mission apparently grew in favor 
with the colonists, and when he re- 
turned to the Kennebec in February 
he rejoiced in the assurance that his 
mission had been a success. This 
assurance was confirmed by Wins- 
low who arrived in Koussinoc in 
April. "The agent assures me," 
writes Father Druillettes, "that all 
the magistrates and the two commis- 
sioners of Plymouth have given 
their word and resolved that the 
other colonies be urged to join them 
against the Iroquois in favor of the 
Abenakis who are under the pro- 
tection of Plymouth." Winslow 
also said that Governor Bradford 
had sent Captain Thomas Willett — 
"who was much interested in the 



Abenakis, owing to his acquaintance 
with them while he was in command 
at Koussinoc" — with letters to New 
Haven and Connecticut, urging 
these two colonies to join the al- 
liance. Father Druillettes evident- 
ly had good reason to hope that the 
treaty would soon be made. Great 
was his grief and disappointment, 
therefore, to learn that the courage 
and goodwill of the colonists had 
disappeared soon after his depart- 
ure and that a resolution had been 
passed in Plymouth to have nothing 
to do with the French alliance. The 
facts in the case undoubtedly were 
that while Plymouth men were 
anxious to protect their trade on the 
Kennebec and while the other colo- 
nists were eager for the commercial 
benefits which would result from 
the treaty with New France, the}^ 
had not the courage to form an al- 
liance which might involve them in 
difficulties with the hostile Indians. 

It is, of course, idle now to specu- 
late as to what the results might 
have been had this treaty been made 
at this time between the English 
and the French and Abenakis. But 
the caution of the colonists did not 
save them from the dangers which 
they feared. King Philip's war 
broke out in 1675. The long con- 
flict between France and England 
produced its inevitable results in 
the colonies. The Indians natural- 
ly fought with their French allies; 
and a whole century of horror and 
bloodshed followed. 

In contrast to this century of war- 
fare and desolation, the thirty-four 
years of the Pilgrim occupancy of the 
Kennebec trading-post seem like a 
peaceful pastoral prelude preced- 
ing the long tragedy of the Indian 
wars. It was during this period 
that the doughty captain, Myles 
Standish, frequently came to the 

Kennebec to bring supplies to the 
agents, and perhaps also to visit the 
good father of the chapel of the 
Assumption. The alleged Catholic 
tendencies of Myles Standish are a 
matter of curious interest. It is 
rather hard for us to conceive of the 
bluff old captain of the Pilgrims 
telling his beads or saying his 
prayers in the little mission chapel 
at Koussinoc, and yet it is well 
known that Standish came of Catho- 
lic ancestry in England and that he 
never united with the Pilgrims in 
their church covenant. It has there- 
fore been suggested by some stu- 
dents of Pilgrim history that Stand- 
ish in his heart remained constant to 
the faith of his ancestors, and that 
he may have found some comfort to 
his soul in visiting the black-coated 
priest at Koussinoc. It is possible 
that it was Myles Standish whom 
John Winslow had in mind, when 
he told Father Druillettes that if he 
established his mission on the Ken- 
nebec "some English would come to 
see him." 

In 1654, we find Thomas South- 
worth in command at Koussinoc. 
Southworth was the son of Alice 
Southworth, the second wife of 
Governor Bradford. He was "a 
man eminent for the soundness of 
his mind and the purity of his heart" 
and was held in high esteem in the 
colony. He was employed as agent 
in charge of the trading-post for 
three years, and, like the other 
prominent men of Plymouth, cheer- 
fully bore the privations and dis- 
comforts of this temporary exile in 
the wilderness for the good of the 
colony and the maintenance of the 
trade with the Indians. 

It was in 1654, also, that Thomas 
Prence came into the Kennebec re- 
gion and assembled the settlers at 
Merrymeeting Bay. His object was 



to establish the authority of Plym- 
outh over the Kennebec settlers. 
Governor Prence must have been a 
man very well qualified for his 
numerous and important offices, for 
as the old records state "he had a 
countenance full of majesty and was 
a terror to evil doers." Sixteen 
settlers, or planters, appeared at 
this conference at Merrymeeting and 
swore allegiance to the English 
crown and also to New Plymouth. 
And thus, as the historian gravely 
records, "the Pilgrim Republic had 
reached the dignity of holding a 
colony." A few wise and practical 
laws were enacted at this time for 
the preservation of peace and order, 
and especially for preventing the 
sale of strong drink to the Indians. 
During this long period in the 
history of the trading-post, the 
Kennebec patent had changed its 
ownership several times. In 1620, 
King James made a grant of New 
England to the council established 
at Devon, and from this council 
William Bradford and his associates 
received the patent conveying to 
them "all that tract of land lying in 
and between and extending itself 
from the utmost limits of the Cob- 
bossee Contee which adjoineth the 
river Kennebec towards the west- 
ern ocean and a place called the falls 
of Nequamkike, and the space of fif- 
teen miles on each side of the Ken- 
nebec." In 1630 this patent was 
confirmed to William Bradford, his 
heirs, associates and assigns. In 
1640 Bradford and his associates 
surrendered this grant on the Ken- 
nebec, . of which they held the ex- 
clusive rights, to all the freemen of 
the colony of New Plymouth. A 
few years later, in 1648, the colony 
adopted the system of leasing the 
trading-post, usually for a period of 
five years, but still retained juris- 

diction over the territory. Accord- 
ingly, in 1649, the business was 
leased to five prominent Plymouth 
men known as merchants or "farm- 
ers." They were Governor Brad- 
ford, Governor Thomas Prence, Mr. 
William Paddy, Mr. John Winslow 
and Captain Thomas Willett. In 
order to strengthen their claim to 
this territory, if possible, Governor 
Bradford at this time secured a deed 
of the land from the famous Indian 
chieftain Monquine, more familiarly 
known as Natahanada. This chief- 
tain, in consideration of two hogs- 
heads of provisions, one of bread, 
one hogshead of pease, two coats of 
cloth, two gallons of wine and one 
bottle of strong water, conveyed to 
William Bradford, John W r inslow, 
Thomas Prence, Thomas Willett 
and William Paddy the territory 
from Koussinoc up to Wesserun- 
sick for the New Plymouth Colony. 
A copy of this curious and interest- 
ing deed is now in the Registrar's of- 
fice of Lincoln County, Maine. 

It must be remembered however 
that such a deed as this was practi- 
cally worthless; for the Abenaki 
Chieftains held no personal or rep- 
resentative rights in the lands of 
their tribes, and had no comprehen- 
sion of a legal transference of their 
territory. By these deeds so fre- 
quently given, and sometimes of the 
same land to different parties, the 
Indians at first understood that they 
were merely granting to the strang- 
er the right to occupy the land and 
to hunt and fish in common with 
themselves. Thus, in 1725, the 
Abenaki Chiefs refused to ac- 
knowledge any exclusive claim of 
the English by right of possession. 
"We were in possession before 
you," they said, "for we have held 
it from time immemorial. The lands 
Ave possess were given us by the 



Great Master of Life. We acknowl- 
edge only from him." And again, 
in 1744, when Governor Shirley ex- 
hibited the deeds signed by the 
Indians as a proof of his claim to 
the territory, the aged chieftain, 
Ongewasgone, replied, "I am an old 
man, yet I never heard my an- 
cestors say that these lands were 

But long before the struggle for 
the permanent possession of the 
Kennebec valley began, the trade 
with the Indians had commenced to 
decline and in 1661 Plymouth sold 
the entire territory for four hundred 
pounds, to Antipas Boies, Edward 
Tyng, Thomas Brattle and John 
Winslow. By this time, however, 
the days of prosperity for the trad- 
ing-post were over, for game had 
grown scarce and the hunters few. 
Many of the bravest of the Abenaki 
men had been killed by their ene- 
mies, the Iroquois ; and the remain- 
ing chiefs had begun to realize that 
their rights were being permanent- 
ly encroached upon, and they be- 
came dissatisfied with the business, 
the profits of which went entirely 
to the white men. In a very short 
time therefore the new purchasers 
abandoned the trading-post. The 
buildings fell into decay. The 
tangled vines and spreading ferns 
grew over its ruins and at last noth- 
ing was left to mark its place. The 
heirs of the last-named purchasers 
held the property for nearly one 
hundred years, the land lying dor- 
mant and unsettled until Fort West- 
ern was built in 1754. 

The men of Plymouth were thus 
spared any hostilities with the 
Indians. For thirty-four years — a 
whole generation — they frequented 
the Kennebec and dwelt in peace 

with the "Gentle Abenakis." They 
braved the dangers of the sea and 
the privations of the forest, not for 
their own personal gain but for the 
financial upbuilding of the colony, 
and withdrew before the Abenakis 
were involved in the general and 
inevitable conflict. 

The picturesque Indian village, as 
well as the Plymouth trading-post, 
soon disappeared from the banks of 
the Kennebec ; and its name after- 
wards became corrupted into "Cush- 
noc." But fortunately the word in 
its original form is preserved in the 
old French records; for Father 
Druillettes, writing in 1652, states 
that "the Abenakis have a village 
and burial ground where they meet 
every spring and fall in sight of the 
English who live at Koussinoc." 

In regard to the meaning of this 
name there are several interesting 
theories; but Maurault, in "His- 
toire des Abenakis 1 '' tells us that 
"Koussinoc" signifies in French, il 
y en a beaucoup — meaning in Eng- 
lish, "there are many of them there" 
— and that the village was so called 
by the Indians because the English 
had greatly increased in numbers at 
this place. 

It is a matter of regret that the 
capital of Maine does not still retain 
its ancient name, but the word is 
replete with historic associations 
and is in itself a precious legacy. It 
brings before our minds a series of 
pictures vivid with life and local 
color, and in which the elements 
of adventure, hardship, bravery and 
romance are mingled. And as we 
repeat this musical old Indian name, 
we are forced to think of our Pil- 
grim ancestors at Koussinoc, and to 
remember that, in those olden days, 
"there were many of them there." 

The Gypsies 

By D. C. Cahalane 

"And though we should be grateful for 

good houses, 
There is, after all, no house like God's out- 


SOCRATES grasped the idea- 
how many things there are in 
this world we do not want. 
The man who does not learn this 
lesson, cannot appreciate the soli- 
tude of the woods and fields. 

What, after all, is civilization but 
tyranny? Its limitations and re- 
strictions harass us at every turn 
from the cradle to the grave. Con- 
vention tells us we must do certain 
things, and so complicates the con- 
ditions of our lives that we spend 
years in soul destroying toil to sat- 
isfy these silly assumptions. In 
our blind conceit we sacrifice youth 
and health in order that we may pass 
on to generations unborn, share cer- 
tificates and other bauble, which 
in turn yield the recipient — princi- 
pally worry. 

Thrice happy is the man who in 
these days of complicated living 
heeds the wisdom of the preacher — 
"All is vanity" — and takes himself 
for a season out of the beaten paths 
and comes into closer touch with the 
elements. How many of you who 
read these lines, have mused by the 
road-side camp-fire of those children 
of nature — the Gypsies, or revelled 
in a world of mystery by your own 
camp-fire in the woods. The mem- 
ory of our tribal ancestor as he sat 
by his camp-fire has come down to 
us in our blood. Sitting in its glow 


we are back home again, resting 
in freedom from care. 

For real camp-fire company, give 
me the companionship of a boy. 
John Burroughs long ago observed 
that the boy is the true companion 
of the woods and fields. Boys are 
epitomes of the early life of the race. 
If you want to delight a youth, set 
him to work building a camp-fire. 
Somehow the boy is a part of nature. 
He seems to be more familiar with 
its processes than the man. Watch 
him as the sun disappears with its 
afterglow of gold and the air is full 
of strange whisperings. No sound 
escapes his ears. With the hooting 
of the owl the drowsy eyelids close 
over visions of coming pleasures on 
the morrow and in my arms I bear 
him gently to the tent. Half asleep, 
half awake, always looking toward 
the future, he tells me of his plans 
for the coming day. Then sleep 
gently draws the veil before his eyes, 
allowing him to dream of the pleas- 
ures of the day. 

The instinct which drives men to 
the woods is possessed in no small 
degree by the Romany race, who are 
the true wanderers. Their life is one 
of poetry compared with the com- 
monplace existence of mankind in 
general. It affords quiet dignity, 
refined simplicity and the com- 
panionship of divine things. It 
means freedom from the small talk 
of the drawing room, from snobbery 
of every sort. In exchange it gives 
the maoqc of sunshine, the green 


A Man Well Versed in Latin and a True Type of the Real Romany Stock. 

fields and shady lanes — the com- 
panionship of every flower that 
blooms — of every bird that floats in 
the soft summer sunshine. 

The history of the Gypsies forms 
an intensely interesting study. 
Their ''wonderful story" cannot be 
quickly told. Time in its mighty 
changes disturbs them not. The 
customs of centuries cling to them 
today as tenaciously as life itself — 
all of which bespeaks the nobler and 
more ancient origin than is usually 
allowed. Mr. Paul Kester says that 
a fancy of his is, "that the ancestors 
of our friends of the road were once 
a savage race in India, a race — like 
the Arabs — of warrior kings ; that 
conquest and subjection followed 
their supremacy, and that they slow- 
ly sank into the degraded condition 
that prevailed before the beginning 
of their exodus, still cherishing 
their pride and their free spirit while 
cringing to their conquerors, the 

pitiful remnant of a prehistoric 

Since the twelfth century have 
they been in Europe. Stanley long 
since wrote : 

"Why floats the silvery wreath 

Of light thin smoke from yonder bank of 

heath ? 
What forms are those beneath the shaggy 

In tattered tents scarce sheltered from the 

The hoary father and the ancient dame, 
And squalid children, cowering o'er the 

The swarthy lineaments — the wild attire, 
The stranger tones bespeak an Eastern 


The origin of the Gypsies was the 
subject of inquiry in Europe more 
than 400 years ago. 

Although I find early record of 
over a score of theories on the 
origin of the Gypsies which have 
been entertained by men who have 
studied the race, there is finally but 


. : ;• ?* 


. \I 

■ - ' wmm» '■ 

• mm mm 
■HI K" 



one reasonable conclusion, viz: that 
they had their origin in India. 
Grellman nearly a century ago was 
the first to assert that the Hindo- 
stan language has the greatest af- 
finity with that of the Gypsy. 
Grellman's method of reasoning 
was the only true method of de- 
termining the origin of these people. 

His dissertation printed in 1807 
quite conclusively proved the east- 
ern extraction of the Gypsies, par- 


ticularly by the similarity of their 
language to that of Hindostan. 

The different appellations by 
which the Gypsies were distin- 
guished in earlier times appear to 
have reference to the countries from 
Which it was supposed they had 
emigrated. For example; the 
French having the first accounts of 
them from Bohemia, gave them the 
name of Bohemians. The Dutch 
supposing they came from Egypt, 



called them Hey- 
dens — Heathen. 
The idea of the 
English appears 
to be similar in 
pronouncing them 
Gypsies — Egyp- 
tians. These peo- 
ple appeared in 
Europe in the 
15th Century. 
Mention is made 
of their being in 
Germany as early 
as the year 1417. 
In Germany they 
spread so rapidly, 
that in 1418 their 
names were re- 
corded in the an- 
imal publications 
of various parts of 
the country. Hoy- 
Ian d (a later 
writer than Grell- 
man) says they 

traveled in bands, each having its 
leader, sometimes called Count, oth- 
ers had the title of Dukes or Lords 
of lesser Egypt. 

German historians are agreed 
that when the Gypsies first made 
their appearance in Europe they 
chose to be considered as Pilgrims 
and that their profession met with 
the more ready belief as it coincided 
with the infatuation of the times. 

Grellman stated that several old 
writings mention the credulity with 
which people cherished the idea that 
they were real pilgrims and holy 
persons, which idea procured for 
them toleration and safe conduct in 
many places. Hoyland gives an ac- 
count of Hungarian Gypsies being 
employed in Hungary in the work- 
ing of iron about the year 1650. 
This occupation appears to have 
been a favorite one with them in 


those far off times and is even to this 

An interesting item in Pasquier's 
"Recherches. de la France" is a note 
copied from an old book in the form 
of a journal, the latter the property 
of a doctor of divinity of Paris, 
which fell into the hands of Pas- 
quier. He says : "These people wan- 
dered up and down France, under 
the eye and with the knowledge of 
the magistrates, for 100 or 120 years. 
At length in 1561 an edict was is- 
sued commanding all officers of jus- 
tice to turn out of the Kingdom, in 
the space of two months, under pain 
of the galleys and corporal punish- 
ment, all men, women and children 
who assumed the name of Bohemi- 
ans or Egyptians." 

An early Italian writer on Gypsies 
tells us that there was a general law 
throughout Italy that no Gypsy 



should remain more than two nights 
in one place. By this plan no place 
retained its guests long. The writer 
above referred to observes that 
Italy rather suffered than benefited 
by the law. 

Whatever their origin, no race is 
more widely scattered over the 
earth's surface than the Gypsies. Go 
where you will, you will find these 
wanderers. Something like a million 

America. Yet in January, iy 15, nine 
Border Gypsies, men and women, 
by the names of Faa, Stirling, Yors- 
toun, Finnick, Lindsey, Ross and 
Robertson, were transported by the 
magistrates of Glasgow to the Vir- 
ginia plantations at a cost of thir- 
teen pounds sterling (Gypsy Lore 
Journal). That is practically all we 
know concerning the coming of the 
Gypsies to America. 


is their probable number in Europe. 
Of the number of Gypsies in 
America I have not the vaguest 
notion, for there are no statistics of 
the slightest value to go by. Just 
when Gypsies came to this country 
is uncertain. In Appleton's Ameri- 
can Cyclopedia (1874) the writer of 
the article "Gypsies" pronounces it 
questionable whether a band of 
genuine Gypsies has ever been in 

There is a record of Gypsies in 
New York as far back as 1850. To- 
day we have distributed throughout 
this country thousands of the race 
from England, Scotland, Hungary, 
Spain, one knows not whence else 

Groome, speaking of the Gypsies as 
Nomads, says, "we do not know 
within a thousand years when the 
Gypsies left India." It is well 



known however that India was their 
original home, and that they so- 
journed long in a Greek-speaking 
region, and that in western and 
northern Europe their present dis- 
persion dates from after the year 

The English Gypsies who leave 
Great Britain usually go to some 
English-speaking country, princi- 

of the real Romany in the Stanleys, 
Coopers and others. The latter are 
particularly noted as a most decided 
type of pure blooded, old-fashioned 
Romany stock. 

We find record of one hundred 
Gypsies who arrived by train at 
Liverpool in July, 1886. They were 
called the "Greek Gypsies" and had 
started from Corfu, but according 


pally to Canada and the United 
States. The Romany race with us 
today are all descendants of early 
Gypsy immigrants, their surnames 
Lee, Cooper, Stanley, Lovell, Bos- 
vills, Smith, Herron, Hicks, etc., 
dating back to the 16th and 17th 

Among the American Gypsies 
may be found many fine specimens 

to their passports came from all 
parts of Greece and European 
Turkey, bound for New York. The 
United States being closed to pauper 
immigrants, no steamboat would ac- 
cept them and they encamped at 
Liverpool. Their encampment was 
visited by Mr. David MacRitchie 
and Mr. H. T. Crofton, the joint 
author with Mr. Bath Smart of the 



admirable "Dialect of the English 
Gypsies" (1875). In Chambers' 
Journal for September, 1886 may be 
found an excellent article by Mr. 
MacRitchie concerning their camp. 
After camping some time at Liver- 
pool they crossed to Hull, but failed 
in getting passage there. About a 
year later Groome discovered some 
of this party in Yorkshire. Their 
subsequent fate is unknown. No 

Francis H. Groome who died in 
January, 1902, in Edinburgh — and 
whom Theodore Watts-Dunton 
designates as the "Tarno Rye" and 
says of him that he (Groome) was 
one of the most remarkable and ro- 
mantic literary lives that, since 
Borrow, have been lived in his 
time, — was next to Mr. Sampson, 
the librarian of University College 
at Liverpool, an ideal collector of 


doubt at some later date some of 
them, at least, succeeded in reach- 
ing these shores. 

So then, this-, wandering race, 
from time immemorial established 
in Europe, but immigrants original- 
ly from India, must have fascinating 
folk-tales which will surely be of in- 
terest to every student of Indo- 
European Lore. 

Welsh Gypsy folk-tales, as the 
scores of stories published by him 
in 1899 amply prove. The Welsh 
dialect is probably the best pre- 
served of all Gypsy dialects, and the 
Groome's folk-tales are well worthy 
of study. 

In a visit to a camp last summer 
I found a pleasant surprise in a 
family of Welsh Gypsies who came 



to this country the season previous. 
From Theodore Watts-Dunton's 
"Aylwin" I had learned of the pic- 
turesque Snowdon Hills and that of 
fascinating "Romany Chi" Sinn 
Lovell. Here I was at last face to 
face with a party of Welsh Gypsies 
who had lived in the very locality 
described by the author of "Aylwin." 
Not less interesting was a camp 
of Russian Gypsies of which the 

looked rather hard for their winter's 
wear. I have often wondered how 
they since fared and what became of 

The average person is wont to as- 
sociate small crimes with the Gyp- 
sies. The "low down" native, him- 
self often a midnight marauder in 
poultry yards is ever on the alert 
to ply his calling when there is a 
Gypsy encampment in the neighbor- 


members were all typical Gypsies 
in physique, the women beautiful, 
all rags and tatters and most in- 
veterate beggars. One of the men 
was an accomplished linguist and 
could speak Greek, Russian and two 
or three other dialects of south-east- 
ern Europe. A Gypsy acquaintance 
of mine met this same band early 
the following spring and they 

hood. So these nomads always have 
shared and always will have to share 
the blame of these depredations, re- 
gardless by whom committed. 

To be sure, some of the poorer 
classes like my friends the Russians, 
being often sorely pressed, some- 
times trespass on neighboring corn- 
fields and potato patches. As a rule 
acts of kindness shown the Gypsy 



wayfarers inspire them with a feel- 
ing of honor and they rarely, if ever, 
violate any trust reposed in them. 

When small boys we were told 
of Gypsies kidnapping children of 
other people. Fresh in the minds 
of all was the fruitless search among 
the Gypsy camps near Boston in the 
summer of 1902 for the small boy 
who had so mysteriously disap- 
peared. Such crimes emanate usual- 
ly from the versatile brain of a 
writer of Gypsy romance. 

Fortune telling is a practice which 
has long prevailed among the Gyp- 
sies of all countries. There are al- 
ways multitudes of people looking 
for light from some sibyl, whose 
prognostications are believed to be 
the offspring of some supernatural 
agency. Sighing and disappointed 
lovers are the Gypsies' best cus- 
tomers. They hope to find in the 
Gypsy mother a panacea for the an- 
guish which destroys their hap- 
piness or mars their peace of mind. 

Gypsies are good discriminators 
of human nature and have the 
shrewdness to adapt their speech to 

Yet even in Gypsy life there are 
plenty of opportunities for the hon- 
est earning of livelihoods, such as 
the weaving of carpets, basket mak- 
ing, knife grinding, repairing of 
clocks, tin and china ware, lace mak- 
ing, hawking of all kinds, horse deal- 
ing and many other employments. 

I never visited the tent of Gypsies 
without receiving a hearty welcome. 
If you can rakker the jib, how ever 
little, you will be assured of cour- 
teous treatment, and pressed to take 
refreshments; and the tent or van 
will be at your service at night if you 
are apray the drom and lack shelter 
for the night. 

Let me add, many Gypsy beds 
are clean and inviting with linen as 

pure and white as will be found up- 
on your own bed at home — and 
among the wanderers, in many a 
van may be found silk gowns and 

Should your actions, however, 
creat suspicion, even though you be 
a student of ethnology, you will not 
add materially to your fund of in- 
formation from your interview with 
members of this strange and fasci- 
nating race, whose romantic life to 
the most of us is shrouded in mys- 

Gypsies are the Arabs of our 
country. They present the singular 
spectacle of a race who regard with 
absolute indifference the comforts 
of modern civilization, false refine- 
ment and struggle after wealth. 
They are not, as many suppose, out- 
casts of society, but they refuse to 
wear the bonds it imposes. To the 
Gypsy who dwells in the town in the 
winter, with the first spring sun- 
shine comes the longing to be off 
and he is soon on the road. 

As the smoke of his evening 
camp-fire goes up to heaven, and 
the savory odor of the roast 
"hotchi-witchi" floats in the air, he 
sits in the deepening twilight drink- 
ing in all the sights and sounds 
around him. He feels 

" 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'Tis sweet to listen to the night winds 

From leaf to leaf." 

Cradled from his infancy in such 
haunts as these "places of nestling 
green for poets made," he sleeps 
well with the dearly-loved lullabies 
of his far away ancestors soothing 
him to rest. 

Several years have elapsed since 
Charles Leland (Hans Breitmann) 
and Frank Groom e met for the last 
time at a folk-lore congress in Lon- 



don. Both these scholars of Gypsy- 
lore went to their final rest not 
many months ago. Leland was laid 
away, far from his native land, at 
Florence, Italy; and Groome was 

buried among his forefathers at 
Monk Soham in Suffolk, England. 
I am proud of the slight acquaint- 
ance I had with Groome, the 
Romany scholar. 

Black Jake's Souvenir 

By Henrietta R. Eliot 

D[D you ever see a negro pale 
with fright? I did when I was 
ten years old, and though I am' 
an old man now, I have not forgot- 
ten it, and never shall. 

It was a mid-summer afternoon 
and I was eating cherries up in the 
tree behind the house, when crash ! 
the board fence at the back of the 
yard banged and rattled like a vol- 
ley of musketry, two boards fell in- 
wards and "Black Jake" — our Jake — 
no longer black, but a dreadful sort 
of putty color, sprang through the 
gap and over the splintering boards, 
and shot past me toward the front 
gate. I scrambled down as fast as 
I could and reached the gate in 
less than a minute but he was al- 
ready out of sight, while a fresh 
crash and splintering of the fallen 
fence boards turned my eyes again 
to the back yard in time to see 
the last of three men — one of them 
a local police-man — plunging to- 
ward me through the, hole which 
Jake had made. 

"Where did that blamed nigger 
go?" shouted the foremost man as 
he ran toward me. 

"Right out of this gate," I" 
answered, "but he — " 

"Which way'd he turn?" inter- 
rupted the man. 

"I don't know. He ran like gee 
whizz! and when I got here I 
couldn't see him either way." 

The man ' did not stop for the 
end of my sentence but dashed past 
me and around the nearest corner, 
with his followers, while I mechani- 
cally finished it to the empty air. 

A police-man after "Black Jake!" 
AVhat did it mean? He had split 
our wood, spaded my mother's 
flower beds, and done all the odd 
jobs about our house almost ever 
since I could remember, and I had 
often heard my father praise his 
honesty. Indeed, every one trusted 
"Black Jake." He had escaped 
from slavery five years before and 
had come directly to the little town 
in northern Ohio where we lived, 
and being at that time the only ne- 
gro in the place, had by common 
consent received this name, which 
had ever since clung to him, along 
with an affection and even respect 
seldom given by a community to 
its "hewers of wood and drawers of 
water" ; and now a police-man was 
after him! What did it mean? 

Suddenly I remembered some- 
thing my father had told me about 
the fugitive slave law and I was 
sure those men were trying to catch 
Black Jake and take him back into 



slavery ! And my father, who 
might have helped him, had started 
for Boston only the day before ! O, 
how glad I was that I had not been 
able to tell which way he ran ! 

[The broader sympathies of these 
later years have drawn North and 
South together, and Northern peo- 
ple have learned to understand, at 
least in part, the relation which a 
conscientious believer in slavery 
bore to his slaves — and the almost 
insoluble problem which the insti- 
tution presented to the very few 
Southerners who did not so believe. 
But I am speaking now of a by-gone 
time.] To me, as to many another 
Northern child of that day, slavery 
meant only whipping, cruelty, heart- 
break and torture of every kind. 
The thought of Jake's being caught 
was more than I could bear, for a 
special bond of comradeship existed 
between Black Jake and my small 
self. Whatever the job might be 
for which he had been hired I had 
always worked with him, when out 
of school, and I could not remem- 
ber, even back in my petticoat days, 
when he had not made me feel that 
my labor was as important as his 
own, and I loved him dearly. I ran 
to tell my mother what had hap- 
pened and what I feared, and she 
comforted me as mothers can. 

"If those were slave hunters," she 
said, "he may get away from them 
into Canada — it is but a few hours 

To my childish imagination her 
cheerful "may" meant "will," and, 
quite re-assured, I went whistling to 
the cellar to split the morning's 
kindlings (my special daily task) 
before the supper bell should ring. 

As I selected some straight- 
grained sticks from the wood pile, 
(for my Yankee mother never could 
be converted to the use of coal, and 

we burned the costlier fuel,) I heard 
a sort of tapping, and stopped 
whistling to listen. 

"Dat yo' Mars' Clar'nce?" 

The voice was a tremulous whis- 
per, but I knew on the instant that 
it was Black Jake, and that he must 
have turned down our side cellar- 
way instead of running through the 
yard to the street. 

"O Jake," I whispered, "is that 
you? I'll tell mamma you're here, 
and she'll help get you to Canada;" 
and I started for the stairs. 

"Fer de Lawd's sake," the voice 
broke ' from a whisper to louder 
tones as I ran, "come back Mars' 
Clar'nce — ef yo' tell yo' ma, I'se 
plum done fer," whispering again 
as I stood still. "Fer de lub o' 
goodness keep yo' . mouf shet, en 
come behime yere whar I be." 

Still as a cat I climbed to the top 
of the pile — the half emptied front 
rick of sticks making the climb easy 
— pulling myself along on my stom- 
ach across the four ricks which, re- 
maining entire, rose to within a foot 
of the ceiling, then let myself down, 
first on to Jake's shoulders, and then 
to the ground, in a space barely 
wide enough for us to stand side 
by side, both facing the wood. 

"Yo' done guess right Mars' 
Clar'nce," Jake whispered. "De 
nigger ketchers is atter me sho, but 
yo' mustn't tell yo' ma. I reckon 
she ain't nebber lied sence she was 
bawn, en' eben ef she tuck'n argified 
wid hussef, 'twell hit seem like she's 
jestified, she couldn't never make no 
sess un it. I 'low dey'll year dat I 
wuks fer yo' pa, en dey'll such dis 
house 'fo' dey's thoo, en' dey'll quiz- 
itate yo' ma — but honey — wat folks 
don' know, dey caint tell, so I am' 
gwine tell yo' ma, en' I am' gwine 
sen' no wud to Ruby." 

"Now listen, honey." I had to, for 



his frightened whisper was almost 
inarticulate and he stopped be- 
tween the words to catch the sound 
of any possible approaching step. 

"Listen, honey. I'll hatter stay 
right yere, 'twell de good Lawd 
show me some way fer gittin' 
acrost to Canada." 

"But Jake," I interrupted, "you'll 

"Not wile you'se roun' chile," he 
answered. "I'se 'pendin' on yo'. 
Nobody ain' gwine bodder yo', caze 
yo' ain't seem 'sponsible. But," he 
added, "y°' is 'sponsible — 'mazin' 
'sponsible, en' I knows I kin trus' 

As he spoke I could feel his arm 
twisting and his elbow shoving me, 
in the narrow space, as he felt in 
his pantaloon's pocket. 

"Dar, Mars' Clar'nce, is de money 
fer a loaf er bread en' a Balogna 
sassage — I ain't hungry now, but I 
'low I'll be bleeged ter eat ter-mor- 
rer, fer to keep up my strenth fer 
ter git ter Canada. I'll boost yo' 
outen yere in a minit, en' atter sup- 
per, (dere's yo' supper bell now) yo' 
ast yo' ma, nat'ral like, ef yo' kin 
play ball in de square, en' den yo' 
kin git de bread en' sassage on de 
way, en' come back acrost de lot 
and thoo dat hole I done make in 
de fence; chuck de grub inter de 
cellar way 'twell yo' kin pump 
some water, (yo' kin take de ole 
tin bucket I keeps in de shed fer to 
drink fum while I'se wukkin) en' 
fotch 'em all down yere en' hide 'em 
in de ash pit, en' den yo' go ter 
splittin' de kinlin's like nothin' ain't 
happen. I kin crope outen yere en' 
git 'em in de night — en' doan yo' 
come yere agin," he was boosting 
me out as he spoke, " 'twell yo' come 
ter split de kindlin's ter-morrer eve- 

I must have shown my fright and 
nervous sense of responsibility in 
my poor little face when I appeared 
at the supper table, in spite of my 
valiant efforts to the contrary — 
but whatever my mother noticed 
she probably attributed to my re- 
cent excitement over poor Jake, and 
tactfully diverted my mind — or 
thought she did. 

"Have you finished your kind- 
lings?" she asked. 

"No," I answered, "but I won't 
forget them, but please may I go 
first to the square to play ball? The 
game will be half through if I do 
the kindlings first." 

Why must I feel like a double- 
dyed villain, when I was trying so 
hard to do right? Surely, as Jake 
had intimated, the habit of perfect 
truthfulness is strong, and hard to 
break ! 

Arrived at the square, I played so 
badly as to disgrace myself with 
my fellows, and returned through 
the fence hole with my bundles, on- 
ly to confront my mother examin- 
ing the boards to see if they were 
too broken to replace. I hastily 
dropped my bundles before climb- 
ing through, and my mother had 
evidently been too intent on the 
boards to notice them. 

"This hole makes a convenient 
short cut," she said, "but it must 
be nailed up all the same — with 
your father and poor Jake out of the 
question, you and I will have to see 
what we can do." And she began 
replacing one of the boards. 

"Now, Clarence," she said, "hold 
this in place while I hammer." 

Of course I had to obey, although 
I was separating myself from my 
bundles. Meantime the light would 
soon begin to wane, and I must get 
them to the cellar before Ann, the 
cook, locked it. 



I grasped the board and my moth- 
er stooped for a nail — she took one, 
dropped it, took another, dropped 
it, raked the pile in the box back and 
forth and pushed them from her. 

"They're all either too large or 
too small," she said. "I think there 
are some that are just right in the 
house. I'll look, any way;" and she 

This was my chance and I must 
risk it. With the disappearance of 
my mother's skirts through the 
kitchen door, I sprang through the 
hole, grabbed my bundles, thrust 
them into the cellar-way, and ran 
to the tool shed for the bucket. As 
I came from it my mother appeared. 
She looked annoyed. 

"Put down that old bucket and 
come here," she said. "You should 
not have let go of the board. It's 
so badly broken already I'm not 
sure we can make it do, however 
carefully we handle it." 

[Alas! The "right way" may al- 
ways be narrow, but surely it is not 
always straight !] 

At last the boards were nailed, 
and my mother, praising my ef- 
ficient help and telling me to go to 
my kindlings, strolled toward the 
front yard. I seized my bucket in 
desperation, but fearing to call at- 
tention to myself by the sound of 
the pump, I ran to the kitchen fau- 
cet instead, and called down the 
wrath of Ann, for bespattering her 
newly wiped sink — but my bucket 
was full and I tried not to care that 
my eyes were too. In another 
minute food and water were safely 
hidden in the ash pit, and with such 
fading light as fell through the open 
cellar way, I was just finishing my 
kindlings when Ann came to lock 

up ;< 

"Yer mother is always afther tell- 
in' yez to shplit thim kindlin's before 

supper," she snapped. "One of 
these foine nights, ye'll be choppin' 
off wan of yer fingers and nobody 
to blame but yerself." 

In spite of my relief that Jake's 
provisions were safe in the ash pit, 
the evening was not a happy one. 
I went to the sitting-room where 
the lamp was newly lighted and 
tried to read, but hand-cuffs and 
lies, Bologna sausages and" maps of 
Canada, jostled each other in my 
mind as I tried to make sense of 
the page before me, and I was glad 
when half past nine — my usually 
dreaded bed-time — struck. 

The next day was as bad. I kept 
away from the cellar as Jake had 
directed, but the image of the poor 
fellow wedged flat between the 
wood pile and the wall never left my 
thoughts. I actually felt him, like 
a pain in my bones, no matter how 
I tried to busy myself. And the 
afternoon brought fresh trials. 

My mother had sent me to buy 
some eggs and I was starting 
through the sitting-room door which 
opened on the side yard, when I 
bethought me that I might have no 
equally good opportunity to buy, 
unobserved, the food Jake would 
need for the next day. I slipped 
back across the room, unnoticed by 
my mother — who was reading in 
the parlor adjoining — and had just 
taken my own purse from the 
drawer where I kept it, when my 
ear caught the rasping voice of the 
man who had called to me the day 
before. The maid was showing 
him into the parlor and I could hear 
the rustle of my mother's skirts as 
she rose to meet him. 

What should I do? I dared not 
cross the room for the folding doors 
were open, so I stood as still as my 
knocking knees would let me. 

"I'm hunting a runaway nigger," 



the man explained. "I don't never 
want to trouble the ladies, but you 
see a dozen people hereabout seen 
the nigger go into your yard, and 
nary one seen him come out, though 
there was twicet as many people to 
the front of the house as to the back. 
Likewise we've had a watch on the 
nigger's house, and you've been 
seen twicet since yesterday going 
back and forth betwixt this house 
and his'n. And the upshot is, we've 
decided he's hid somewheres on 
these premises. We've got a search 
warrant and four men are watching 
the outside doors, and we're bound 
to get him, if he's here, but it'll 
save you and us a lot of muss and 
trouble, if you'll give him up, pleas- 
ant and easy, to begin with." 

"If I did know where the man 
was, I would not tell you." (I 
could feel my mother's eyes pinning 
the man to the wall like a beetle.) 
"But I do not. He is nowhere on 
the premises to my knowledge. In 
fact my little boy told me he ran 
through our yard and out of the 
front gate. As to the man's poor 
wife, Ruby, I certainly have tried to 
comfort her and shall continue to 
do so. Now if you have a search 
warrant you can proceed to your 

"I'll talk with the little boy first," 
said the man, "youngsters often see 
things that older folks don't. Where 
is he?" 

"He has just gone for an errand," 
answered my mother, her voice 
trembling with indignation, "but I 
know he knows nothing of the poor 
man's whereabouts. The child 
never kept anything from me in his 

And there I stood behind the 
angle of the open folding doors, 
trembling with the certainty that it 
was but a matter of minutes before 

the slave catcher must enter. He 
was already moving — I grew rigid — 
but no, it was toward the front door, 
which he opened to admit another 
man. It was a noisy door to open 
and, while it scrawked on its hinges, 
I opened the door into the dining- 
room, unheard, and sped through 
it and the kitchen into the yard, 
followed by Ann's vituperations, for 
she knew I was forbidden to go 
that way. 

Our town was built without 
alleys, and back yards backed on to 
back yards with no gates between, 
but the side fences were low, and 
jumping these and running across 
three back yards, I was soon on the 
street far from the house. I made 
my errand cover the time, as near as 
I could guess at it, that the men 
would take to search the premises, 
and returned as I had gone, over the 
fences, sick with anxiety as to poor 
Take's fate, but resolved to say or do 
nothing which might betray him, if 
his hiding place had not yet been dis- 
covered. I had bought a new buck- 
et and a loaf of bread — my money 
would go no further. Putting these 
in the cellar-way, I hurried with the 
eggs to the kitchen door. 

Ann was swelling with rage, (not 
at me for a wonder this time), and 
was talking to herself. 

"The nashty bastes ! Is it nagers 
they're afther huntin' in me kitchen? 
I'll tach thim manners wid me 
broom shtick, if iver they cooms 
nager huntin' around me agin." 
Then she saw me, and came to the 
door for the eggs. 

"Thim eggs is moighty shmall fer 
their size," she said acidly. 

"Did they find — " I began im- 
pulsively, then caught my breath 
and stammered, "I mean, did they 
dirty your kitchen?" 

But Ann was already half way 



across it with the eggs and had not 
heard me. I ran to the cellar. 

"Are you there Jake?" I called 
in a stage whisper, as I pulled the 
door to, behind me. 

"Yes, Mar's Clar'nce," he whis- 
pered, 'Tse plum tuckered out, but 
I'se yere. De Philistines deys ben 
atter me, but de good Lawd hab de- 
libbered me outen dere han's." 

"I can't stay," I said, "but here is 
some bread," and I sent it skating 
across the top of the wood toward 
him. I feared my mother would 
note my long absence but I must 
take my chance while I had it. I 
snatched my bucket and ran to the 
pump. O, had it ever made so much 
noise before? I felt at each stroke 
as if some one would surely run 
out and ask what I was doing and 
why I was doing it; but no one did, 
and in another instant the water was 
safe in the ash pit and I was hurry- 
ing to my mother. 

She met me flushed but smiling, 
and evidently not intending to let 
me know what had been going on. 
I looked at the clock and was grate- 
ful to see that it was nearly six. 

"I'll split my kindlings now," I 
said, and so made my escape to the 
cellar again. 

"I wuz pow'ful thusty," said 
Jake, as he took the bucket, (which 
I had managed to get to him over 
the wood pile) from his lips. It held 
two quarts, but he had already half 
emptied it. 

"Hit do seem moughty unpro- 
vidin' to drink so much ter wunst," 
he said, "but I'se 'lowin fer ter come 
outen yere ter-night, so's I ain't so 
savin' un it." 

"But Jake," I exclaimed, (I was 
was wedged beside him as I had 
been before,) "you just can't go to 
Canada to-night. Those men'll 
catch you as sure as you live ! 

You've got to stand it, and stay 
here till we know they've gone 
away. I didn't have money enough 
to buy anything but the bread, but 
my pockets are chuck full of cher- 
ries, and they'll taste good. Could 
you lie down and sleep in here last 
night without most choking?" 

"Bress you honey! I didn't stay 
yere atter I year yo' ma lockin' up 
de house. I crope up en' lay un de 
top er de wood de hull night, bein' 
moughty keerful do ter git down 
agin, 'fo' Ann came roun' in de 
mornin'. But we's wastin' time en' 
de supper bell gwine ring any 
minute. Now, yo' see, honey, dis 
yere house done ben suched, en' yo' 
ma done ben axed all she gwine be 
axed, so's I ain't skeert no mo' er 
her knowin' dat I'se yere, en' atter 
yer supper yo' kin tell her; but be 
moughty keerful der don nobody 
else year, en' doan fergit ter say 
dat atter de house is done locked, 
en' de lights is out, I'se gwine crope 
up en' 'vise 'long wid her. 

- "O whacky ! but weren't you 
scared, Jake, when those men came 
into the cellar?" I asked, as I sat 
beside him in the kitchen four hours 
later, while he ate the supper which 
my mother had insisted should pre- 
cede his talk with her. 

"Yes, Mars' Clar'nce, I suttinly 
wuz mos' onrighteously skeert. 
Mos' specially w'en one un urn be- 
gun fer ter pull down de wood pile. 
But des den de odder give me 'sur- 
ance. 'Dey ain't no nigger in dat 
wood pile/ he sorter singed, en' dey 
bof laff ter split. 'Dey ain't no nig- 
ger dar,' sezee, 'caze he cain' pile de 
wood back on hisself, en' der cain r 
no one else pile it dat-a-way, good 
en' eben, 'thouten bein' cotched at 
it, wid de cellar bein' used all de 
time — en' er one thing I'se suttin' 



sezee, 'ef dat nigger's hid in dis yer 
house de folks don' know it ! Dat 
lady war mad, but she warn't lyin'! 
Dats wat he sez Mars' Clar'nce, en' 
I wuz mos' mazin' glad yo' ain't 
tole yo' ma." 

"But Jake," I asked, "how did you 
ever come to think of that place to 
hide away?" 

"You wunnerin' how I come ter 
make straight fer dat wood pile, 
honey? I tell yo' Mars' Clar'nce 
hits proned inter niggers wen dey 
sees a good hidin' place not ter dis- 
remember it offen der mines ! Wen 
I tuck'n pile dat wood fer yo' pa, en' 
he done tole me ter pile it dat-a-way 
offen de wall, long er hits bein' 
green, I 'lowed to mysef dat it wuz 
de bessest place roun' fer hidin'. 
Five years ago, wen I wuz runnin' 
'way fum ole Mars' Henry — hidin' 
in de swamp en' ridin' unner freight 
kyars en' sleepin' in plow furrers, 
I 'lowed ef ebber I got to de Norf, 
I wouldn't ast no mo'. I 'lowd I'd 
feel safe yere — but Laws, Mars' 
Clar'nce, ef onct de feelin' er sum- 
mon's huntin' yo' gits clar inter 
yer bones, yo' caint nebber git shet 
un it ! Fer two years atter I come 
to dis yer town I ain't got no peace. 
Hit seem like I'se spectin' summun 
gwine jump down fum somewhars 
atop er me ev'y breathin' minit ! 
En' I dassent go ter Canada fer I 
'lowed dey'd hab my 'scription on 
all de boats." 

"But why didn't you go after two 
years?" I asked. "It must have been 
safe then." 

"I reckon I doan't 'zactly know." 
Jake scratched his head thoughtful- 
ly. "Fus' 'twas marryin' Ruby. 
Den one ting en' nudder, en' den 
de baby, 'twell byme bye I reckon 
I'se so use ter feelin' skeert dat I 
warn't skeert no mo'. But ef de 
good Law'd'll kyar me dar now, I 

ain't takin' no mo' chances." 

"If you're through eating, Jake," 
said my mother, speaking softly at 
the door, "you can come into the 
dining-room. Our minister, Mr. 
Dayton, is here, and we have made 
a plan which I will explain to you. 
Can you write?" 

"Not like Ruby kin," answered 
Jake, taking the seat at the table 
which my mother offered, "but right 
smart fer a nigger dat's jes startin' 
in. Hit pears like yo' caint cotch 
onter nuffin atter you'se growed up, 
but Ruby she's wukked pow'ful to 
larn me, en' I kin write some." 

"Then take this paper and pencil," 
said my mother, "and tell Ruby, in 
the fewest words you can tell it in, 
that you are well and send your love 
and will try to send money for 
her to join you in Canada. Write, 
and I'll explain afterwards," she 
added as he hesitated. 

Hurry as Jake would, this literary 
effort consumed half an hour and 
was finished while Mr. Dayton stood 
waiting, hat in hand. 

"Now address this envelope to 
her," he said, placing one already 
stamped in front of Jake. This took 
ten minutes more and Mr. Dayton, 
pouncing upon it before Jake's slow 
hand had raised from the last stroke, 
thrust it into a larger envelope, 
already addressed and, with an "I'll 
get it there in time" spoken back 
over his shoulder, left the room, and 
we heard the front door close behind 

"Now, Jake," said my mother, 
"listen carefully. Mr. Dayton has 
not taken that letter to Ruby, but 
to the conductor of the midnight 
train, who will take it to Detroit 
and mail it in the morning to a 
friend of mine in Toronto who will 
take it out of the big envelope and 
mail it back to Ruby, and it will 



get to her with the Ca?iada post 
mark, you see, by day after to-mor- 
row ! It is a deception," she con- 
tinued as if to herself, "but this fu- 
gitive slave catcher, in trying to take 
a man from his family has forfeited 
his right to the truth." Then to 
Jake again, "After Ruby gets the 
letter, it won't be an hour before 
every one will be telling every one 
else that 'Black Jake' has outwitted 
the slave hunters and is safe in 
Canada. The slave hunters them- 
selves will hear of it and assure 
themselves of the truth of the ru- 
mor by calling on Ruby to see the 
letter, which she will only be too 
glad to show them, and they will 
go back to where they came from. 
You, Jake, can sleep on a cot in the 
attic locked store room where no one 
but myself ever goes, till we are 
sure they are out of the way and 
then you can safely make the jour- 
ney to Canada." 

Jake had listened, wide-eyed and 
open-mouthed — "Bress de good 
Lawd," he said turning from her to 
me, as one to whom in his excited 
state he could address himself more 
easily. "Bress de good Lawd ! He 
hab showed me de way, but yo' ma, 
she am de angel pintin' it !" 

I have lived on the Pacific Coast 
for thirty years but I have never 
lost track of Jake, and last year, go- 
ing East by the "Canadian Pacific," 
I stopped off at the little town of 

— where he and old Ruby are 

still living. Their seven children 
were scattered long ago by mar- 
riage or death, and I found them 
quite by themselves, a dusky Darby 
and Joan. 

"Hit do seem mos' strawdinnery," 
said old Jake speaking to himself, 
when, our greetings over and Ruby 

gone to get the supper, we sat to- 
gether in their little front room. 
"Hit do seem mos' strawdinnery dat 
dis gemman air HT Mars' Clar'nce !" 
Then addressing me, "Wy it seems 
like you'se mos' as ole as I is. 'Cose 
I oughter knowd you ain' gwine 
stay dat way I lef yo', but 'clar 
to gracious, ef I ebber knowed in my 
bones dat yo' wus done growed up, 
■'twell dis yere blessed minit." 

He sat gazing at the floor, the dis- 
sipation of a cherished vision evi- 
dently clashing with the pleasure of 
seeing me as I was in the flesh. 
Presently he arose, and crossing to 
the mantle piece took down some 
sort of nondescript dangling ar- 
rangement that hung over it. 

"Dis yere's de way my HT Mars' 
Clar'nce'H alius look ter me," he 
said, holding out a small photo- 
graph of my ten year old self which 
my mother had given him when he 
started for Canada. It was framed 
and depended from one end of a 
heavy curved piece of iron wire, 
from the other end of which hung 
a small faded green silk bag, the 
wire itself being tied mid-way with 
a bright bit of new scarlet ribbon 
by which it had hung to the wall. 

"Dats de spittin image ob de HT 
chap wat stud by me in de wilder- 
ness," he said gazing with a sense 
of injury in his eyes, at my gray 
bearded face, "en' dis," opening the 
little green bag, "is his har." 

Could that sunny curl ever have 
danced on my bald head? 

"But Jake," I said, "what is that 
they are tied to?" 

"Dat?" repeated Jake, "wy, dat's 
de han'le er de ole itn bucket HT 
Mar's Clar'nce fotch de water in dat 
fus' night." He spoke in the third 
person, as seeming to begrudge my 
identity with that of the child of 
years gone by. "I tuk it offen de 



bucket, en' put it in my pocket fer 
a 'membrancer dat night wen I wuz 
awaitin' fer ter go up ter his ma ; en' 
ebber since. Ruby en' me keeps a 
sorter passover feast ebbery year 
wen de time ob my delib'rance comes 
'roun'. We puts dat han'le on de 
table wen we eats, en' wen we'se 
done, Ruby she ties a new ribbon 
onter it en' hangs it up agin. Them 

was hard 'sperences fer liT Mars' 
Clar'nce, 'thouten his ma nor no- 
body, en' dat outdaceous Ann a har- 
ryin' en' a pesterin' of him — I heern 
her — por liT chap !" A film gath- 
ered on old Jake's spectacles, and as 
he sat looking at the floor with the 
bucket handle in his hand, I think 
he had quite forgotten that I was in 
the room. 

Concerning Oriental Rugs 

By Mary R. Towle 

THE literature of oriental rugs 
is very meagre. Though for 
years travellers and merchants 
have been busily collecting these 
beautiful pieces of handiwork at 
fairs and markets in almost every 
city and village in the orient, "from 
silken Samarkand to cedar'd Leba- 
non," and though no modern man- 
sion is regarded as artistically com- 
plete unless its floors reflect back in 
glowing but subdued colors the 
glories of the paintings and tapes- 
tries upon its walls, yet the subject 
of rugs is one which has received 
very little attention from writers, 
except for a few savants who have 
not succeeded in inspiring the public 
with any great degree of their zeal. 
After reading a half dozen or so of 
books, mostly by German scholars, 
anyone who wishes more detailed 
knowledge must rely on his indi- 
vidual taste and powers of observa- 

It is hard to understand just why 
this should be so, for nearly every- 
one admires good rugs and many 
people are intensely enthusiastic 
about them. But ask some specific 
questions of your friends who have 

been known to spend whole days at 
rug auctions, and nine times out of 
ten they will refer you, not to a book 
on the subject, but to some local 
dealer who has awakened their in- 
terest by volunteering some de- 
tached bits of picturesque informa- 

We in America are practically but 
just beginning to appreciate rugs. 
Fifty or even twenty-five years ago, 
when old and valuable specimens 
were much more plentiful than now, 
and when every caravan load that 
came across the desert contained 
many fine pieces, the good and the 
bad were bought and used without 
distinction, and both were esteemed 
almost wholly from the standpoint 
of their utilitarian value. The 
daughter of a well-known author 
and editor who died some years ago, 
recently told me that her father and 
mother prided themselves on the 
fact that it had been their custom 
to make wedding presents of antique 
rugs when the latter cost less on 
this side of the water than Brussels 
carpeting. But for one instance of 
such discrimination there could 
probably be cited hundreds of cases 



in which rugs that would be price- 
less now, fell into the hands of peo- 
ple who, not realizing their value, 
put them to rough and continuous 
use, and thus, within a few years, 
either destroyed them or injured them 
beyond hope of repair. Now that the 
taste of the American public has 
been gradually educated up to a 
much higher point of artistic appre- 
ciation we are paying large prices 
for the remains of these old rugs 
wherever we can find them ; at auc- 
tions, at private sales, or in the 
hands of dealers. 

Many people who wonder at the 
present high price of oriental rugs 
do not realize the amount of time 
and labor that the latter represent. 
The apparatus usually employed in 
rug weaving consists of two up- 
right poles supporting a frame on 
which is stretched the warp, and 
from the top of which are suspended 
balls of the variously colored yarns. 
In front of this frame sits the 
weaver and works from the bottom 
of the rug upward and from right 
to left, tying rows of knots. The 
design he keeps in his brain, or 
roughly drawn on a bit of paper. In 
some rugs of very fine weave it is 
an entire day's task for a skilled 
workman to tie one row of knots, 
and such a rug not infrequently re- 
quires twenty years for its comple- 
tion. Yet the oriental is satisfied 
with his lot because with him work 
is not merely a means of livelihood, 
but a part of life. 

We of the west, who so complete- 
ly separate our work from our pleas- 
ure, would find it hard to realize 
how much sentiment has been con- 
nected with the weaving of many of 
the rugs in our own possession. 
Some rugs, notably the Kish-Kil- 
lims, are the work of young girls 
about to become brides, and are 

woven as gifts to the bride-groom ; 
sometimes an entire family work 
side by side on a rug. Nearly al- 
ways it is an object of pride to the 
weaver, and the thing on which he 
concentrates the best efforts of his 
skill and imagination. Works of art 
of the highest order, it has often been 
pointed out, are produced only in 
this way. In so far as rugs are the 
expression of the individual, their 
art is of the highest order; in so far 
as they are made in factories and on 
the principle of the division of labor, 
it is not. 

For the best rugs are made, not 
in the great factories recently es- 
tablished by western firms in the 
orient, where set designs furnished 
by professional designers are copied 
to the letter by deft but unthinking 
workmen ; they are made in homes 
and in little shops where hand and 
brain work in unison under the in- 
spiration of some cherished ances- 
tral pattern which may be varied 
here and there, to accord with the 
^weaver's fancy, by the broadening 
of a stripe or the deepening of a 

The dyeing of the wool is, of 
course, one of the most important 
steps in the making of a good rug. 
Formerly only vegetable dyes were 
used in the orient, and then, a few 
years ago, came the introduction of 
aniline dyes and a train of evil con- 
sequences. The aniline dyes do not 
hold their color and when they fade 
they become, not more beautiful, as 
do the vegetable dyes, but merely 
dull and lifeless. Besides this, many 
of them rot the wool in which 
they are used, causing the rugs 
to wear out almost immediately. 
The Shah of Persia has lately issued 
an edict prohibiting their importa- 
tion into his dominions, and a strong 
feeling against them seems to be 



growing up among rug dealers 
everywhere. In the east whole 
families devote themselves to 
the dyer's trade, and great rivalry 
exists between these separate small 
groups of workers. Usually each 
family especially .excels in the mix- 
ing of some one ; plcular color, for 
which the much prized formula is 
handed down with the most pro- 
found secrecy to successive genera- 
tions. After the mixing of the dif- 
ferent shades, the greatest art in 
dyeing is in knowing just how long 
to the minute wool should be al- 
lowed to remain in the dyeing solu- 
tion. Sometimes in a patch of plain 
color in a rug there will be noticed, 
here and there, n slight variation in 
shade, and this has often been ex- 
plained by saying that the wool 
used in these particular spots was 
left in the dye an instant too long. 
I prefer to believe, however, that 
the difference in coloring was in- 
tentional, and that the eastern work- 
man understood how these little 
irregularities would make his rug 
more beautiful, just as the irregular- 
ities in a statue cut by the sculpt- 
or's hand make that statue more 
beautiful than one cut from exact 
measurements by a stone-mason. 

Certain patterns and color com- 
binations in rugs have from time im- 
memorial been associated with cer- 
tain countries, villages, and tribes, 
and although these patterns and 
color combinations have been modi- 
fied from time to time through the 
influence of migration and travel, 
they still remain substantially the 
same as they were five hundred 
years, or even longer, ago. These 
characteristics are of course the 
principal factors in determining 
where a rug was made. A thorough 
knowledge of them would require 
the stitdy of a life-time, but a few of 

the more common and general may 
be mentioned here as examples. 

The design of a rug made in a 
Mohammedan country is never per- 
fectly symmetrical, the weaver's 
idea being to symbolize the fact that 
only Allah is perfect. Also, a Mo- 
hammedan rarely or never employs 
the color green in a rug, as he con- 
siders that color sacred, and is un- 
willing to put it in a position where 
it will be trodden upon. An orient- 
al rug that contains green is almost 
certainly of Russian origin, or else 
the green has been added by means 
of a clever chemical process, often 
after importation. In the latter case 
the green color is more likely to be 
present in stripes than in solid 
masses, and its application may 
sometimes be detected by a certain 
indistinctness along its edges. 
Broadly speaking, a striking char- 
acteristic of Persian rugs in contra- 
distinction to others is that the fig- 
ures in the designs of the former are 
more elaborate and branching and 
less conventional, often consisting 
of floral devices, while in the Turk- 
ish, Turkoman, and Russian rugs 
the designs are more often made up 
of geometrical figures, or conven- 
tionalized forms of the simplest 
natural objects, such as crabs and 
fishes. A rug that contains a repre- 
sentation of a lion and the sun is, 
of course, Persian, that being the 
emblem of the Persian empire. The 
so-called "prayer rugs," in which a 
place is distinctly marked out for 
the kneeling worshiper, are made by 
the Mohammedans, and when in use 
are supposed to be laid in such a 
way that the devotee shall kneel 
with his face in the direction of 
Mecca, the holy city. These rugs 
not infrequently contain short 
Arabic inscriptions, usually woven 
to the right of the place of kneeling. 



Besides these and many other 
characteristics having a general sig- 
nification, experts recognize as indi- 
cating the origin of a rug, countless 
more or less subtle peculiarities con- 
cerning which it is hard to particu- 
larize in words alone. These pe- 
culiarities show themselves in the 
colors and designs of centres, of 
borders, and even of selvedge. For 
instance, anyone who has observed 
rugs at all is familiar with the dis- 
tinctive geometrical figures that 
mark a Bokhara, with the elemen- 
tary reds, blues, and greens of a 
Kazak, and with the central medal- 
lion of a Sinneh, and nearly every- 
one can tell a Cashmere, or, rather, 
what is known as a Cashmere. 

A recent writer on the subject 
asserts that the border of a rug is 
more reliable as an indicator of lo- 
cality than the centre. The central 
design, being more striking, is more 
easily carried in the observer's mind 
from place to place, and thus a 
simple and effective centre soon 
ceases to be characteristic of the 
tribe or village where it originated ; 
whereas often an unobtrusive bor- 
der, while continuing indefinitely to 
satisfy the people whose ancestors 
first used it, will nojt attract notice 
or imitation from without. Mr. 
Ellwanger, in his fine work on 
oriental rugs, mentions as an ex- 
ample of this the Koulah border. 
This border is in the form of a 
simple spiral on a ground of some 
plain color, and is solely characteris- 
tic of Koulah rugs. 

Among the patterns quite general- 
ly used both in the borders and 
centres of rugs throughout the 
orient are the "crab," "fish-bone," 
and "palm-leaf" patterns. The crab 
or star-fish pattern consists, as 
might be expected, of several arms 
radiating from a centre. The fish- 

bone pattern is less easily recog- 
nized, it being a representation, not 
of the outward semblance of a bone, 
but of a cross section of a bone — 
the back-bone — of a fish. The so- 
called "palm-leaf" pattern, though 
bearing a considerable likeness to a 
leaf, is not intended to represent 
one, but a curve of the river Indus. 

Another significant thing about 
a rug is the length of its nap. In 
general the long, thick naps come 
from the north, especially from Cau- 
casia, while the Turkish and Persian 
rugs have shorter ones. One of the 
most beautiful naps is that of the 
well-known Kirmanshah rug, which 
is, by the way, not made at Kir- 
manshah, but at a town near by. 
The subject of the nap reminds me 
of an odd fact which may not be 
generally known. It is that in many 
cases the peculiar silkiness of the nap 
of old rugs comes not so much from 
the quality of the wool employed in 
them as from the oriental habit of 
never walking on a rug with the 
shoes on. A life-time perhaps of 
rubbing against practically bare feet 
splits into their separate fibres the 
ends of the yarn forming the nap, 
and thus produces the beautifully 
smooth, pliable texture. 

The coloring and design are of 
course the most important things to 
be considered in selecting a rug. 
Silkiness of nap and fineness of 
weave are as nothing if the reds and 
blues are harsh and crude and the 
pattern inconsistent. It is a com- 
mon thing for a dealer, in display- 
ing a rug, to lift up a corner of it 
and, turning it wrong side upper- 
most, call the prospective buyer's 
attention to the number of knots to 
the square inch. If the buyer seems 
ignorant and enthusiastic the dealer 
will go on to tell how each one of 
these knots was tied by hand, 



the wool having been worked 
in with the fingers, and how 
for performing this delicate and 
fatiguing labor the poor orient- 
al received but thirteen or perhaps 
fifteen cents a day. All this is in- 
teresting, and of course, other things 
being equal, fine, carefully woven 
rugs are preferable to coarse, care- 
lessly woven ones ; but after all it 
is not the main point. A coarse but 
beautifully designed and colored rug 
may grow in the affections of its 
possessor, as a woman with a plain 
but noble face grows more and 
more beautiful in the eyes of her 
friends. Both possess the essentials 
of attractiveness. But a finely 
woven and badly colored or designed 
rug grates more and more harshly 
on artistic sensibilities, just as the 
beauty of a shallow, unkind person 
gets to seem more and more dis- 
turbingly incongruous with his inner 

Modern rugs, especially the 
cheaper ones, are liable to have the 
fault of being "liney." It may be 
laid down as a good general rule 
never to buy a rug in which the lines 
rather than the colors first strike the 
eye, for a rug should have the effect 
of being composed, not of sharply 
defined figures, but of patches or 
masses of beautiful, soft color. This 
is the same principle that makes a 
true artist prefer old stained glass 
windows to most new ones. The 
windows of the famous "Sainte 
Chapelle" at Paris are among the 
finest existing examples of old 
stained glass. In them the design 
is not at first quite clear to the eye; 
but to one contemplating, — undis- 
turbed by the exercise of the reason- 
ing faculty — their gorgeous masses 
of varied color, this fact appeals at 
once as a gain rather than a loss. In 
the wor-t tvoe of modern windows, 

on the contrary, the figures stand 
out in bold relief and the meaning 
is apparent at a glance, the color 
scheme being, in consequence, 
necessarily subordinated. The only 
pleasure to be got from looking 
at such windows is of the sort that 
Mr. Bernhard Berenson, in his 
"Florentine Painters" describes as 
the pleasure derived from illustra- 
tion ; that is, the pleasure that comes 
originally from some sentiment 
about the subject represented. 

Almost everyone who has lately 
written on the subject has called at- 
tention to the fact that genuine 
antiques are becoming remarkably 
scarce. One reliable authority even 
goes so far as to predict that within 
twenty years the rapidly diminish- 
ing supply will be completely ex- 
hausted. If this is so we cannot too 
carefully treasure the few that re- 
main to us, nor too earnestly hope 
that modern designers in the rug 
industry will study and imitate the 
antique coloring and perpetuate in 
their purity the best of the antique 
patterns. I do not mean to speak 
as if good rugs and old rugs were 
necessarily synonymous. It is true 
that in the matter of color old rugs 
have a decided advantage over mod- 
ern ones from the fact that no 
chemical has quite the softening ef- 
fect of time, but this merely means 
that while some modern rugs are as 
beautiful in coloring as antiques 
there are many others that should 
not be selected unless one is buying 
for posterity. 

Perhaps the worst thing that can 
be said of modern rugs in general 
is that their designs are often com- 
posed of elements borrowed from 
totally different schools and in- 
artistically combined. The modern 
designer, considering this central 
medallion effective and finding that 


border popular, often yields to the 
temptation to unite the two, and in 
doing so produces, instead of the 
masterpiece expected, a rug which is 
only comparable, in its hybrid atroc- 
ity, to certain Venetian churches of 
the seventeenth century. The beau- 
tiful centre of the so-called "dia- 
mond" Sinneh rug has been especial- 
ly subjected to abuse of this sort, 
and may be seen, surrounded by 
some incongruous border, hanging 
on the walls of almost any depart- 
ment store. To do the modern de- 
signer justice, however, it must be 
admitted that this sort of thing is 
most noticeable in the cheaper 
grades of rugs. 

A plea has of late years been put 
forward by rug enthusiasts that 
good rugs, like paintings and other 
products of a high order of artistic 
merit, be considered their own ex- 
cuse for being, and that their origin- 
al utilitarian purpose be to a certain 
extent lost sight of. This has from 
time immemorial been more or less 
the case in the orient, where rugs 
of the better sort receive much more 
tender and appreciative treatment 
than is usual with us. The Turk 
or Persian in his native country 
hangs his finest rugs on the walls, 
and it would neve*r occur to him, 
in selecting one, to consider the 
amount of his available space, or the 
colors of the other furnishings of 
his room. To him a man who 
should be guided by such considera- 
tions would seem something as a 
man would seem to us who should 
walk into a shop and ask for "a 
yard of red books" or for "some 
pretty picture about two feet six 
inches long." 

Perhaps one reason why we sel- 
dom regard rugs as separate works 
of art is that in speaking of them it 
is hard to refer to them individually 

by name or by any but the most 
minute description. If in describing 
a picture we say that it is a land- 
scape painted by Carot, and add to 
this that it contains a great willow 
tree on the right, a lake in the centre 
of the background, ^nd to the left, 
on the shore of the lake, a castle in 
the distance, the person to whom 
we are speaking will have at least 
some rudimentary idea of what the 
picture looks like. It is true that 
the facts thus mentioned are not in 
any way indicative of its importance 
as a work of art, but they serve as 
pegs on which to hang reminiscen- 
ces of its more subtle characteris- 
tics. On the other hand, suppose 
we are trying to describe a rug. We 
say, perhaps, first that it is a Kazak, 
and that the background of the 
centre is a lightish red,— and there 
we stop. How picture the three 
great central medallions with their 
irregular divisions? The peculiar 
appearance of the nap? The many- 
colored borders? It is as impossible 
to describe a rug to a person who 
Jias never seen it as to describe, 
under like circumstances, the odor 
of some rare tropical flower. 

But whether we choose our rugs 
for their intrinsic artistic value or 
merely with a view to general ef- 
fectiveness and harmony we can 
hardly over-estimate the service that 
they have rendered our young civili- 
zation in the formation of its taste. 
From how many a middle-class 
home has the gradual, quiet influ- 
ence of a good rug banished first 
the horrors of painted plush, and 
then, in their turn, long cherished 
and hideous sofa cushions, "tidies," 
and pieces of cheap pottery ! Many 
newly-rich families who dislike to 
recall the callow period of their gen- 
tility will nevertheless testify in 
their hearts to the appropriateness 



of this tribute. Then let us not 
mourn the passing of the antiques, 
since so many of them have been 
immolated in such a cause, but 

rather hope that they may have 
worthy successors to bear a part in 
shaping the aesthetic ideals of 
future generations. 

Reminiscences of An Old Clock 

By Ellen Burns Sherman 

AS I have kept minutes of the 
proceedings of the Windmere 
family during four generations, 
it occurs to me that I am prepared 
to give the public a few reminis- 
cences and at the same time to vary 
the monotony of my occupation as 
a retail dealer in time. 

I came into the possession of the 
Windmere family as a wedding gift 
to Mr. Timothy Windmere, an up- 
right man, endowed with all the 
square-toed virtues and scarcely any 
of the graces. Clock-hearted as I 
am, I used to pity Mrs. Windmere 
when her stern-mouthed lord so 
continually accentuated the solem- 
nities and scanted the courtesies of 
life. Yet will I do him justice. If 
he rarely bestowed a caress or a 
term of endearment upon his wife, 
he was most loyal to her in every 
thought and act of his life, which 
is more than I can say of some of 
his descendants who were more 
prodigal in their expression of af- 
fection. But I am anticipating my- 

It was when the first Windmere 
baby came that Timothy forgot to 
wind me and in the unticked still- 
ness of the night I could feel the 
intensity of the atmosphere to the 
leaden ends of my winding strings. 
I stood in a corner of the hall, where 
I could glance into Mrs. Wind- 
mere's bedroom and what I saw in 

Mr. Windmere's face made me peni- 
tent for my severe judgment of him. 
Mrs. Windmere also saw the long- 
suppressed passages of tenderness 
written on her husband's white face 
in the clearest italics which emotion 
can use. And when he knelt by her 
bed and took her hand in his, I felt 
thankful that I had not been wound, 
for my ticking would have seemed 
brutally impertinent on such an oc- 

I was also aware of a dumb sense 
of limitation because I could regis- 
ter on my wooden face nothing but 
the passing of time, while upon 
some human faces a hundred vary- 
ing moods and emotions could be 
instantaneously recorded. 

Nay, do not scoff at my fancies 
as incongruous and improbable in 
a sedate guardian of the hours. You 
must remember that I am no tiny 
nickel-plated time-piece giddily beat- 
ing off the minutes, with the vulgar 
haste of three ticks to a second, but 
a grandfather's clock, of dignified 
stature and presence and one whose 
pendulum swing suggests the 
rhythm of the universe and the so- 
lemnities of eternity. Am I not, 
moreover, a clock whose powers of 
collecting associations and memories 
is unrivaled among our entire race 
of chroniclers? 

Some license of imagination as 
well as rights of digression I may 



therefore claim in my confession. 
But to return to matters of more 
lively interest than my own time- 
worn charms. 

The morning after the memorable 
scene in Mrs. Windmere's bed- 
room, I caught sight of the head of 
Timothy Second protruding from 
the end of a long bundle of white 
fluffy clothes; and if I may be as 
accurate in the statement of my im- 
pressions as the life-long habits of 
a time-keeper should have made me, 
I shall have to confess that Timothy 
The Second was far from prepos- 
sessing in his appearance. But the 
expression on the face of Timothy's 
mother, as she looked upon that 
tiny package of humanity, at once 
convinced me that my vision was 
crudely defective in that nice focus- 
ing power which makes the ma- 
ternal sense of perspective so won- 
derful an endowment. Had Tim- 
othy looked ten times worse than 
he did, — a supposition which carries 
one quite over the brink of the 
thinkable — his mother's glance 
would still have persuaded me that 
my vision of him was a slanderous 
figment of my own fancy. 

So I accepted Timothy on trust, 
as his mother did, ajid his later de- 
velopment applauded my swift dis- 
cretion ; for a finer, bonnier lad than 
Timothy grew to be I have never 
seen in all my ninety-eight years of 
ticking. A shy, sensitive little fel- 
low he was, and even as a child, 
keenly alive to every message that 
spoke from bird or blossom. Once 
I saw him sit a whole half hour peer- 
ing into the petals of a bunch of 
sweet peas he held in his hand — 
looking as though his little white 
soul were in closer rapport with 
t the flower-souls than his elders 
could be. 

Sometimes I heard him talking to 
the flowers, which he was always 
carrying about with him, and 
snatches of his conversations I re- 
member to this day : 

"Where did you get your little 
pink frock and white apron, little 
sweet pea," said Timothy, "and 
where does your mamma buy the 
patterns for your pretty dresses, and 
isn't it lonesome in the garden at 
night, when your mamma doesn't 
come to kiss you and tuck you in?" 
Another time I heard him talking 
to a little toad that he had captured 
in a box. 

"Poor little toad," said Timothy, 
"do you know how homely you 
are? Would you know if I brought 
you a little mirror so you could take 
a look at yourself?" 

"I will," he cried with a sudden 
impulse ; and away he ran, bringing 
back a small mirror from his moth- 
er's bedroom. 

But midway his tender heart was 
seized with a qualm : would the toad 
feel very bad to know that he was 
such a homely little thing? 

"Dear little toad," he began tenta- 
tively, "would you care so very, 
very much if you saw that you were 
awful homely, all but your eyes?" 

Timothy paused for reply; but as 
the toad seemed stoically indifferent 
on the subject of his charms, — or 
lack of them — Timothy cried, "Well, 
then, if you don't care, take a look at 
yourself!" and he placed the mirror 
squarely in front of the toad's eyes. 

But the toad, never deigning to 
glance at it, made a sudden bound, 
and landed on the window-sill. 

"Humph!" said Timothy, "You 
aren't a bit like our cook. I've seen 
her stand an hour before her mir- 
ror." Where upon, Timothy, quite 
discouraged in his attempt to initiate 
the toad into one of the first rites of 



civilization, carried his toad out into 
the garden where he might enjoy 
the bliss of his ignorance undis- 
disturbed. But that evening in the 
middle of his prayers, he baffled his 
mother with the inquiry, "Why are 
toads so homely and birds so beauti- 

You will hear more of Timothy 
later. Meantime, while he grows to 
manhood, I will tell you of his three 
sisters who led me such a life as I 
verily believe no other clock ever 

To save time, as becomes a clock, 
I will omit the history of their early 
childhood, except to record the fact 
that as children these sisters were 
always using my case for a doll- 
house and giving my pendulum and 
weights such continual jerkings that 
I had nervous prostration and a 
clock-doctor was called. As is cus- 
tomary in such cases, the physician 
remarked that I was "all run down" 
and that I had evidently "suffered 
some severe strain." 

It was in my pendulum to retort, 
"Yes, those girls!" But as I have 
said I was all run down, so I made 
no response. 

When they are grown, I thought, 
I can have a little peace ; wherein I 
reckoned without my addition table. 
For when they were grown , they 
proved so very attractive that suit- 
ors swarmed the halls of the Wind- 
mere home and I discovered that my 
troubles instead of coming to an 
end, were only beginning. No soon- 
er did a young man's calls begin 
to ripen to visits than he invariably 
attempted to make me bear false 
witness against time by setting 
back my hands, or stopping my 

At first I imagined that the young 
woman in the case would resent 
such an impertinence to a respecta- 

ble member of the household. But 
will you believe me, she only 
laughed, and in this regard, all three 
of the sisters were shamelessly 

If it was embarrassing for me in 
the evening to sit by with my hands 
idle — like a chaperone without her 
fancy-work — and hear and see all 
that I was obliged to hear and see, 
it was doubly so *in the morning, 
when one of the girls had set me by 
guess and I was sure to be too fast 
or too slow. Then Mr. Windmere 
would look at me and perhaps ex- 
claim, "Dear me! is it so late as 
that. I must be off at once." And 
away the poor unsuspecting man 
would hurry, though I knew very 
well that he would be half an hour 
ahead of his appointment. 

You will scarcely credit me, but 
Mr. Windmere was such a guileless 
soul that it was not until I had been 
stopped scores and scores of times, 
by the various young men who 
called on the Windmere sisters, 
that their father discovered the 
cause of my strange unreliability. 
But the discovery came just as Mr. 
W 7 indmere was beginning to grow 
mellow in his disposition, and more 
porous to the beneficent beams of 
humor, an effect wrought by time, 
his wife and his children. As a con- 
sequence, his daughters did not re- 
ceive a reprimand for allowing a 
clock of Puritanical training to be 
thus cavalierly foresworn in their 
presence. On the contrary, Mr. 
Windmere bettered the instruction 
he had received. Carefully choosing 
the psychological moment in the 
evening, he would set me ahead, 
little by little, until my two compen- 
sating errors very nearly forced me 
into the orbit of truth, though I 
once heard Mr. Windmere himself , 
say that there was no lie big enough 



to cover up another. But this is a 
digression which I trust will be par- 
doned in an old clock like me. I 
will get back to the young women 
of whom I grew to be exceedingly 
fond, in spite of their pranks with 
me. There was Almira, the eldest, 
whose severe Puritanical mould 
was so much like her father's, that 
a wit of the neighborhood said he 
never saw her that she did not sug- 
gest the personification of the 
Wordsworthian line : 
"Stern daughter of the voice of God." 
Almira's suitors were all "sound 
in the faith," such as it was, and 
their habits were what was called 
in those days, "steadygoing." Their 
vocabulary of admiration was limit- 
ed to handsome and very pretty, 
pronounced to rhyme with fretty. 
They possessed those solid hard- 
ware abilities, which eventually in- 
sure what is known as a "compe- 
tence" and equally insure its enjoy- 
ment upon a strictly hardware basis, 
which delights in fine trappings and 
resplendent dinners. In few, they 
were all endowed with the Peter- 
Bell attitude towards life in all its 
manifestations which appeal to the 
imagination and higher faculties. 

But as Almira herself was the 
kind of woman who thinks poetry 
"the silliest stuff in the world," fate 
w r as kind to her in furnishing her 
suitors whose taste was pitched in 
the same key. So when she finally 
decided that Hiram Beesly was fore- 
ordained for her from the founda- 
tions of the earth, I applauded her 
choice. Yet how she could choose 
at all between men of such sparrow- 
like similarity I never could under- 
stand. To speak with entire frank- 
ness, I was glad when the wooing — 
if one may dignify so crude a per- 
formance by that name — was at an 
end; for mechanical as I am, it 

made my weights sag heavily to 
hear a man's proposal couched in 
such terms as these: "I say, old 
girl, let's hitch up, and not waste 
any more time courtin'." And the 
proposal was matched by the first 
gift which followed the engagement. 
It was a book on raising poultry, 
profusely illustrated with cuts of all 
manner of fowls in all manner of 
poses. Hiram said he thought he 
would give her something that 
would be useful to them both. 

From these chronicles you will 
understand why I was -as willing to 
have Hiram Beesly take his leave, 
as Hamlet was to have Polonius take 

The next set of suitors who came 
to see Melissa were all musical and 
a decided improvement on their pre- 
decessors. One of" them had a fine 
tenor voice and another played the 
violin, so that the tete-a-tetes to 
which I was obliged to beat time 
were occasionally relieved by music 
and such conversational play of 
fancy as a musical nature would 

The lovers' last words, too, were 
less aboriginal in their choice and 
enunciation than the forms used by 
the Hiram Beesly coterie. Ellery 
Marden, the violinist, unveiled his 
sentiments to Melissa by telling her 
that he needed a fifth string to his 
violin to insure its finest melody, 
and she was the only woman who 
could furnish him with one. Oddly 
coincident in its metaphorical inspi- 
ration was the confession of Am- 
brose Sewell, who confided to the 
lady of his heart that she was the 
lost chord which his soul had dis- 
covered in some more inspired ex- 
istence and for which he had been 
groping, ever since. 

I sympathized with Melissa in her 
perplexity over Cupid's machina- 



tions which had made the same wo- 
man one man's fifth string and an- 
other man's lost chord. "Dear me !" 
she ejaculated, after the departure 
of her musical lovers, "I expect the 
next one will tell me that I am 'his 
missing soft pedal.' ,; 

For aught I know, this may have 
been the form of the next tender 
announcement, which I regret to 
say I missed because it was time for 
me to strike eleven just at the cru- 
cial moment. I saw Albion Porter 
take Melissa's hand and I observed 
in his face a good deal of the same 
unutterable expression with which 
I was tolerably familiar and I heard 
him make a beginning: "If you 
knew how long — " At this point, 
my clamorous bell broke in with 
unnecessary ictus and indecent 
punctuality, drowning gentle fancy 
in a flood of irrelevant fact. Only 
these concluding words did I catch, 
after my clapper had ceased strik- 
ing: "All a dream tale." 

Certainly what I heard was in no 
wise convincing, at least it would 
not have been to me. But women 
are so unaccountable. Melissa 
seemed convinced as she had been 
in no previous situation of the kind, 
if I might judge from the evidence 
which followed. She seemed, more- 
over, willing to be convinced again, 
in the same manner, which surprised 
me as none of her other suitors had 
been allowed to come nearer than a 
longarm's length. However, these 
things be the things of Allah and 
what right has an old clock that 
knows nothing of such mysterious 
rites to be hypercritical concerning 

I knew very well from what I had 
seen and heard that another fledg- 
ling would soon leave the Wind- 
mere nest, and my wheels clogged 
a little at the thought. I had a 

strong grandfatherly affection for 
the Windmere daughters and a live- 
ly interest in their love affairs, 
which I had watched in their various 
stages of development. 

It was even as I surmised. Three 
months from the scene I have men- 
tioned Melissa became Mrs. Porter 
and went to the far West. After 
her departure, it was my duty to 
umpire the last game which Cupid 
played in the old Windmere home. 

Elfreda, the youngest daughter, 
and her romances gave me more 
anxiety than any of the others, for 
she was not one of the sparrows, 
which, when they choose to pair, 
make their matches anywhere. Her 
sisters could have been equally 
happy with anyone of a hundred 
men of more or less sparrow-like 
abilities and attainments. But El- 
freda had one of those rare souls 
whose true mate may not happen 
to live around the nearest corner. 
While this fact greatly added to the 
possibilities of a happiness of four 
dimensions with the true mate when 
found, it also increased the possi- 
bilities of misery should she accept 
as a life-partner a man with only 
one octave range when she had five. 

I need not have worried however, 
for Elfreda's instincts were so sensi- 
tive and accurate that she could tell 
at a glance, or by the timbre of a 
man's voice, whether he was in her 
circle of psychical response. If he 
was not, she was too honorable to 
allow him to think he was and so 
cross the rubicon of a bootless dec- 
laration. This I considered one of 
the marks of her superiority over her 
grandmothers, or even her elder sis- 
ters ; for they had that first infirmity 
of noble minds, which could take 
pride in the number of their pro- 
posals, unconscious that their pride 
did them as little credit as ,1, e emo- 



tion which made the Indian glory 
in the collection of his scalp-locks. 
For when a man makes an unavail- 
ing confession of love it generally 
means but one of two conditions. 
Either the woman in the case has 
falsely encouraged him, or the man 
in the case has been so stupid that 
he could not perceive when he was 

As neither of these conditions fur- 
nish any adequate ground for pride, 
the woman who judges them ade- 
quate simply advertises her own 
lack of discrimination and delicacy. 

But to Elfreda the brazen trophies 
of Cupid made no appeal. Neither 
was she one of those who mangle 
their ideals beyond recognition to 
make them match the stature of a 
suitor who is only externally 
eligible. Her father once remon- 
strated with her because she was so 
indifferent to the attentions of a 
young man of fair fortune and a 
character which was pronounced 
"irreproachable" even under the 
dread search-light of a church so- 

"But my dear father," replied El- 
freda, "mere colorless irreproach- 
ability cannot inspire my affection. 
The potato is doubtless an alto- 
gether irreproachable vegetable, but 
it lacks any particular flavor. And 
I half suspect that Herbert Pippin's 
irreproachability is only an apron- 
string kind after all. In the three 
years I have known him, I recall 
only one remark that he ever made 
which had force enough to secure 
a lodging in my memory longer than 
two seconds and the remark which 
furnished the exception did so mere- 
ly because of its monumental stu- 
pidity. 'What can you see to like in 
Lamb's essays?' quoth this irre- 
proachable young man. Now I do 
not blame Mr. Pippin because he 

cannot like Lamb ; but the fact that 
he cannot, is an infallible token that 
I cannot like Herbert Pippin. Then 
his name — Herbert Pippin, would 
damage his suit in my eyes were he 
ten times less irreproachable. I 
never knew a man whose name was 
so pertinent — to himself, I mean." 

"My daughter," rejoined Mr. 
Windmere, somewhat sternly, "I 
fear you are very capricious and 
unreasonable. Mr. Pippin has, I am 
sure, good wearing qualities." 

"That all depends on upon whom 
he is going to wear them. He's 
worn them threadbare on me al- 

"You are a strange girl, Elfreda; 
a strange girl and quite unlike the 
girls I used to know when I was a 
young man. Fancy your mother not 
liking me because I didn't like 
Lamb !" 

"Oh, but that is different," said 
Elfreda ; though she was somewhat 
perplexed how to make the 'differ- 
ence clear and at the same time dis- 
tinctly soothing to everybody impli- 

"The woman who is doomed to 
make Herbert Pippin happy," con- 
tinued Elfreda, "will be sure to 
think Lamb the very whey of litera- 
ture. I do wish Herbert would find 
her soon, for I am sure they will 
be happy." 

Whereupon Elfreda kissed her 
father good-night, but called back 
over her shoulder, as she mounted 
the stairs, "Any fruit but Pippins 
for me, father." 

I saw Mr. Windmere's mouth re- 
lax its rigidity of expression a for- 
tieth of an inch as he answered, 
"Well, well, child, you must talk 
with your mother about it. Good- 



Chapter II. 

As an impartial observer, I am 
free to state that my sympathies 
were all with Elfreda in her argu- 
ment with her father. What could 
a man like Mr. Windmere know 
about the subtle requirements of a 
nature like Elfreda's? 

I knew, moreover, that there was 
a young lawyer in town, Vinton 
Dexter by name, whose coming 
made Elfreda's heart beat nearly as 
fast as the little nickel clock in the 
kitchen. To a steady-going old 
clock like me it seemed a wonderful 
thing that anybody's approach could 
change the heart's ticking. I knew 
that my pendulum never went any 
faster when Elfreda wound me than 
when her father did. 

But as I have said, it was quite 
otherwise with Elfreda when Vin- 
ton Dexter was near. I have some- 
times been called slow, but I was 
not so slow that I failed to perceive 
that hi some mysterious way Mr. 
Dexter affected the red tide of El- 
freda's being as the moon affects the 
tides of the sea. I also knew that 
Mr. Dexter was subject to the same 
mysterious influence ; for I heard 
him tell Elfreda that in her presence, 
his heart always played a good 
many grace notes that Nature had 
not written in her original score. 

Whereupon, Elfreda asked him if 
he were sure that Nature did not 
include those grace notes in her 
original score. "She is such a ca- 
pricious composer you know, and 
often writes an air in one soul and 
its accompaniment in another. But 
I sometimes think she is most care- 
less in the way she scatters the 
leaves of her music. I have known 
cases where her Lead-Kindly-Light 
airs have been played for life to an 
accompaniment obviously intended 
for Yankee Doodle." 

"Thank heaven she didn't scatter 
the leaves of our music that way, 
Elfreda. Even so simple an air as 
mine, with your accompaniment — " 
At the word accompaniment, it was 
time for me to strike twelve ; in fact 
I had hung on to my clapper three 
seconds beyond its exact striking 
time, so I might hear the whole of 
Mr. Dexter's sentence. A pest on 
my calling, I thought, which is con- 
tinually abridging the little poetry 
that is interpolated into my prosaic 
existence. Why don't these amor- 
ous pleaders come in the early after- 
noon, so that if I must break into 
their eloquence, it will be only for 
two or three strokes. Nor was I the 
only one that was put out by by 
these contretemps . Sometimes 
when I was obliged to strike twelve, 
not only myself missed the end of 
the sentence, but the lover himself 
would be so discomfited by the dis- 
cord I made in his harmonies that 
he could not finish his sentence at 
all — at least not with words. In 
such cases there was usually a col- 
laborated ending, which did not vex 
me so much, for I could see it, if I 
did not hear it. 

When I recall my experience in 
detail, I find it truly remarkable 
that so many different sentences 
can be finished with a collaborated 
ending, not only without apparent 
loss of continuity but with an effect 
which is almost climacteric. 

But I must not wander off into 
rhetorical speculations while the 
reader is left in doubt concerning 
the destiny of Elfreda and Vinton. 
Despite the depth, height and 
breadth of the affection between 
these lovers, no other wooing had 
filled me with such sadness, for I 
knew it was the last that I should 
witness. So I hardly think I deserve 
all the jests that were made at my 



expense when I struck thirty-eight 
without stopping on Elfreda's wed- 
ding day. Mr. Windmere thought 
it was because he had deranged my 
works, winding me when his own 
nerves were over-taut at the thought 
of losing Elfreda. But he took no 
account of the possibility that I 
might be over-taut from the same 
cause. I kept a brave face, how- 
ever, and never once interrupted the 
marriage service with my striking, 
though I ticked with my gravest 
ictus to let Elfreda know that I ap- 
preciated the solemnity of the occa- 

I was sure she would be happy — 
and yet — her father and mother and 
brother were sure she would be 
happy and yet — . Even Elfreda 
herself, who was surest of all that 
she would be happy, choked down 
the sobs when her father in an un- 
precedented moment of demonstra- 
tiveness, took her in his arms and 
kissed her twice on the forehead. 

During such a stress of emotion, 
it was not strange that nobody re- 
membered to wind me. To tell the 
truth, I didn't care if I was never 
wound again and I £new from the 
expression on the face of Elfreda's 
mother, father and brother that they 
felt much as I did. But it has been 
one of my mottoes to "keep a goin'," 
and I think I have lived up to it 
as well as most people live up to 
their mottoes. 

The next evening I was wound 
as usual, and after the winding, 
something happened to bring back 
the vanished atmosphere of romance 
in which I had lived so long. Mrs. 
Windmere had been looking out of 
the window considerably longer 
than anything in the landscape 
seemed to justify when her husband 
went up to her and awkwardly put- 
ting his arm around her whispered 

brokenly, "There, there, don't take 
it so hard, mother; Elfreda will 
come to visit us often and we shall 
have each other and Timothy for 
a long time to come, I hope." 

And Elfreda did come back, again 
and again, finally bringing two 
chubby children, whose faces were 
so illuminated with dimples and 
laughter that they alone would have 
been sufficient certificate of their 
mother's happiness, if any were 
needed, for only a very happy wo- 
man could have been the mother 
of children with such sun-lit faces. 

Chapter III 

After occupying for innumerable 
evenings a box so close to the plat- 
form where were enacted the scenes 
I have described, -you can easily 
imagine that time hung heavy on 
my hands when the players were 
gone and the stage deserted. But 
my continual attendance at such 
performances had cultivated my 
dramatic perceptions to such a de- 
cree that I was as astute in scent- 
ing a romance as an antiquarian is, 
in a neighborhood where there is a 
rare bit of faience hidden away. 

It was therefore but natural that 
I was the first in the house to dis- 
cover that Timothy was in love. I 
had premonitions of the fact when 
I saw him brush his clothes so very 
carefully when he went out of an 
evening. It did not seem to me 
that he would be quite so particular 
if he were going to see his friend 
Henry. Neither did it seem prob- 
able to me that the bouquets of wild 
violets and hepaticas which he often 
took with him when he went out, 
were for his friend Henry. They 
were just such bouquets as Vinton 
used to bring Elfreda. I also 
noticed that Timothy read a great 
deal of poetry at this time and tried 



to write some which he always tore 
up. He was likewise absent-minded 
to an absurd degree, for one so 
young. I distinctly remember one 
occasion when his mother asked him 
to get her gloves and he gave her 
his mittens. Yet another of Tim- 
othy's symptoms was a newly de- 
veloped habit of looking at my face 
a dozen or more times after I had 
struck seven in the evening. I felt 
certain that there was no new at- 
tractiveness in my face and when 
Timothy invariably left the house 
after his last glance at me I under- 

Once convinced of the true indi- 
cation of Timothy's symptoms I 
felt a great desire to see the young- 
woman in the case. I had acted in 

loco chaperoyiae for all the other love 
affairs of the family and it did not 
seem right that the last romance 
should be conducted entirely with- 
out my assistance. I wondered if 
there were a friendly old clock like 
me at her house and I wondered if 
Timothy set it back as I had been 
set back, and I wondered if it some- 
times struck eleven or twelve, in 
medias res, as I had done; I won- 
dered if the girl were good and wise 
enough for Timothy — it hardly 
seemed possible that she could be — 
and a clockful of other things I won- 
dered while Timothy was out of an 

Very anxiously, too, I studied the 
expression on Timothy's face, when 
he returned from his evening calls, 
which grew longer and longer as 
I had been tutored to expect. Some- 
times his brows were knitted with 
doubt, and perplexity, when he re- 
turned ; and at other times he 
looked so melancholy that I resented 
it. What business had any girl, 
however good she might be, to make 
Timothy look sad, my Timothy who 

was so brave and strong and tender? 
What was the trouble? Did Tim- 
othy undervalue himself, or was it 
simply his words which hung fire? 
How I wanted to drop a bit of 
grandfatherly counsel. "There, 
there ! Timothy," I should have said ; 
"look cheerful. Won't the girl hear 
you or can't you get it off. Why not 
practice on me? I won't laugh. I'm 
used to all kinds of declarations 
from the most prosaic terms of bar- 
ter and incoherent mumblings, to 
perfervid eloquence which would 
move any heart made of penetrable 

But the poor boy was wholly un- 
aware of my sympathy, which he 
could not read between my ticks, 
and upstairs he went with a step 
which did not belong to a healthy 
young man of his parts. 

So matters went on for several 
weeks and Timothy grew paler and 
thinner and I fidgeted till I gained 
nearly half an hour a day one week, 
so that I was obliged to have one 
of those clock-doctors, whom I de- 
test. Just as he had taken off my 
pendulum and was about to remove 
my upper case, in rushed a beauti- 
ful girl who seized the clock-doctor 
by the arm and cried : 

"Quick! Quick! Timothy has 
fallen from the ladder where he was 
trying to mend my bird-house." 

You will not need to be told that 
not only the clock-doctor, but Timo- 
thy's mother and father rushed wild- 
ly out of the house, leaving me in 
an agony of suspense, whose ner- 
vous tension I could not even re- 
lieve by ticking, as my pendulum 
had been removed. 

"I've seen the girl anyway," I 
thought; "and if Timothy sees what 
I saw in her face when she came in, 
he won't mind a few broken bones"; 



for I refused to believe that worse 
had befallen him. 

And I was right. The clock- 
doctor lived quite near us and in 
less than three minutes they all 
came back, bringing Timothy, who 
looked snow-white and lifeless as 
they laid him on his mother's bed. 
But restoratives were promptly used 
and he came to in time to see the 
whiteness of his own face so per- 
fectly matched in the face of his 
sweetheart that his heart read its 
answer before, the question was put. 
Then a swift flush of hope spread 
over his brow and its afterglow was 
reflected in the maiden's face. And 
naught of all this escaped the eyes 
of Timothy's mother, who went up 
to the maiden and gently putting 
her arm around her, whispered, 
"You will stay with us till Timothy 
is better." 

And the maiden stayed. Thus 
did it fall out that I was permitted 
to witness at least a part of Timo- 
thy's wooing. 

I must own that at first I indulged 
in a few disgruntled,, ticks, which 
might have been interpreted, 
"Humph! only a clock-tinker's 
daughter!" But I was speedily 
ashamed of myself; and when I had 
seen more of Barbara Lyndon I dis- 
covered, as Timothy had, that she 
was a great deal more than a clock- 
tinker's daughter — a woman with a 
wonderful soul. 

As for myself, my riper acquain- 
tance with Barbara revolutionized 

my attitude towards the entire race 
of clock-tinkers and threw such a 
high-light upon Barbara's father, in 
particular, that I was only too happy 
to get out of repair for the sake of 
cultivating his acquaintance. It was 
pleasant, too, to have Barbara stand 
over her father while he doctored 
me and ask all manner of questions 
about me. But I must not interpo- 
late a record of my own Platonic 
palpitations into the history of Tim- 
othy's romance, which made such 
rapid progress during his illness that 
I could hardly dare hope that we 
might keep him beyond a few more 

Nor were my conjectures wrong; 
for I had acquired such skill in 
making conjectures that I could 
catch in my swaying pendulum the 
subtle vibrations of coming events. 
Even with the hour I had divined, 
the event kept its appointment and 
once more the old home surrendered 
its sunshine to warm and illumine 
a new household. 

Ah me ! that was millions and 
millions of ticks ago ; and yester- 
day Almira, Melissa, Elfreda and 
Timothy, with their children and 
grandchildren, all revisited their old 
home, filling the house with youth 
and laughter, as they told the tales 
of the vanished past. 

I, meantime, ticked softly on in 
my old corner, proudly conscious 
that it was not in vain that I played 
chaperone, in the love-lit evenings 
of long ago. 

The Japan of To- Day 

By Hiroshi Yoshida, of Tokio, Japan 

Editor's Note: — Hiroshi Yoshida is one of the best known among the younger 
Japanese artists. He was represented at the Paris Exposition of 1900, to which 
his pictures were sent by the Japanese government, together with those of other 
artists. He received "Honorable Mention." He first visited America in 1900, hold- 
ing an exhibition of his works 111 Detroit by invitation of the Director of the Art 
Museum, and later at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. The next year his pic- 
tures were shown at the Boston Art Club, the Providence Art Club and the 
Corcoran Art Gallery in Washington. This year he has again visited America, 
where he is holding successful exhibitions of his work. 

I HAVE been told by many peo- 
ple that my country possesses a 
great fascination for Americans, 
who are never tired of hearing about 
it. Hence, it is with pleasure that 
I have responded to an invitation 
to tell the readers of the New Eng- 
land Magazine something about the 
habits and customs of modern Japan. 
It may be a good opportunity, too, 
for correcting many mistaken im- 
pressions about my country that are 
common among foreigners, for, let 
me say here, most of the books that 
have been written about Japan con- 
tain errors and wrong statements. 

The customs of America and Jap- 
an are not so widely different as 
many people suppose, or as might 
be expected, when it is remembered 
that scarcely half a century has 
elapsed since your distinguished 
Commander Perry opened our land 
to the inrushing tide of Western 
civilization. Before that time, Jap- 
an was a nation dwelling in proud 
exclusiveness, quite content within 
her own boundaries, holding fast to 
her primitive ideals, and looking up- 
on Europe with scorn and pity. But 
behold the miracle! Now, her cities 
are almost cosmopolitan (although 
far back in the country, old customs 

are not yet extinct) and her peo- 
ple have adopted in their manner of 
living all that has seemed good to 
them of foreign ideas and improve- 

For instance, the telephone is now 
found in all business houses, and in 
the private houses of the rich ; the 
steam cars travel the length and 
breadth of the land, and the busy 
electric cars traverse the principal 
towns. The streets of Tokio and 
other large cities are lighted by 
electricity, while many large build- 
ings, and all the government schools 
are heated by steam. A contract 
was even made recently for an ele- 
vated railway ! and soon, alas ! we 
shall see its clumsy framework 
erected in the centre of our beauti- 
ful streets, seeming to deride, with 
its aggressive ugliness our grand old 
buildings. To such an extent has 
modern commercialism invaded our 
picturesque land! Automobiles, 
too, will soon be whizzing over the 
roads, leaving behind their smoking 
trail. Yes, we Japanese are certain- 
ly progressing along the line of 
"modern improvements," but at the 
sacrifice of much that is beautiful. 

I suppose that cold compound 
which we, like the Americans call 




"ice-cream," and which with many- 
other foreign foods, can now be 
found in all our restaurants may al- 
so be classed under the head of 
"modern improvements." But I am 
afraid the term cannot be applied 
with so much truth to the habit of 
smoking cigarettes, for which our 
young men have conceived a great 
fondness. Already a few of us play 
at that solitary game which we 
learned from our friend, the sculp- 
tor, Mr. Henry Kitson— the game of 

Many of our people, too, wear for 


business convenience, the European 
dress, but we do not like it very 
much, and in our own homes we 
make haste to dress again in Japan- 
ese clothes. But there is one great 
American convenience that we do 
not have — the dizzy elevator ; for, as 
most of our buildings, especially our 
dwelling houses, are only one story 
high, there is hardly so much need 
of this invention in Japan as in a 
country where the buildings are so 
high, they seem to have been erected 
for the clouds to rest on. 

I have found that among you 



Americans, education is a matter of 
paramount importance ; your broad 
land is thickly dotted with schools 
and colleges ; and it is this fact, I am 
sure, that has lent so much vigor to 
your national life, that has produced 
in your people of all grades and con- 
ditions that alert intelligence and 
high ambition that foreigners are so 
quick to note. 

And with us it is largely the same. 
If there is one country in the world 

building. As far as I have been able 
to observe, our schools are very 
much like those of America in disci- 
pline and method of study. We have 
all grades — Kindergarten, Primary 
and High Schools, which are attend- 
ed both by boys and girls; but for 
the higher education we have sepa- 
rate academies for the young girls 
and colleges for the youths. 

The schools in summer time, ex- 
cept during the vacation of six 


where the public school is thought 
more indispensable than it is in 
America, I believe that country is 
Japan. Even the smallest towns 
and villages have their school- 

When the people are so poor that 
they cannot build a schoolhouse, 
they take some deserted temple and 
arrange that for the convenience of 
pupils ; and there is always pro- 
vided a large playground around the 

weeks, are opened at seven or eight 
o'clock in the morning, and closed 
at eleven, but in the winter season 
the pupils enter them much later — 
about ten o'clock — and stay until 
four, taking always a luncheon with 

Before 1870, the education of chil- 
dren was a serious effort for parents. 
Then the teaching was done often in 
the houses of the instructors, and 
when a father took his child for the 



first time to such a house he offered 
as a gift a keg of sake (rice spirit) 
beside some fishes, and a large pack- 
age of kawaneski, (a compound of 
rice and beans). Each child had to 
provide a small table, and some 
writing materials, for then black- 
boards and slates were not known. 
The writing was done just as it is 
to-day, with the little brush — fudi, 
and a cake of ink which is made of 

portunity for developing the reason- 
ing powers. It does cultivate the 
memory, and the faculty of observa- 
tion ; it also develops great skill 
in the use of the fingers, but the 
years of study required for master- 
ing the written language are so 
many that there is little time for the 
pupils' own ideas to assert them- 

Our written language is a very 


lampblack, united with glue and 
some water. To use this, it is 
rubbed on an ink stone with water, 
and from it many degrees of black- 
ness can be obtained. 

On the whole, and speaking can- 
didly, I think there are still grave 
deficiencies in the Japanese system 
of education, which I hope and be- 
lieve time will improve. The chief 
trouble is that it gives so little op- 

strange mixture of both Chinese and 
Japanese. Seven or eight thousand 
words can be used, and there are 
different ways of spelling each, 
which makes learning very difficult. 
The boys, even in the elementary 
government schools, are required to 
know how to write perhaps three 
thousand Chinese characters, and 
that is very tiresome, considering 






that forty-seven symbols are all 
that we need for ordinary use. 

To strangers the fact that the peo- 
ple in the far South speak a language 
strange to the far northern people 
is surprising, for the written charac- 
ters are the same, but the expres- 
sions are often unlike, and the ac- 
cent is different. I myself have 
had difficulty in understanding the 
idoms of people not of my own sec- 
tion of the country. 

I have not failed to note the im- 

case a woman of the better class 
does so, it is because of some great 
need, as for instance, when a wo- 
man is left alone, without husband 
or parents. The girls who are hired 
to work are found in the fields, and 
in the houses as servants; they also 
weave silk on the hand looms, and 
clean rice, and spin. Many girls 
of the poorer class, also are hair- 
dressers, and go from house to 
house, arranging the hair of all the 
women in the household. The cost, 


portant and independent position 
that woman occupies in the United 
States. To us Japanese it seems 
very remarkable. We would not let 

I our sisters go out into the business 
world to earn their own living, as so 
many young girls do in this country. 
We should think it ungenerous to 
refuse them a share of home and 
shelter here. 

So it is only lower or poor class 
women who work for money, or in 

about two cents, is small enough, 
and the hair, when once arranged, 
keeps its own place, and has to be 
done over again only once in two 
or three days. The girls and wo- 
men sleep on hard little pillows, 
shaped with a hollow to allow the 
head to rest, without disturbing the 
hair. Men, however, are more com- 
fortable on soft pillows, and, if it is 
not a selfish feeling to express, I 



4 • 

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- • 


... . 4. . 


cannot help being glad that I do not 
have to sleep as women do. 

The ladies of family learn many 
domestic duties, and they all know 

how to cook well, (tho' the servants 
do the hard work always). They 
know how to sew by hand — for sew- 
ing machines are not found in Jap- 
an yet — and they study a year or 
more a course of lessons in the ar- 
rangement of flowers — which we 
consider a very important part of 
their education. They also learn to 
play on the koto, a fine musical in- 
strument. These are all their ac- 
complishments, although our girls, 
like our boys, are instructed in the 
usual branches of knowledge, too. 

I cannot help feeling that there 
is more real home life among the 
Japanese than among the people of 
this country. Domestic ties are 
much stronger. Children are al- 
ways in the company of their moth- 
ers, going wherever they go, and 
are seldom put in the care of ser- 
vants. So, as a child grows older, it 
shares all the hopes and interests of 
its parents. Obedience to parents is 
a strict law with us. Even a married 
son obeys his mother as long as she 
lives, even though he may have 
children of his own. With us, old 
age is honored more than in any 
other country. Divorce is not com- 
mon in Japan. I have never known 
many husbands to separate from 
their wives, for it is not the custom, 
and perhaps this is because all peo- 
ple learn from the time they are 
babies to be most gentle and polite. 
To be rude, or talk loud is con- 
sidered a serious fault. 

It seems to me that the men of 
Japan are fonder of their homes than 
American men. Clubs are not com- 
mon, although there are a few for 
those who wish to go to them and I 
fear that club life for men is another 
foreign custom that will one day be- 
come more general in Japan. 

Our houses are very simple when 
compared with the elaborate homes 



in America. They consist of one 
story, and instead of many rooms, 
we have one large floor space, which 
can be divided at will into many 
small rooms by means of folding, 
or sliding partitions. In every 
house, a special place called the "to 
konoma" is decorated and reserved 
for honored guests. This is some- 
what like a mantel-piece, but divided 
into two parts, one for flower ar- 
rangement, where fresh flowers are 
often placed, and the other for vases 
or ornaments. In front of this place, 

pleasant it is to sit there with the 
ornamental garden just beyond. 
We like better to decorate a garden 
than a house, so have many flowers 
and stone lanterns there, and ponds 
of clear water, and dwarf trees; and 
we spend many hours listening to 
the songs of birds. Indeed, I think 
we like Nature better than Euro- 
peans do, for many times we gather 
friends into our houses; then all 
start for a visit into the country 
of a whole day, to see the iris fields, 
or to spend time by the river with 


the oldest guest is always made to 

Bedrooms used only to sleep in 
are not known among us, for we 
sleep in all rooms at night, and 
then in the morning, the pillows and 
coverings are put into closets out 
of sight, and we have the entire 
house for the uses of the day. One 
part, however, is always reserved 
for women, for hairdressing pur- 

The long verandah, which is a 
feature of all Japanese houses, ex- 
tends along the front, and very 

cherry blossoms over head, in the 
Springtime. Although we are very 
hospitable as a people, we do not 
have so many social functions as 
Americans because we make very 
many calls on all our friends, near 
and far away, and expect friends 
any hour in the day to see us. As 
soon as friends arrive we hasten to 
offer them tea, and sweet meats, 
and all kinds of little cakes. We 
have dinner companies too, and 
then wear all the fine costumes we 
have, although this is a form of en- 



tertainment that women care for 
more than men. 

A very popular card game which 
we play when calling upon or en- 
tertaining our friends is called 
''flower cards." The cards are ar- 
ranged to typify the twelve months 
of the year. January has the sym- 
bol of rising sun, and pine tree and 
white birds ; February, plum blos- 
soms ; March, the cherry-blossom; 

formed many fine plays, being most- 
ly old tragedies. The prices for 
seats in our theatres are very cheap 
when compared to prices that 
obtain in American theatres. 
Twenty-five cents is the usual fee, 
and many seats are something less. 
The plays are very long, sometimes 
three, and often four hours in per- 
formance, but we rest between the 
acts, and eat the luncheon that we 


• . . ;.; . 


April, the iris ; May, the peony, etc. 
There are four cards for each month, 
and seven are given to each of the 
three players. The game is not un- 
like some of your card games here, 
but more intricate, the object be- 
ing to match the cards on the table 
with those held in the hand. 

One of our most popular amuse- 
ments is the theatre, where are per- 


always take with us. We have rice 
cooked in many ways, for this kind 
of meal, also little sweet cakes, and 
other things easy to carry with us. 
Many of the plays are performed in 
the afternoon, which is a sensible 
time I think. We have music, too, 
with our plays — several kinds of 
instruments being used. Besides 
the theatre, we have for amusement 



many festival days, 
and gayeties for the 

I think we Japan- 
ese are wise in the 
especial care and at- 
tention we give to 
our children — the 
future men and wo- 
men of the nation. 
Childhood is indeed 
a very happy time in 
Japan. The child- 
ren have games and 
sports without num- 
ber and live a great 
part of each day in 
the sunshine. The 
first of January, the 
beginning of the 
New Year, the boys 
all prepare to fly the 
kites which they 
have perhaps been 
making ready for 
several weeks. 
There are sometimes * 

very large kites 
made in the shape of 
men and animals, some of them be- 
ing fifteen or twenty feet long and 
ten feet wide. These have long 
tails of straw rope, and a tongue of 
whale bone — which sings in a high 
wind like some strange bird. The 
kites, triangular in shape, are with- 
out tails, and can, in skillful hands, 
be made to dive and dash through 
the air in a most wonderful manner. 
The tops made for our children are 
of very fine workmanship, and are 
sometimes exceedingly intricate. 
Top spinning is a profession that is 
often practiced by jugglers. 

The little girls have many dolls, 
and these play things accumulate 
frona one generation to the next, 
owing to an old custom with us. 
When a daughter is born in the 


house, a pair of Hina, or images, 
are purchased by the parents, and 
when this child grows old enough to 
marry she takes with her into her 
new home, all her dolls. Once a 
year, on the third day of March, 
there is a festival of dolls and all 
the treasures are brought from the 
safe place where they have been 
stored. The good work put into the 
manufacture of dolls makes them 
last sometimes one hundred years 
or more. 

In the training of our boys there 
is practised an exercise that is a 
great favorite with the students. It 
is called the sword dance, and is 
most often performed by only one 
person. The music is furnished by 
a friend who sings or recites a poem, 




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yl <r^ 

to which the dancer keeps time, 
acting the poem as it is being re- 
peated. Sometimes the performance 
is gay and sometimes sad, but it 
is always interesting to watch. We 
have no regular dancing schools, 
as you have here, for we prefer to 
pay people to dance for our amuse- 
ment rather than dance ourselves. 
The famous Geisha girls are taught 
by private lessons. 

In my country we do not have 
so many helpless people as you have 
here. The blind, for instance, have 
two professions that no other peo- 
ple can enter. If they have an ear 


lor music they are taught that from 
earliest childhood, or if they have 
no musical taste, they are instructed 
in massage. The blind boys es- 
pecially become masseurs or sham- 
pooers and are the most skillful in 
the world. 

Food in Japan is much cheaper 
than in America. We have three 
meals a day, with tea at any time. 
Our breakfast consists usually of 
soup, made from vegetables, and al- 
ways rice. In the middle of the day, 
a light luncheon is served, and at 
night we have a hearty meal of 
soup, fish, meat and tsukemono, a 




kind of salad. Men drink, at night, 
a little rice wine, but women are 
not expected to drink anything but 
tea. Although we have all kinds of 
meat, we do not eat much sheep, 
because we do not like it, and the 
animals do not grow in our country. 
Chicken is a favorite dish with us. 

The Japanese costume has been 
always the same for hundreds of 
years, and suits us very well. 
It would be too cold to wear in 
America. It is alike all over the 
country, and the little children are 
dressed the same as their big broth- 
ers and sisters, but in brighter 
colors. Red is worn only by per- 
sons less than sixteen years of age, 
or on the stage, and white is the 
mourning color, instead of the black 
meant to express grief elsewhere. 
The women can make their own 
clothes and sometimes also make 
their brothers' or fathers', but im- 
portant robes for the men are made 
at a tailor's. 

One thing we would be very sorry 
not to have in Japan is our Jin- 
rikisha, for it is safer and much 
cheaper than the horse and carriage. 
We can hire a Jinrikisha man for 
the whole day for about one Ameri- 
can dollar, and he will trot through 
the streets with us, on his straw 
shoes, without tiring himself very 
much. He can go into small places 
where carriages cannot go, and he 
does not try to run away from us ! 
For the heavy work, such as haul- 
ing big logs, or stone, we use often 
ox carts, and a few horses are to be 
seen also in carts. Then some, but 
not many, wealthy families own 
horses for their use in pleasure driv- 

I suppose, being a painter of pic- 
tures, that I am expected to say 
something about the art of Japan, 
and I have left this subject, upon 
which space demands that I touch 
but lightly, until the last. 

I have been often asked by 
Americans if the old style of art in 
Japan is dead. Such however, is 
not the case, for only a very few of 
us, and those the younger artists, 
paint in the Western, modern way. 
The old style is universal and per- 
haps will always remain so. 

The government is much inter- 
ested in artists, and provides for 
their instruction very good schools. 
These were arranged several years 
ago, on the method of study in Euro- 
pean art schools, one of the best 
artists in the country being sent to 
study for that purpose in France and 
Germany. The course is long, — 
four years, a thorough knowledge of 
drawing being insisted upon before 
we are allowed to use colors. 

It is my opinion, however, that 
too much art study hinders, rather 
trhan develops the imaginative and 
creative powers, and we all need 
ideas more than technique. 

I cannot help thinking that, after 
all, we Japanese have the best coun- 
try in the world. Indeed it is the 
most beautiful of all, with its flower- 
ing fields, and its wonderful temples, 
and its many trees, and its noble 
mountain — Fuji Yama — that has 
snow crowning its peak, and flowers 
growing at its feet. Yes, we have 
all these, and all modern advantages 
besides, except those we do not 
need, — the elevator, the chiropodist 
and divorce. 

Newspaper Satire during the 
American Revolution 

By Frederic Austin Ogg 

ONE has but to glance over the 
dingy files of the "New York 
Packet" or the "Pennsylvania 
Journal," now preserved in some of 
our larger libraries, to be vividly im- 
pressed with the contrast between 
the newspapers of a century and a 
quarter ago and those of to-day. 
Even the most aspiring of the form- 
er were small, poorly printed sheets, 
barren, for the most part, of illus- 
trations, and altogether lacking in 
numerous desirable qualities now to 
be found in the commonest product 
of journalistic enterprise. Yet in 
proportion to their number and the 
facilities which existed for their cir- 
culation, the newspapers of the 
Revolutionary era constituted no 
less important an influence in the 
life of the people than do those of 
our own time. 

They were not merely news- 
papers. They partook largely of the 
nature of controversial brochures 
and became the clearing-houses of 
the literary-minded. They were 
utilized to the utmost by the lawyer, 
the physician, the scholar, the poet, 
and most of all by the politician. 

In the year 1768 the number of 
newspapers published in America 
was twenty-five, to which several 
were added before the close of the 
Revolutionary period. As the 
breach with the mother country 
widened these newspapers became 
the storm-centres of the contro- 

Until 1775 one finds comparative- 
ly little satire — of a political nature, 
at least — in the volume of colonial 
literature. But after the actual out- 
break of the war such literature 
grows voluminous. 

The specimens which follow are 
not chosen to represent any particu- 
lar type but rather the range and 
qualities of the satire which filled 
the newspapers of the Revolution 
and which had so much to do, on 
the one hand with sustaining, on the 
other with impeding, that move- 

It was on Tuesday, December 16, 
1773, that a party of fifty New 
Englanders disguised as Mohawk 
Indians put to a practical test in 
Boston harbor the vexed question 
as to how "tea would mingle with 
salt-water." Of course the episode 
created no little astonishment and 
aroused a vigorous discussion in 
governmental circles in England. 
"To repeal the tea-duty now would 
stamp us with timidity," declared 
Lord North, the Prime Minister; 
and the dominant political party 
quite agreed. Following this line 
of argument, it was determined, 
though against much protest, that 
the tea-duty should remain. Tea, 
in other words, was to be made the 
exclusive instrument of maintain- 
ing the avowed parliamentary right 
to tax the colonists. This decision 
determined the direction in which 
the spirit of resistance in America 




should find its chief expression. 
Obviously the British designs might 
best be thwarted and the authors 
of them most discomfited by a gen- 
eral refusal throughout the colonies 
to use tea in any quantity or under 
any conditions until the odious tax 
should be removed. Numerous 
resolutions and considerable legis- 
lative enactments were accordingly 
passed to this effect. But there 
were some whose patriotism could 
not be stretched quite so far as to 
deny themselves their favorite 
beverage — particularly in the face of 
the following somewhat urgent in- 
vitation which went the round of 
the British and Tory newspapers : 

"O Boston wives and maids, draw near and 

Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea, 
Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or 

If not, we'll cut your throats and burn 
your town." 
The following, communicated by 
"E. B.," is taken from the "Penn- 
sylvania Journal" of March \, 1775, 
and is, of course, directed against 
the considerable number of people 
who, as a contemporary put it, 
placed "Hyson-tea" before "Liber- 
tea" : 

"The following petition came to 
my hand by accident; whether it is 
to be presented to the Assembly 
now sitting at Philadelphia, the next 
Congress or Committee, I cannot 
say. But it is certainly going for- 
ward and must convince every 
thinking person that the measures 
of the late Congress were very weak, 
wicked, and foolish, and that the 
opposition to them is much more 
considerable and respectable than 
perhaps many have imagined : 

"The Petition of divers OLD WOMEN 
of the city of Philadelphia : humbly shew- 
eth: — That your petitioners, as well spin- 
sters as married, having been long accus- 

tomed to the drinking of tea, fear it will 
be utterly impossible for them to exhibit 
so much patriotism as wholly to disuse it. 
Your petitioners beg leave to observe that, 
having already done all possible injury to 
their nerves and health with this delectable 
herb, they shall think it extremely hard not 
to enjoy it for the remainder of their lives. 
Your petitioners would further represent, 
that coffee and chocolate, or any other sub- 
stitute hitherto proposed, they humbly ap- 
prehend from their heaviness, must de- 
stroy that brilliancy of fancy, and fluency 
of expression, usually found at tea tables, 
when they are handling the conduct or 
character of their absent acquaintances. 
Your petitioners are also informed that 
there are several other old women of the 
other sex, laboring under the like difficul- 
ties, who apprehend the above restriction 
will be wholly unsupportable ; and that it 
is a sacrifice infinitely too great to be made 
to save the lives, liberties, and privileges of 
any country whatever. Your petitioners, 
therefore/ humbly pray the premises may 
be taken into serious consideration, and 
that they may be excepted from the reso- 
lution adopted by the late Congress, where- 
in your petitioners conceive they were not 
represented; more especially as your pe- 
titioners only pray for an indulgence to 
those spinsters, whom age or ugliness have 
rendered desperate in the expectation of 
husbands; those of the married, where in- 
firmities and ill-behavior have made their 
husbands long since tired of them, and 
those old women of the male gender who 
will most naturally be found in such com- 
pany. And your petitioners as in duty 
bound shall ever pray, &c." 

Throughout the Revolution the 
issuing of a British proclamation 
was always the signal for the sharp 
wits from one end of the country 
to the other. The orders caused to 
be published successive